Chương 46: Ascension 2

Malcolm nudged his glasses up with the back of his wrist, his eyes fixated on a slab of red-hot metal. He glared at it so hard that his brow started to sweat from more than just the heat. After carefully monitoring it for a few minutes, he plucked the plate out of the furnace with the help of some tongs and held it firmly atop an anvil. His free hand reached for a small hammer that most would consider too delicate to be a smith's tool.

He took a deep breath, sharpened his focus, lifted the instrument above his head, and then swung down with all his might. CLANNNNG Metal clashed against metal, sending a deluge of sparks in every direction. The rectangular plate did not deform immediately, but a few moments after the impact. As if that wasn't strange enough, the material gently curved itself down the middle even though the hammer had struck it near the corner.

Rather than a slab of metal, it behaved more like a living thing with a wonky set of reflexes. Malcolm was not surprised, of course. Coercing the plate into this quarter-pipe shape was exactly what he intended. Tongs in hand, he dipped his work-in-progress into a vat of reddish murky fluid. The liquid sizzled, bubbled, and slightly caught fire as it voraciously quenched the metal's heat.

After precisely 17 seconds, the Blacksmith lifted the incomplete component out of the oil bath to reveal the dull red glow had been replaced with the white radiance mithril was known for. This lasted for only a second before the liquid still clinging to it finished turning into steam, at which point the metal's crimson light returned. Malcolm repositioned it atop of the anvil and repeated the process.

His next swing hit the shard in just the right spot and with just the right amount of force to cause the magical metal to tighten one end and widen the other. The result was something closer to a quarter-cone than a quarter-pipe. Another dunk, lift, and strike saw its edges bend and twist inwardly so that the component would stay put once it was snapped into place. This seemingly nonsensical process was par for the course when handling inherently magical metals.

Each of them had its own quirks and behaviors that differed greatly from mundane materials such as copper, bronze, or iron. Forging mithril in particular could be an incredibly tricky process, as the precious material seemed to have a mind of its own. A rebellious one, at that. Any attempt to hammer a piece of white gold into shape with brute force would backfire horrendously, causing it to twist up in superbly unhelpful ways.

One had to coerce it into what it needed to be with equal parts finesse, strength, and insight. This was made all the more trickier by the fact that every lump of mithril reacted differently to its peers, even if they'd been extracted from the same vein or separated from a single ingot. For a smith to do what Malcolm was doing, they had to get to know the piece with some exploratory taps, get a feel for its personality. Only once they grasped its character could they convince it to cooperate.

It was a dialogue between an artisan and their creation, carried out through the mediums of heat and vibration. As for the vat of alchemically-enriched oil, that was just a bit of 'social lubricant' to make things go smoother. What all this boiled down to was that forging mithril was a time-consuming and delicate process that was impossible without the right training and specialized equipment.

That included a forge capable of heating the mithril to a point where it became pliable enough to listen to the suggestions of Malcolm's hammer. Much as the smith told his client, the one in his humble workshop was incapable of burning that hot. He needed a magical device called a blast furnace, which was available for rent at a number of government-run communal foundries. The 250 GP deposit he got from Fizzy was enough to buy him three days' worth of full access to the facilities, including a private workspace.

Surprisingly affordable, considering the value of the goods being processed. These rental fees were also the cheapest among Fizzy's expenses. The largest portion of the bill was the two kilograms of pure mithril she had to provide in addition to the mangled remains of her old arm. That cost her 4, 500 GP, which was somehow both considerably above market price and yet completely fair given the spontaneous nature of her purchase.

In terms of skilled labor, Malcolm had also estimated he'd need to put in 40 or so hours of work that would cost the golem another 1, 600 GP. There were also some additional taxes, minor fees, and miscellaneous expenses that all together pushed Fizzy's repair bill to just under 7, 000 GP in total. That was over half of the golem's earnings since she came to Gun Tarum, but she would gladly pay ten times that amount to be made whole again. That moment was steadily approaching, and Fizzy couldn't wait.

