In the heat of the summer, the blacksmith was hurriedly crafting parade lanterns. Autumn would arrive soon, and the city’s order of Jack O’ Lanterns was yet fulfilled. Another few, and the smith would be done.
The lanterns were to be mounted on a pole, a metal-shelled pumpkin wielded like a shepherd’s crook by children and merry-makers. Even still, the blacksmith added a loop to the metal gourds, protruding from the stem, so that they could be strung up with candles inside later.
They would not be called skinflint for neglecting the alternatives, not when every soul in the town wanted a lantern of their own for All Hallows Eve.
It was a task unbecoming of the blacksmith, really. A factory down the way already offered cheaper alternatives – machine-pressed and heartless, faces cut out like cookies, edges industrially crimped to make flat seams along the surface.
Was that a Jack O’ Lantern, or two cake pans riveted together? The visible seams were a crime of lackluster in the smith’s eyes, though they’d been accused of favoring artisanship over brevity more than once.
They finished the patina on their current lantern – internally hand-crimped and riveted, as it was meant to be – and nodded at it in satisfaction. The skies were getting dark, from time and weather, so the smith wanted to hurry along.
They needed to check the quality of the last batch, five or so parade lanterns to be hitched to a pole, candle lit within and jostled about. The little ones were not kind to decorations.
With candle stubs and matches in hand, the blacksmith hurried outside. They set up a line of the Jack O’ Lanterns in the grass, muttering as the first drips of rain met their skin. This wouldn’t take long.
The candles were shielded by the closed top of the stem-studded lantern. The lit match was afforded access through the bottom; the candle on a small holder given breathing room through the gently grim features.
The lanterns were slow to light, the blacksmith holding each aloft like the skull from that time-honored play, face-to-face with a pantomime of harvest-festivities.
The last light was an obstinate thing. A new candle set in place, the gentle drops of impending rain making the blacksmith rush. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance; it did nothing to temper the smith’s impatience.
They struggled to get the match into place, scorching a finger with a swear. The smith angled the creation this way and that, finally holding it up, as if presenting the Jack O’ Lantern to the heavens. It worked.
Undoubtedly smaller, more dainty fingers would have no trouble with this task, but the smith was a smith for a reason.
They tilted the lantern to the side to try and free their hand, the thing still raised high above in a mockery of praise.
A drip of wax fell on their face; the blacksmith flinched, automatically holding the lantern higher, away.
The crash of thunder came after the strike, lightning illuminating the Jack O’ Lantern and zipping through the blacksmith. The sudden pain was immediately followed by a sense of nothingness, eternity.
The candlelight of four lanterns flickered under a growing onslaught of rain, the final lantern snuffed as it fell.
🎃 🎃 🎃
Welcome to your new life in “Aestrux.”
Due to your [ misfortunate death ] you were chosen for [ soul rehabilitation ].
- -- - - ---
The words faded out, unread, as the blacksmith fluttered into unconsciousness. They caught a glimpse of a field of yellowed grass and rocks.
Two people stood there, each looking at their hands, their bodies in confusion.
Then nothing once more. Nothing was comfortable, in the sense that the blacksmith lacked the capacity to have jarring emotions.
The nothing passed quickly, without room for contemplation.
“There it is!”
A flicker of life came from within. The blacksmith felt like their heart was beating once more, but it lacked the sensibility of a body, of familiar flesh and limbs.
It burned, though. An unsteady heat.
“Look, isn’t it lovely? This shall be a perfect spot to light the path for the festival.”
“You want to keep that odd thing? I thought you spoke in jest.”
They could hear and see people, two men engaged in cheerful banter as they stared down at the blacksmith, who was too weak to speak or call out.
The angle suggested they looked upwards at the men, as if buried up to the neck in the ground.
What a terrible punishment. Novels loosely based on history books suggested that this torture was common in the wild West, but it was a new and frightening experience to the blacksmith.
The men left without acknowledging the smith beyond a pleased nod. Were all such people without honor here? Had the blacksmith been dragged from their night’s rest and thrown into hell?
If it was hell, it was a pleasant one – not in experience, but in visage. There were vast mountains overtaking the skyline, a pleasant ruffling of clouds around the peaks like a gentlewoman’s hat.
The sun didn’t beam warmth upon the blacksmith, but it lit the autumn-painted woods in a glorious orange-red fervor. Closer by, the grass was gold to match the season.
Shadows grew longer as it neared dusk. A curious light flickered on the ground in front of them, drawing out two round dots of light and a long point.
As the light began to shudder, the blacksmith grew drowsy, drawn into a slumber by the dimming eve.
A surge of warmth brought another waking, but it was night still.
“Hurry, we may make it yet to the city before she passes again!”
They were bobbing along, being waved in front like mermaid on a ship’s mast, utterly unable to move or speak.
A sudden stop whipped the blacksmith’s vision to face their captors, the two men. They huddled together under a tree in terror, fear drawn across their time-worn faces.
No, just yesterday, they were young and flirtatious. How could this be?
The roar of a beast came from all around, echoing like the thunder.
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One of the men yelped, sprinting away, the other ran after. In their haste, the blacksmith was forgotten, dropped like a sacrifice on the ground.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel like anything except for indignity, but as the blacksmith gazed up at the stars, their confusion dulled into a quiet understanding.
The sky was dotted with bright spots, like flecks of paint on a canvas, swirling and flitting about. The blacksmith did not pretend to be an astronomer, yet they could not find the North Star in its blue-tinged glory, nor did they see the belt or the ladle.
