METAL
XVI. The Discovery
Around
noon — finally, when the leaden grey of the sky reached its peak of
mediocre clarity — they passed near a massive rocky scree that had
been completely reclaimed by wild, suffocating vegetation.
— Wait,
Zik said, coming to a dead stop. You smell that?
— What?
— That.
A
scent. Faint, yet distinct. The smell of damp earth mixed with
something old, something ancient, like a perfume of suspended time
and buried secrets long forgotten by the world.
— It’s
just moss, Kael replied, dismissive.
— No.
There’s something else beneath it.
They
approached with caution, their boots crunching on the debris. Behind
a massive boulder encrusted with lichen, half-buried under coils of
climbing ivy that had spent years strangling the stone, lay a hidden
alcove. Thick moss formed a heavy, verdant carpet, and briars had
grown into tangled, thorny barricades. There, in the center of the
overgrowth, lay something that no longer belonged to the living.
Bones.
A skeleton. Human, or at least it had been. It lay on its side in a
position that suggested a violent end — or perhaps just an
unfortunate fall, followed by a slow, lonely agony in this forgotten
corner of the hills.
But
it wasn't a recent corpse. Far from it. The bones were ancient,
bleached white, almost polished by the relentless passage of time and
the elements. The climbing ivy had wound its way through the ribcage
like green veins threading through the bone, making the skeleton look
like an integral part of the landscape itself, as if it had been
resting there for decades, perhaps even half a century.
And
yet, despite the weight of the years, it still wore the remnants of
its station. A chainmail shirt, now dull and grey, was half-hidden
under the thick moss that covered it like a heavy green shroud. And
there, at its belt of rotted, crumbling leather, still resting in a
scabbard cracked by time and blooming with brownish fungi... A sword.
Kael
approached slowly, his movements wary. He began to push aside the
heavy curtains of ivy with delicate gestures, as if afraid of waking
the ghost. The mail was... plain. Completely plain. A flat grey.
Dull. There was no magical shimmer, no characteristic silver glint of
high-tier gear. Just aged metal that looked ordinary, almost cheap —
the kind of armour a third-rate guard might have abandoned by chance.
— It’s
just an old, rotten chainmail shirt, Kael said, his voice laced with
disappointment. It's worthless.
— Wait
a second, Zik countered, his eyes narrowing.
The
goblin knelt in the damp moss, leaning in to examine the links with a
professional focus that sharply contrasted with his usual casual
demeanor. He ran his expert fingers over the metal, feeling the
weave. Suddenly, his yellow eyes widened in genuine shock.
— What
the hell...
— What?
Is it just magical rust?
— It’s quicksilver.
— It
doesn’t like quicksilver, Kael protested, skeptical.
It’s all grey and dull. Quicksilver is supposed to shine, isn’t
it?
—
quicksilver, Zik clarified, a trace of ill-contained excitement
making his voice vibrate. It turns dull after years — decades —
without being worn. It goes to sleep, Kael. But if you wear it, if
you use it regularly, if you take it into the heat of a real fight...
it wakes up. Gradually, it regains its full power, its luster, its
complete enchantments.
— You
sure? Because seriously, it looks like a pile of scrap.
— I
am absolutely certain. Look at the links. The finesse of the weave.
The perfect interlocking of the rings. This is the work of a master
craftsman, Kael. No one — and I insist, NO ONE — does this kind
of work with ordinary metal. It’s technically impossible.
Kael
reached down and lifted the mail carefully, bracing himself for a
significant weight. Instead, his hands shot upward. It was
surprisingly light — almost weightless, as if it were fashioned
from solidified air or a metallic mist. He could barely feel the
pressure of it in his palms.
— Damn...
it really is light. Like, incredibly light.
— Put
it on, Zik urged with a grin. Slide it under your torn tunic. No one
will even know you're wearing it.
[SYSTEM
ALERT: OUT-OF-LEVEL ITEM DETECTED]
[DORMANT QUICKSILVER
CHAINMAIL - LEVEL REQUIRED: 8]
[KAEL'S CURRENT LEVEL: 4]
[ACQUISITION NOT AUTHORIZED]
— Shit.
The System says no.
— WHY?!