It took every bit of self control she had to not tap her foot, fidget in her seat, or ask 'Is it done yet?' every two minutes. The anticipation was so unbearable that she could swear her internal clock was running slow. On the upside, she had the rare opportunity to witness mithril being forged for the first time. It wasn't just interesting - it was fascinating. And educational. She'd have to learn to do that herself eventually.

Unfortunately, the spectacle only made it more difficult to sit put since she wanted to stick her face in Malcolm's personal space just to get a really good look at what he was doing. That was obviously a no-no. Not only would it disturb and potentially interrupt the delicate process, but the golem absolutely could not move from her spot atop a table-like stone block. Much as with Tony's prosthetic, Malcolm had to assemble her arm piece by piece from the shoulder down, and she couldn't move until he was done.

The difficulty involved was mental rather than physical, as standing perfectly still like a statue was as effortless as doing nothing. It was just unfortunate that non-activity wasn't in Fizzy's nature. Worse still, she was only about half way through what was estimated to be an eight-hour-long assembly. At least the most difficult parts - the 'skeleton' and 'muscles' of the limb - had been forged beforehand and were already in place. She could even move them around without issue.

All that was left was for Malcolm to finish the outer plating that made up the 'skin.' By the look of things, he was ready to start this part of the process. He approached the golem, his trusty tongs securely holding onto the heated sheet of mithril. He placed it where Fizzy's lower bicep would be, and gently tapped on it with his hammer. His aim wasn't to nail it in place, but to nudge it into position until it clipped on.

Once that happened, he placed the hammer back in his apron's front pocket and took out the silver wand he used for enchanting purposes.

"Synchronize." With a chant and a tap, he invoked an Enchanter Skill that spurred Fizzy's golem core into action. The magical sphere's output rose momentarily as the newly forged plating was bonded with the bone-like tubing underneath. It twisted and warped with a bit of groaning and creaking as it wrapped around the chassis more snugly and also segmented itself. After a minute or so the singular piece had become a cascade of interlocking plates that perfectly mirrored those on the golem's right arm.

All in all, about a fifth of her new limb's armored shell was now in place, much to the smith's surprise.

"Huh, now that's odd."

"What is?" Fizzy asked stiffly as she tried not to move.

"I've never seen a golem assimilate a graft like this." Fizzy was still disappointed that all that effort she put into painstakingly sketching out her outer shell had been a total waste. As it turned out, replacing that external layer was a relatively easy fix with the grafting approach Malcolm had just used. The graft didn't even need to be accurate beyond having the same general shape, dimensions, and material as the missing patch of 'skin.'

Malcolm then used his Mana Manipulation Skill to attune it to Fizzy's personal mana signature, similar to how Tony's obedience collar was bound to his handler. When this was performed on the mithril graft, and with a bit of luck, it would trick the golem's core into treating the foreign object as if it were a damaged part of the construct's body. The graft would then morph to conform to the 'natural' shape of the golem's 'skin.'

It was a path-of-least-resistance type of thing that had a decently high degree of success. Naturally, this trick wasn't without its downsides.

"Why? Did it turn out weird?" the golem pressed. This was the main issue with the grafting method. Often the implanted metal would be bumpy and misshapen. This made it far too unreliable to be used on internal components, where even the slightest deformity could cause severe performance issues. The protective shell around those bits was far less prone to such defects since it was a lot more basic in its construction.

Even if the graft developed some weird bump or dent, fixing it was usually a simple matter of hammering it out while the metal was still hot. Worst case scenario, Malcolm would just rip it out and try again with a different one. This wasn't what he was seeing right now, though.

"No. Actually, it came out perfectly smooth. Good as new, dare I say."

"Oh, thank Ben. Don't scare me like that, meatbag!"

"I didn't mean to. I was just confused because it happened so quickly. A graft this size should take about thirty to sixty minutes to assimilate, but yours was done in less than sixty seconds.

"That's… a good thing, isn't it?"

"No, actually.

