Chương 135: An Apprentice's Bargain

The [Scour] Spell stripped the last film of ichor from the foundation stones, leaving them clean beneath Cal's magical lights. He straightened, rolling the stiffness from his neck as he surveyed the basement. Two ventilation tunnels, each the width of his head, angled upward through the earth to the surface at the far corners of the room. A pair of [Air Orbs] hung lazily near the room's center, pumping fresh air into the space and pushing the last traces of death and char through the vents.

Working his right arm, he felt the slight pull of newly knitted muscle beneath healed skin. The first thing he'd done after his Mana had recovered enough was down an E-tier healing potion from his void ring. The cleanup had been exhaustive. He'd harvested what he could first, working to strip the useful components from the worm carcasses. Then he'd opened a [Portal] to a random stretch of forest and rolled the remains through, closing the aperture behind them. Something in the Virethane would eat well tonight.

After that came the structural repair. [Earth Manipulation] had proved remarkably effective at patching the craters and bore-holes the worm had punched through his foundation. The Spell convinced the fractured stone to flow back together, filling gaps and reinforcing weak points until the walls and floor were solid again. He'd briefly considered using [Immolation] to sterilize the worst of the gore, but one glance at the exposed wooden joists of the ground floor overhead had stopped that idea.

Burning his house down to clean his basement was, even by his standards, a bit much. [Scour] had worked just as well on foundation stone as it did on spirit cauldrons. The workbench was a total loss. Splintered planks and shattered sawhorses lay in a heap against the far wall where he'd shoved them. He'd need to build a new one. But the floor was bare, the air was clear, and his home's structural integrity was intact. Good enough. Cal turned his attention to the spoils arranged in three neat groupings on the floor.

The first was a stack of overlapping armored plates, each one a curved slab of mineral-encrusted chitin that was surprisingly light for its density. Beside them sat a canvas pouch bulging with the worms' serrated teeth, hundreds of them, each one a crescent of hardened calcium that could probably cut leather. Both piles would go to the Adventurer's Guild for sale. The second grouping was a lone purple spirit stone, E-tier, resting on a clean cloth. His lucky payment for the fight. The third was the ore.

It sat in a shining mound near the center of the floor, catching the ambient glow from his light orbs and reflecting it back along the streaks of red. The ka-vae'zhar was beautiful. Its aura was so powerful that even sitting still on the ground it felt alive. If not for the Toll that'd be my retirement fund right there. Ha! He shook his head bemusedly, before looking down at the second group. Now, I think I've been acclimating to my new tier long enough… it's time to get back to the grind.

He sat cross-legged beside the spirit stone, picked it up, and turned it over in his fingers. Cal weighed the choice for only a moment longer, then placed the stone on his tongue and swallowed. The essence hit his system in a rush, flooding downward from his throat and dispersing into his core. He directed the flow quickly, guiding the power toward his Vitality, feeling it suffuse his cells with renewed life force. [Vitality has increased by 2. 50%; from 0. 00% to 2. 50%] [Spiritual Contamination has increased by 5. 00%; from 0. 00% to 5. 00%] Then something pulled. A siphoning sensation, like a drain opening in his spirit. The freshly integrated Vitality had settled into his cells but started to be actively consumed almost at once, drawn away from his life force and channeled somewhere else. A chime sounded in his mind, followed by a rapid cascade of translucent blue notifications that stacked in the corner of his vision. [Vitality has decreased by 0. 50%] [Channel Erosion has decreased by 0. 50%] [Vitality has decreased by 0. 50%] [Channel Erosion has decreased by 0. 50%] … Cal watched wide-eyed as the sequence continued to repeat, each tick draining another half-percent of his newly gained Vitality while shaving an equal amount from the [Channel Erosion] debuff that had plagued him since the rescue mission. The pill! Aurelian's pill he made from the tendril chunk!

He'd wondered why the erosion he'd gained saving Jakob from the prison had stuck around, but now he understood. The alchemical compound Aurelian had crafted for him had been lying dormant until his body had sufficient Vitality reserves to fuel the repair process. Now that he was feeding it fresh essence the pill's latent function was activating, converting his life force and using it to mend the micro-tears in his energy channels. The notifications continued pinging until the siphoning stopped.

