Chapter 96: Mechanical Divinity
Clang! Clang! Clang!
As the saying goes, the bellows roar and the hammer rings—right now, the Player known as Steel Tide was hammering away with brute force, his body drenched in sweat and bathed in the searing heat of the forge. Around him, a growing pile of Wrought Iron Tubes lay stacked like fallen logs. Ignoring the scorching air and the rivulets of sweat streaming down his brow, his expression burned with uncontainable excitement—like a man possessed by endless strength.
This brute was a Barbarian, yet he’d never once drawn a sword in battle. His sole purpose? To maximize raw power. And that power had one singular, unwavering use: Blacksmithing.
Ever since entering the game, he’d been hammering, shaping, and forging without pause. Now, he was the youngest—and strongest—Blacksmith in Bathor City.
Nearby, Old Daimo, the grizzled Tiefling blacksmith, watched with a face twisted in annoyance. He blew air through his mustache, shaking his head.
“You young rascal,” he grumbled, “spending all your time on junk like this—what’s the point?”
He sighed, genuinely heartbroken. “Wasting prime iron! If I were your age, I could’ve turned this into a set of flawless Armor!”
Steel Tide shot him a scornful glance, his hammer never stopping.
“I’ve already completed every damn Quest Target you gave me. I’m doing my own thing now. Stop lecturing me like a nagging old aunt.”
His eyes gleamed as he stared at the crooked, uneven iron tubes. A thrill crackled through his voice.
“Just watch, old Daimo.”
“The future… is in the hands of my Iron Hammer.”
Steel Tide spoke with fiery conviction, hammering away as if forging destiny itself.
Daimo: …
He’d grown used to it. These so-called Players, no matter how absurd their words or actions, never surprised him anymore.
“Tch. These kids.”
He remembered the first time it hit him.
Months ago, two Players walked into the shop—seemingly normal. One chatted casually while the other casually rummaged through the shop’s shelves, knocking over tools, flipping through crates, even digging into Daimo’s own coat pockets. The “distraction” partner didn’t flinch, didn’t blush—just kept up the fake small talk like nothing was wrong.
Daimo was stunned. He’d seen thieves, but never this shameless. He’d seen shameless thieves, but never this brazen.
Furious, he snatched his ten-pound Iron Hammer and knocked them both out cold.
When the Peacekeeper arrived to haul them away, the two Players still struggled, shouting in disbelief: “I was behind you!” “I have high Stealth Bonus!” “I was in dialogue mode!”
Daimo just stared, utterly speechless.
But over time, such incidents became routine. Now, when he cracked a thief’s skull with the hammer, he did so with the same calm detachment as a farmer harvesting wheat.
Yet, in time, Daimo began to notice something else—something unexpected. These Players were tireless. Unafraid of danger. Even reckless.
Now, he no longer worked. His apprentices—Players themselves—handled every task.
“Done! Done!”
“Success!”
Steel Tide’s ecstatic shout shattered Daimo’s reverie.
Before he could move, a wave of Apprentice Smith Players surged forward, pushing past the old man like a tide.
“These ungrateful brats,” Daimo muttered under his breath.
He gave up. What were they even building this time? Probably another useless contraption.
He slumped back into his chair, pulled an old, yellowed book over his face, and let the quiet peace of idleness wash over him.
“Done! Done!”
Steel Tide’s voice rose again, echoing through the shop.
The entire Blacksmith Shop was packed—crowded with members of the Guild: Mechanical Divinity, all eyes locked on the freshly cooled, rough-hewn iron barrel lying on the anvil.
This guild was made up of mechanical enthusiasts, led by Steel Tide, whose motto was: “Flesh is frail, machines shall ascend!”
The problem? Early game mechanics had no real Mechanical professions.
But then they discovered something revolutionary—real-world physics and engineering principles could be replicated in Ailezegai, not through science, but through magic.
So, they forged their own path—Blacksmithing as a science.
Now, Daimo’s shop held strange new additions: iron tubes, crude springs, Taps and Dies, Basic Lathe, Bench Drill, Bench ViseFile—all crafted by these mad inventors.
Daimo tolerated it. After all, they worked for free. He’d just pretend not to see.
“Give me the finest wood!” boomed Battlefield Wheelchair Man, the guild’s renowned firearms fanatic. “Stock needs to be big!”
The Mechanical Divinity members were in full frenzy.
“One nitre, two sulphur, three charcoal—our gear’s not great, so we’re using Ancient Black Powder.”
“Where’s our Trigger and Hammer?”
“Damn it! Daimo stole them to make a ring! We’re rebuilding from scratch!”
“Gunpowder substitute? Use Plowshare Iron—crush it, it’ll do.”
“Bullets? Just small steel balls—add a bit of lead, wrap them in cloth, jam them in the barrel. They’ll stay put!”
And so, in a flurry of sweat, sparks, and chaos—perhaps for the first time in Anzeta’s history—the first firearm was born.
A crude, muzzle-loaded percussion shotgun sat on the table—its iron barrel rough and uneven, its hammer mechanism basic and awkward. The wooden Stock was absurdly large, like a club. Nearby, bundles of Oil Cloth wrapped around makeshift bullets, and a few Small Steel Balls had spilled out, scattered like fallen stars. The air smelled sharp with Saltpeter.
It looked like something salvaged from a junkyard—rusted, haphazard, barely functional.
But it was theirs. A product of blood, sweat, and relentless effort.
In a world where industry was stuck in the Middle Ages, building this was no small feat.
“Did it work?”
“Try it!”
Steel Tide carefully lifted the Primitive Gun, struggling to force the cloth-wrapped charge into the barrel. Steel balls tumbled out with every clumsy motion.
He raised the weapon, aimed at a Straw Man Target already set up.
The entire Guild fell silent.
Boom!
A thunderclap split the air.
Old Daimo, fast asleep, jolted upright. The book slipped off his face.
“What in the name of the Black Rock are you boys doing now?!” he roared, furious.
But as he blinked, he saw the Players dancing around a rusted iron pipe, screaming with joy.
And beside them—smoking, shattered, and charred beyond recognition—lay the Straw Man, its limbs torn apart, scattered iron balls still radiating faint heat.
The air was thick with Gunsmoke.
“Oh. Just another one of your stupid inventions,” Daimo muttered, picking up his book, brushing off the dust, and placing it back over his face.
Then, with a dazed sigh, he drifted back into sleep.
(End of Chapter)
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