'Good' is a gross understatement. It's amazing! I've neither heard of nor seen anything like it! It's like your body is a fantasy tale come true! Do you mind if I take this opportunity to study it a bit?!" Normally Fizzy would've gladly allowed him to analyze and confirm her awesomeness, especially after that stream of unfiltered praise. However-"How about you finish my bloody arm, then we'll see."

"Right! Of course. My apologies. I suppose this is also good news for you. With this kind of assimilation rate I'd only need another hour or so to finish up."

"Excellent. Just make sure you don't rush too much and mess things up."

"Believe me, I have no intention of doing so." If anything, Malcolm wanted to stall the job so he'd get to work on her a bit longer. He knew that the instant he was done, Fizzy would move on with her life and he would never see a construct as miraculous as her ever again. It was a slightly depressing thought, but he quickly chased it out of his head as he resumed working on her repairs. His personal curiosity could wait. Maintaining the integrity of his kneecaps was more important.

Yet the man couldn't help himself. He experimented a bit, applying a variety of grafts with different shapes, sizes, and source materials. He soon found out that those made from the remains of her old arm reacted much better than the store-bought mithril Fizzy had brought in. It made sense, in a way. That metal was a part of her originally, so it already knew what it had to be.

Yes, Malcolm knew how crazy that sounded to most people, but anyone who actually worked with mithril would testify that the stuff truly had a mind of its own, memory included.

"Alright, that'll do." And then, just as the smith had gotten down to the last and most important part of Fizzy's arm, the construct suddenly got off the stone table and started walking off. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"W-what are you doing!?" he raised his voice in a panic.

"I still need to finish your hand!" He had yet to apply a single graft below her wrist. In meatbag terms, her fist was still only muscle and bone without skin. She could move her fingers well enough, but that wouldn't last long without the outer shell to shield those tiny joints and hinges from dirt, grime, and impacts.

"No. You're done here," she insisted.

"But… but-!" Malcolm tried to protest, but he was too flabbergasted to find the right words. Whoever heard of a patient that got up and left in the middle of an operation? What could have caused this shiny woman to suddenly behave like this?

"Did I make a mistake? Are my skills not adequate?" The only conclusion the tired man could reach was that the fault was somehow with himself. He had hoped it was some misunderstanding, as his professional pride was on the line. Not to mention his livelihood. Fizzy was the only customer he'd gotten in over a month, so he quite literally could not afford to lose her business.

"You were good enough." That was all the golem said as she approached the rented smithy's exit. She didn't even look at him. That brazen attitude and condescending tone pushed Malcolm over the edge.

"Good enough?!" he snapped.

"I've been busting my ass off for three days straight! I put up with all your shit, did everything you asked and more, and that's all I get?!" Fizzy looked over her shoulder, her face echoing the man's earlier confusion. What is he even talking about? she wondered inwardly while he kept yelling.

"Uh, I think his idea of 'good enough' might be different from yours," Plus helped her out. Ah. I see.

"Malcolm, let me rephrase that," she turned to face him.

"I find the quality of your work to be satisfactory. The only complaint I have is that you did not deliver the absolute perfection I wanted, which I recognize as being practically impossible and do not hold it against you. That is what I mean when I say you are good enough. Understand?" The smith wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve as he processed that, his frustration rapidly diminishing. While he now grasped what she was trying to say, there was surely a better way to summarize it than those two words.

As for that condescending attitude of hers, he realized now that was simply how she always was. Either that or he couldn't read her tone too well. It was entirely possible when considering she spoke through a metal tube. In any event, none of that explained her current behavior.

"Then why did you interrupt me before I could finish?"

"Because I can handle the rest from here." It was only then that Malcolm realized the golem wasn't headed for the rent-a-smithy's door, but the Bag of Holding she had left near it. He watched with trepidation as Fizzy pulled a mithril shield-gauntlet from the magical container. The sight of the Artifact instantly gave the man chills. As an Enchanter, he was more in tune with the magical energies surrounding him, and he could sense the tainted power that oozed from that thing at a distance.