Cal blinked, checking the relevant parts of his status. Channel Erosion is now 1. 50%… Vitality started at 2. 50%, lost five increments of 0. 50%... that's 2. 50% in, 2. 50% out. Net zero on the Vitality, but the erosion dropped from 4. 00% to 1. 50%. That tracks. Looks like it's a one-to-one ratio. He still had some erosion damage in his channels, as the pill had exhausted his new Vitality before finishing the job. But that was fine; it just needed more fuel.

What was less fine was the reality that the spirit stones had become half as effective at his new tier, but he had been expecting that. It was just part of the way things worked. Cal pulled a second purple E-tier spirit stone from the stash in his void ring. Let's finish this. He swallowed the second stone and directed the essence toward Vitality. [Vitality has increased by 2. 50%; from 0. 00% to 2. 50%] [Spiritual Contamination has increased by 5. 00%; from 5. 00% to 10. 00%] [Vitality has decreased by 0. 50%] [Channel Erosion has decreased by 0. 50%] [Vitality has decreased by 0. 50%] [Channel Erosion has decreased by 0. 50%] [Vitality has decreased by 0. 50%] [Channel Erosion has decreased by 0. 50%] Cal exhaled slowly, a tension he'd barely acknowledged releasing from his shoulders. His Stamina channels were back to normal again, and more importantly, he had confirmation that Aurelian's pill worked.

He was relieved to know his problem with eroded channels was now just an economic problem instead of a debilitating issue. The math wasn't even close. He was operating on an entirely different economic plane now. The copper-counting desperation of his first weeks in Deadfall felt like a lifetime ago. He still had to be deliberate, of course, but the margin for calculated investment had expanded enormously, and being able to use one of his most powerful tools freely was hard to put a price tag on.

Cal stood, brushed grit from his trousers, and turned to the ore pile. He studied it for a long moment, his mind shifting gears from alchemical accounting to logistics. It's time for the next big investment. He grabbed a burlap bag he'd used for hauling debris during the house renovations, spotted with plaster dust and ground-in grime. He shook it out, knelt beside the ore mound, and began loading it piece by piece. The ka-vae'zhar clinked as each chunk landed.

When the last piece was in, he cinched the drawstring and hefted the bag onto his shoulder. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. It played the part perfectly: just a sack of simple metal. No need to show off his rings. Yorrin stood at his primary anvil, shoulders rolling with each stroke as he worked, his leather apron scarred by a thousand sparks. A half-finished crescent blade glowed orange beneath his blows. It looked like something to use on a battle axe.

Cal approached from the street, adjusting the sack on his shoulder. He waited until the man paused to inspect the metal before stepping into his peripheral vision.

"Greetings, Yorrin!" The hammer stopped mid-rise. Yorrin's arm hung suspended for a fraction of a second before he lowered the tool and stared at Cal. Cal stared back, a grin spreading across his face. The blacksmith started to frown when Cal shifted so that the man could see the bulging nature of the burlap sack on his back. Yorrin widened his eyes as he looked questioningly at Cal, who only grinned wider in return.

The smith glanced past Cal to the street beyond the forge's open front before glancing back at the sack.

"Not here." Yorrin set the crescent blade aside on a cooling rack and wiped his hands on a rag, then jerked his chin toward the rear of the forge. Cal followed without a word. They passed through the back of the workshop, between racks of finished tools and barrels of quenching oil until they passed out a narrow door into a small courtyard walled by timber. A two-story cottage sat at the far end, its shuttered windows facing inward toward the private space.

Yorrin crossed the courtyard quickly and unlocked the cottage door, holding it open. Cal ducked inside. The interior was a craftsman's shrine. A large worktable dominated the center of the main room, its surface scored by years of projects. Pinned to every available wall space were detailed diagrams: armor joint assemblies rendered in charcoal, historical weapon profiles annotated with measurements, cross-sections of blade tangs and guard configurations.