Kael shouted at the empty air, looking up at the oppressive grey sky. It’s right THERE! The guy’s been DEAD for decades! Maybe a
century! He doesn’t need it anymore!
[THE
ITEM IS BEYOND YOUR CURRENT LEVEL. DEPOSIT THE OBJECT IMMEDIATELY.]
— Shut
up, System.
[INAPPROPRIATE
LANGUAGE DETECTED. NOTATION ADDED TO FILE.]
Meanwhile,
Zik had turned his attention to the sword. He drew it slowly, inch by
inch, from the cracked scabbard with a level of respect that bordered
on the religious. The blade emitted a slight, sharp hiss as it slid
out — a crystalline sound that hadn't been dulled by the years.
The
blade was long. Exactly one meter, perhaps an inch more. Thin.
Slender. It was as grey and dull as the mail, lacking even the
faintest glint of light. But it was perfectly straight, without a
single trace of rust or deformation despite being exposed to the damp
and the rot for a lifetime.
— A
rapier, Zik whispered, his voice thick with reverence. And not just
any kind. Look at this guard... the craftsmanship of this pommel...
He
weighed the weapon in his hand, performing a few slow, controlled
flourishes that cut through the air.
— It’s
heavy for its size. Around three pounds, easy. Maybe a bit more. But
look at this balance... it's perfect. Absolutely perfect. The center
of gravity is exactly where it needs to be for a master.
He
ran his thumb cautiously over the side of the blade — or where the
edge should have been.
— Strange...
it doesn’t really have an edge. It’s built for piercing, not for
slashing.
Then,
he tested the point against a piece of rotted wood.
— But
damn… it’s razor sharp at the tip. Incredibly sharp. After all
these years in the dirt... it’s impossible. Unless...
— Unless
what?
— Dormant
quicksilver too. It keeps its point indefinitely.
All along the central rib, from the forte to the foible, stretched an inscription in elegant calligraphy:
"Sir
Black-Forest, Protector of the Duke of Harsh-Winds and of ladies
whose honour had been questioned."
— "With
questioned honour"? Kael read, leaning over Zik's shoulder. What
does that even mean?
— A
duelist, Zik replied, a small smile playing on his lips. A
professional. He defended the honour of ladies accused of dishonour,
or other scandals. He fought in judicial duels — combat to the
death or first incapacity, depending on the local law.
— That
really existed? Like, as a legal thing?
— Forty or fifty years
ago, yeah. Before the judicial system was overhauled and duels were
banned by royal decree. The old duelists are all dead now, or they've
converted into bitter arms masters in the big cities.
[DORMANT
QUICKSILVER RAPIER - LEVEL REQUIRED: 9]
[ACQUISITION NOT
AUTHORIZED]
[DEPOSIT THE ITEM IMMEDIATELY]
—
No.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
[PARDON ME?]
— I
said no. We're going to do a Luck roll.
[A LUCK ROLL FOR
WHAT LEGITIMATE REASON?]
— To
narratively justify Kael stumbling upon this ancient skeleton. Think
about it. He had the statistically improbable — but technically
possible — luck of discovering the equipment of a legendary duelist
dead for decades in a remote corner of the hills. It's a... a classic
trope.
[...ANALYZING
CLAIM.]
[TECHNICALLY VALID UNDER NARRATIVE PROTOCOL
ARTICLE 7, PARAGRAPH 12: "HIGHLY IMPROBABLE EVENTS MAY BE
JUSTIFIED BY A SUCCESSFUL LUCK ROLL."]
[VERY WELL.
LUCK ROLL REQUIRED: 1D100]
[SUCCESS THRESHOLD: 7 OR LESS]
[CURRENT PROBABILITY: 7%]
— Kael,
roll your Luck die. Now.
— I don’t have any Luck left
today! I used every bit of it against those crawlers last night!
[ALTERNATIVE
DETECTED: NARRATOR 104 POSSESSES 3 NARRATOR LUCK POINTS PER DIEM. USE
AUTHORIZED BUT ACTION WILL BE RECORDED IN YOUR PERMANENT FILE WITH
DIRECT IMPACT ON YOUR EVALUATION.]
— I can use MY
personal Luck?