"Wait-!" Fizzy thrust her incomplete left hand into the gauntlet before he could finish warning her. The cursed item shrank down and latched onto it immediately, affixing itself to her forearm. The metal glove then began distorting, subtly warping itself until the armored hand was an exact reflection of Fizzy's right. It was at this point the smith realized something.

Much like how his grafts had been easily swallowed up by his 'patient,' so too had this magic item been assimilated into the construct's living frame. It was as much a part of her as her own face.

"See?!" she turned around with a huge smile.

"Good as new!" Seeing her slowly curl all ten of her fingers one after the other instantly relieved Malcolm. He could do little but shake his head in defeat. What was he thinking, trying to apply common sense to this ridiculous creature? Fizzy had told him that a powerful curse was what caused her golemification, but it hadn't really sunk in until now. Considering those origins and what he'd just seen, he realized it was pointless to compare this astounding construct to the plebeian ones he'd worked on previously.

Honestly, at this point he probably wouldn't be surprised if she randomly started breathing fire and shooting lightning out of her ass. He was now firmly at the acceptance stage of the coping-with-weird-shit process, and he felt strangely refreshed as a result.

"Wish you could've told me that sooner," he rubbed his tired eyes.

"If I had known, I would have asked for fewer mithril ingots." He still had a half-kilogram block of the stuff left, which was more than it sounded like considering how light the metal was.

"Actually, about that. Do you know how to make an Eins-Schwartzkopf Superconductor?"

"… A what?"

"In simple terms, you make wires out of a mithril-silver alloy and weave them together into a metal rope, then coat the whole thing in rubber. Can you do any of that if I give you the specifics?" Fizzy wasn't completely clear on the process herself. She'd read about this stuff in her dad's old textbooks, but she hadn't even seen one.

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm sorry to say that's impossible for me."

"How so?"

"I'm an Armorsmith. The most I can do is mix the alloy you want. I can't make it into the sort of wire you need for that. You'd need a Jewelsmith, and probably an Artificer to make one of those cable-weaving machines they use up north. Maybe also an Alchemist for the rubber."

"I see." The golem was once more pleasantly surprised. Malcolm sure had a lot of general knowledge about Jobs he didn't have. Then again, that probably came with the ridiculously competitive territory. It was disappointing he couldn't assist with her big project directly, but perhaps she could borrow his expertise in other ways.

"What about teaching me to forge mithril myself?"

"I suppose I could. Issue is, you'd need to be at least a Level 40 Blacksmith, for the Magical Metallurgy Skill. I'm going to guess you don't even have the Job."

"No. No, I do not." Fizzy's elated mood started to sour. She had no idea about that requirement. So far her Artificer Job's Component Forging Skill had been sufficient for her to make her own parts, but it would appear she needed to branch out if she wanted to work with magical metals. It was inevitable she'd run into this kind of obstacle at some point. Every Artisan Job more or less required a secondary or maybe even tertiary vocation to support it past Level 50.

It was somewhat impressive that Fizzy's Arclight Artificer had made it all the way to Level 59 without her being a Blacksmith as well. However, she couldn't avoid it if she hoped to turn her vision of a massive magnetic cannon into a reality. There were too many critical components that she would never entrust to anyone but herself. Oh, well. It was only 40 Levels, and she already had experience working a forge. Reaching that point wouldn't be difficult, but would still take months, maybe even years.

That meant she either had to put off prototyping her weapon of mass destruction, or downscale its design. She was leaning towards the former. As an ageless construct, she had all the time in the world to perfect her craft. Conversely, she hated the idea of having to compromise. She'd spent two decades doing that, and where did it get her? Stuck in the wilderness at the non-existent mercy of a box-shaped slave-driver that was literally too stupid to die. Huh. Where did that bitter thought come from?

"Well, I'd be more than happy to help if you need a Blacksmith Mentor," Malcolm offered.

"I'll take any job I can do at this point, and I don't expect that to change."

"I suppose now's as good a moment to start as any, so why not? Let's get started right away." She held out a hand as if to shake his, which made the man wince.