A smaller forge and personal anvil occupied the far corner, both immaculately maintained. Yorrin closed the door behind them and threw the latch. Cal crossed to the worktable, swung the sack off his shoulder, and set it down with a solid thunk that made the table legs creak. He gripped the bottom of the sack, looked at Yorrin, and upended it. The ka-vae'zhar poured out in a dark cascade.

Chunk after chunk of the ore tumbled onto the scarred wood, spreading across the surface in a glittering heap that was a hundred times the volume of the sample Cal had shown him previously. Yorrin stood speechless. He was three feet from the table, his hands hanging at his sides. The breath he'd drawn when the first piece hit the wood was still trapped in his lungs. He stared at the pile, pupils wide, tracking the play of light across the ore's fractured faces as his lips parted wordlessly.

Slowly, as if approaching a sleeping animal, he stepped forward. One hand rose from his side, trembling. His thick, calloused fingers hovered over the nearest piece before settling gently on its surface. He ran his thumb along a red vein.

"S-so much heart-iron..." He circled the table, cataloging each piece even as his hands continued to drift across the ore reverently. He picked up a chunk, weighed it in his palm, turned it to examine the grain structure, and set it back down carefully. Then he looked up at Cal, and the hunger in his face was plain to see. He tried to compose himself, tried smoothing his expression into something approaching neutrality. He failed completely.

"So... what did you have in mind, Master Valorn?" Cal snorted. Master Valorn, now, is it? The upgrade from dull-ear to a formal address of respect was as transparent as glass. He had been dismissed every other time he'd set foot in the forge. Now, with a fortune in legendary ore on the table between them, he was suddenly worthy of a title. Funny how life works that way, no matter what world you're on. People tend to pay attention when you have something they want.

He let his mind shift into gear as he contemplated his priorities. Ok… the first problem is that Mira needs a skilled healer, and I have no idea how much that is going to cost. Problem two is that my shortsword is kind of a piece of junk. The Legion really doesn't do a lot for their F-tier's equipment, and cutting through that worm's chitin ground the edge down to nothing and partially warped the blade.

I need a replacement, and now I have the materials for one that's leagues beyond anything Deadfall can produce commercially. The next problem is armor. After the shortsword's poor performance at this tier I'm loath to rely on the Legion armor, which is all I have left that's any use. He paused on that thought. Astrin owes me armor. If I play that right, I could get something far better than anything I could buy in Deadfall. Yes… let the Illuminet money cover my defenses!

That frees the ore for offense and liquidation both! The plan solidified, as he nodded to himself eagerly. Yorrin makes me a shortsword with the fancy metal. Hopefully, the best he's ever forged. I sell him the rest of the ore, take the gold, and combine it with Cillian's seized assets and what Selara and Aurelian left me. Use that pool to cover Mira's healer, my essence stone pipeline, and whatever other expenses come up. Scam the best armor I can get from Astrin when I have time. Yes, yes!

It's all coming together!

"I want you to make me a shortsword, Master Blacksmith. The best one you possibly can." He gestured to the pile.

"The rest I'm willing to part with. For a fair price." Yorrin nodded. He moved to the ore pile and began sorting, separating pieces by size and vein density. His movements were reverent but precise, each chunk examined and placed into one of two growing stacks. The smaller stack, positioned directly in front of him, received the densest, most uniformly veined pieces. The larger stack grew steadily beside it. Cal watched the process, tracking the ratio.

He had no way to independently verify how much ore a shortsword actually required. The split would come down to trusting Yorrin's professional judgment, and the man had every incentive to be honest. Shortchanging the blade to pocket extra ore would produce an inferior weapon, and that would be an insult to the craft that a man of Yorrin's pride would never tolerate. The smith finished sorting and looked up.

"That's the blade stock," he said, nodding to the smaller pile.

"The rest is surplus." Cal studied the two stacks. The blade stock was perhaps a quarter of the total haul. The remainder was substantial, easily enough to forge several more weapons or a complete set of reinforced armor components.