This was not home.
This horrifying understanding was punctuated further by the broad wings of some beast across the sky, low enough to the ground to blot out most of the twinkling stars.
The thundering roar came from the direction of the men, as well as a white-bright flare of light and heat.
The blacksmith didn’t know what to think, other than to lay in confusion. They felt paralyzed. No, more than paralyzed, they felt inhuman. No twinges of nerves or touch existed, not even on their face.
The heat felt like heat, but it did not burn. The white-bright fire did not make the blacksmith blink – if they even could.
A soft click click click sounded, a familiar noise despite the chaos.
With a confused unfocusing of their eyes, the blacksmith read the words that slowly printed across their mind, clicking into place by a phantom typewriter.
Welcome to your new life in “Aestrux.”
Due to your [ misfortunate death ] you were chosen for [ soul rehabilitation ].
Your [ soul rehabilitation ] destined you to the “Kingdom of Kovatelli” where you are labeled a “hero” i.e. a summoned individual from another realm.
Confirmation of transfer --- has attuned you to --- and thereby granted you access to the [ system ].
Next:
* [ attributes ]
* [ unique skill ]
* [ hero skills ]
Parts of the message were blotted with phantom ink, illegible and unknowable.
A harsh breeze blew through the woods, smoke fogging up the dim light in front of their sight.
The blacksmith shuddered – not externally, but somewhere else – as they felt their consciousness flicker.
The tapping typewriter spelled out more messages.
System detecting error in [ soul rehabilitation ]. Please hold for adjustments and skill compensation.
Another wind blew through and snuffed out their heart entirely, throwing the confused blacksmith into nothingness once more.
The nothing was a blink in time.
They awoke to a crimson red world, hot and furious.
Vines crawled across their vision, heavy and constricting, large enough to have grown for years yet. It confused the blacksmith, although the red-yellow flames beyond suggested the vines were not the most important thing to consider.
The plants began to smoke and curl, turning into embers and ash as they were devoured by the flames. Husks of trees smoldered in the periphery, limbs snapping and crackling to the ground.
Would the blacksmith die? The world they once thought looked beautiful now resembled a true hellscape.
As if to answer, the patient click of the typewriter drove a message into their thoughts.
System adjustment complete
[ unique skill ] has been altered.
[ attributes ] have been altered.
System? [ unique skill ]?
The words answered, uncaring about the blazing world of the blacksmith.
[ unique skill: forged in flame ]
Due to a system error, your [ soul rehabilitation ] placed you into a [ soulbound artifact ] instead of a human form. As a result, your abilities and attributes will reflect your [ soulbound artifact ].
Summary:
- Constitution set to UNKNOWN
- Health set to UNKNOWN; replaced by Repair Necessity
- Class set to Landwise (subterrain)
- Subclass set to Saltsmith
- Attributes may be improved through [ saltsmith skill: capture ]
- Proficiencies added – Resistance (fire), Resistance (lightning), Metallurgy (blacksmithing)
Increase the level of your [ unique skill ] by using Saltsmith abilities.
The blacksmith had no idea what was happening. They read the words, but they made little sense.
The edge of their thoughts shook and a sense of disapproval washed over them. Was something wrong? Did they think something bad?
The message condensed until it was illegible, transforming into a paper tab on the edge of their periphery. If the blacksmith focused on it, the message opened again; if they looked away, it shrunk to the side.
A tremendous thump sent the blacksmith flying into the air, ashes strewn everywhere as they popped up like a children’s toy squeezed too tightly. They rolled – rolled? – across the forest floor, coming to rest at the base of a giant green tree whose branches blocked out the night sky.
The tree moved.
The beast shimmered in the firelight, the red cast of the flames not enough to nullify the vibrant emerald green of the scales. The monstrous maw of the reptile drew close, observing the blacksmith with a gold-ringed eye.
The blacksmith could not shrink away, could not run or hide. They suddenly understood what the words meant by “instead of a human form.”
They lacked humanity, lacked limbs and features, lacked the ability to do anything familiar and helpful in this moment. This was not a prey animal confronted by a predator.
This was a predator looking at a stick or a rock, contemplating its purpose.
“And what is this?”
The words had no sound, yet they rang true in the blacksmith’s head.
Spare me, the blacksmith thought in the beast’s direction. I have done nothing but exist, and that existence is a paltry one.
It became clear that the dragon could not hear the blacksmith, though the beast continued assessing the new treasure. It blew a spurt of flame into the smith’s face; both the beast and the once-human were surprised that they did not melt under the direct heat.
“An artifact.” With an accompanying rumble, the dragon brought its teeth down onto the poor blacksmith, but like a hunting dog, the beast gently carried its new find.
The smith felt a sudden shock as they watched a metal pole fall to the forest floor, two spindly bits of wire caught between the teeth of the dragon. The loss felt heavy, harsh, like having something ripped from them.
A notice was typed at the bottom of the smith’s frantic thoughts.
[ repair necessity 35% ]
The dragon took to wing with a heaving lurch; the blacksmith could sense the imbalance even without a human body.
The landscape below showed a small forest fire, controlled, contained.
The cold, biting wind slipped through the dragon’s teeth, and between the huffing breath of the thing and the outside rush, the blacksmith began to feel faint.
The nothing accepted them once more. The absence of sensation felt like a comforting embrace compared to the danger of a dragon’s maw.
Perhaps the nothing would keep them, this time.