"Crap. I forgot. I never actually got my trainer's license." He had a Level 2 Mentor Skill from explaining things to curious customers - which seemed to be almost everyone that came to his shop - but had yet to register formally as a trainer. He was going to, but gave up once he found out how much red tape was involved. It just didn't seem like it was worth the trouble. After all, what were the odds that some shiny weirdo would come to the dwarven capital to learn the smithing trade from a human?

"How long would it take you to get one?" Greater than zero, apparently.

"Oh, at least thirty days. The Kingdom loves its bureaucracy."

"So I've learned. I suppose that'll give me plenty of time to set up my own shop."

"Wait, you're going to settle in the Anvil District?" Malcolm was having second thoughts about training her if she was going to be a potential competitor.

"Ew. No," she visibly recoiled.

"This place is filthy, loud, and expensive. I'd go on a killing spree within a week if I had to live here."

"Heh. Yeah, I know that feeling. But where are you going if not here?"

"I'm aiming for tenure at the Ritz," she proudly declared.

"… The what?"

"Sorry. Royal Institute of Technology."

"Ah. Dragunov, then. Weird place, but you'd fit right in."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how the foot traffic here has a lot of golems? There's even more in Dragunov, and just as many automatons. Then there's also the random explosions and crashes that happen about once an hour. Bloody gnomes, am I right?"

"Tell me about it."

"Anyway, though it's even earlier than I expected, I do believe we're done here. Since you already said you had no complaints, shall we move onto payment?" Fizzy was in complete agreement. As per usual, she'd prepared the sum beforehand. The bulk of the moderate fortune was not in gold, but mithril coins called Divine pieces. Each one was lovingly minted to include Goroth's holy symbol on the face and the Kingdom's crest on the tail end, giving it a worth of precisely 500 GP.

It was the largest denomination used on the continent, normally reserved for large-scale purchases between guilds rather than transactions between individuals. The golem had gotten about a dozen of these at an exchange since the more common coinage paid out by the Mercenary Guild was starting to take up a lot of space. Even if her Bag of Holding was bigger on the inside, it was only by a factor of five.

Financial matters settled and limb fully restored, the golem left the communal foundry facility with a spring in her step. She skipped and hummed merrily as she went, enjoying the familiar weight of her shield as she swung her arm around. Fizzy was so lost in her little world that she didn't even notice a runaway wagon was rolling down the street until just before it hit her.

"Shield Wall!" Her battle-honed reflexes kicked in as she adopted a defensive posture and invoked a Martial Art. The Left Hand of the Forgotten Sentinel flashed with a dull red glow at the moment of impact. The kinetic energy behind the speeding object was suddenly redirected as it struck that speed bump, making the wagon flip up and over the startled construct. The unsecured metal drums it was carrying flew out and scattered across the street and surrounding buildings.

The containers burst open on impact, dousing the area in yellowish-green acid. Within moments the pavement was covered in sizzling puddles, the walls on either side of it sported new holes, and a few cargo-carrying iron golems had been reduced to slag in a matter of seconds. Fizzy could only watch and wince as the spilled acid melted through everything. Even her mithril hide would suffer if she was doused in that.

She was lucky the vehicle flipped over like it did, otherwise the cylindrical containers would have ruptured next to her instead of getting flung about ten paces away. However, while her personal safety was no longer in immediate danger, her finances were in dire peril. She imagined that 'I accidentally flipped over a wagon and destroyed an entire street' probably wasn't going to fly with the city guard, and that she'd end up paying for all that property damage. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any witnesses.

It was currently around midnight, which meant there was practically no foot traffic aside from industrial constructs. All the people were either sleeping or working. There also didn't seem to be anybody chasing after the runaway cargo, nor was anyone poking their head out to see what the commotion was about. Then again, between the Anvil District's deafening ambience and dense smog, it would probably be a while before anyone noticed the crash.

Fizzy therefore quietly and quickly left the area before anyone could point the finger at her, completely oblivious to the fact that someone had just made an attempt on her life.