"Looks fair to me." Yorrin straightened, and some of his composure returned. The initial shock of seeing the ore had faded enough for his merchant instincts to re-engage. He crossed his arms and gave the larger pile a long, appraising look.

"For the surplus... I can offer five thousand gold. That's generous, mind ya. Market for raw ka-vae'zhar is thin out here. Most don't know what it's worth." Cal scoffed.

"Ten thousand, and not a copper less." Yorrin closed his mouth with a click, face darkening. Cal had checked the reference texts Selara had left in the void ring, and one of them had been a detailed material pricing guide published by some merchant guild consortium. The market value for unrefined ka-vae'zhar ore of this tier was between one thousand and fifteen hundred gold per pound, depending on the red-vein density.

Cal figured the total amount of ore was around ten pounds, and after the shortsword's portion was separated, figured the pile on the table in front of Yorrin weighed around seven and a half.

"Think of the opportunity cost, Yorrin. A noble house or a wealthy merchant would pay a premium to get access to this material. I'm offering you the entire supply and the project of a lifetime." He let that sink in.

"The least you can do is give me a fair price. If not..." He shrugged.

"You'll still be making the sword. But someone else will be buying the rest." Yorrin worked his jaw. The struggle played out across his face in real time: the merchant arguing with the craftsman who knew, with absolute certainty, that he might never see this chance again in his life.

"Seven thousand," Yorrin ground out.

"Listen, you portioned what looks to be the best of the lot for the shortsword, so I'll cut you a deal. But at least meet me halfway." Another silence, shorter this time. Yorrin let out a long, heavy breath through his nose.

"You drive a hard bargain, young man. Seventy-five hundred. We have a deal." [Your proficiency with Haggling (E) has increased to Practiced] They shook on it and agreed to wait a few weeks while Yorrin organized the transfer of funds. The smith would need to sell some things and move money around. The tension in the room dissolved and Yorrin finally relaxed. The gruff exterior softened as the businessman stepped aside and the craftsman returned.

He left the table and moved to a shelf along the back wall, pulling down a leather-bound tome. He set it on the table beside the ore and opened it carefully, turning thick pages filled with hand-drawn illustrations and dense annotations until he found what he was looking for. The page showed a full-color drawing of an ornate shortsword, its blade a dark mirror etched with crimson veins. It was held aloft by a large man in beautiful plate armor, a tower shield braced against his opposite arm.

The detail was extraordinary, every line of the weapon rendered with devotion.

"This," Yorrin said softly, "was the blade of Legendary Legion General Vikram Hypatos." He ran a finger along the illustrated edge." Massacre. A heart-iron blade that, when empowered, was said to cut through a troll's hide like silk." He looked up at Cal, and simply looked… eager.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Master Valorn. I'll do it justice. I promise ya that." Cal returned the words with a nod.

"I believe you will, Yorrin. And call me Cal." Yorrin grunted and closed the book carefully, shelving it. He disappeared into another room, and when he returned, he was carrying a spear. Cal recognized the Mycari spearhead immediately. The lustrous, leaf-shaped blade gleamed, its edges honed to a razor line that caught the light. But the shaft was new. Where the broken wood had been now stood a length of near-black wood extending from the socket.

"I used the heartwood of an E-tier fel oak," Yorrin explained, presenting the weapon.

"Dense as stone, but it'll flex when it needs to." He paused, then added with a note of quiet satisfaction, "A very expensive piece of wood. That sample of ore you brought me before helped cover the cost." Cal took the spear. The balance was perfect, the weight distributed evenly between the weighty blade and the heavier shaft. He rotated his wrist, letting the weapon spin in a slow arc. The heartwood absorbed the vibrations of the movement completely, transmitting zero rattle or wobble.

The spearhead tracked elegantly through the air. He looked up at the smith with a big smile.

"It's exquisite! Thank you, Yorrin. But you didn't forget about the apprenticeship deal, right? When do I start?" Yorrin grimaced and shook his head.

"No, I didn't forget, but I'd hoped you'd forgotten that foolishness. Fine. Your first lesson is tomorrow at dawn. Don't be late."