[AFFIRMATIVE. HOWEVER, THIS WILL CONSTITUTE
A PROCEDURAL DEVIATION WITH A PENALTY OF -5 COMPLIANCE POINTS.]
— I
don’t give a damn about the points. I’m rolling.
[VERY
WELL. NARRATOR LUCK ROLL: 1D100]
[ROLLING...]
The
virtual die manifested in my vision, a translucent cube spinning with
a dizzying blur. Each face flashed numbers from 1 to 100. It bounced.
The
die rattled to a stop.
[RESULT: 2]
[THRESHOLD: 7 OR
LESS]
[ULTRA-CRITICAL SUCCESS]
Absolute
silence from the System.
No snarky commentary.
No mechanical
protest.
Just a heavy, digital void that lasted for ten long
seconds.
Then:
[...VALIDATED.]
[PROBABILITY OF THIS RESULT: 2%]
[THE ITEMS ARE
LEGITIMATELY DISCOVERED THROUGH EXTRAORDINARY NARRATIVE LUCK.]
[NO CONTESTATION POSSIBLE.]
[NO PROCEDURAL
VIOLATION DETECTED.]
[EVEN THE ALGORITHM MUST BOW BEFORE
SUCH STATISTICAL ANOMALIES.]
— Wait...
does that mean you’re cancelling the penalty?
[WITH
A RESULT OF 2 OUT OF 100 FOR A THRESHOLD OF 7, ANY CONTESTATION WOULD
BE LOGICALLY ABSURD AND CONTRARY TO OUR OWN DIRECTIVES.]
[...REVIEWING
PROCEDURAL IMPACT...]
[COMPLIANCE
PENALTY: MAINTAINED.]
[NOTE:
PRECEDENT MUST NOT BE ENCOURAGED.]
[ACQUISITION: FULLY
VALIDATED.]
[DORMANT
QUICKSILVER MAIL (ADAPTIVE)]
[CURRENT BONUSES:
+8 ARMOUR,
25% SLASHING DEFLECTION, 25% PROJECTILE DEFLECTION, 10% MAGIC
RESISTANCE, NEGLIGIBLE WEIGHT]
[FUTURE BONUSES (FULL
WAKE-UP AFTER PROLONGED USE):
+15 ARMOUR, +8 AGILITY]
[DORMANT
QUICKSILVER RAPIER (ADAPTIVE)]
[BASE DAMAGE: 1D10+(AGI/10)]
[CURRENT BONUSES: +8 ATTACK]
[SPECIAL SKILL:
PRECISE THRUST — +25% CRITICAL CHANCE (COST: 5 MP PER HIT)]
[DEFENSIVE SKILL: PARRY/DEFLECT (COST: 3 MP PER ACTION)]
[FUTURE BONUSES (FULL WAKE-UP): +12 ATTACK, +3 AGILITY,
CRITICAL CHANCE +35%]
[IMPORTANT LIMITATION: DORMANT BLADE
INCAPABLE OF CLEAVING OR SLASHING — THRUST ONLY]
— Two
out of a hundred. TWO. Fuck.
[RECORDED.
CONGRATULATIONS, NARRATOR 104. YOUR PERSONAL LUCK IS APPARENTLY
SUPERIOR TO THAT OF YOUR SUBJECT.]
— Was
that sarcastic?
[NO.
FACTUAL OBSERVATION.]
Kael
began to pull the dull chainmail shirt over his head, sliding it
beneath his tattered tunic, which was still stiff with dried blood.
The links seemed to pulse for a brief moment, adjusting with an
organic fluidity against his torso, hugging his frame perfectly
without hindering a single movement.
— I
feel... almost nothing, he whispered, stunned. He performed a few arm
circles, leaning forward and twisting his waist, testing his mobility
with growing disbelief.
It’s like I’m wearing nothing at
all. Maybe a slight coolness on the skin, but that’s it.
— That’s
exactly the principle, Zik said, watching the young man with a grin. Maximum protection without hindering movement. Duelists needed
speed and agility above all else. A heavy, clanking suit of plate
armour would have slowed them down and got them killed in seconds.
Kael
then gripped the rapier, weighing it with focused attention.
— It’s
heavy. Really heavy.
— Around
three pounds, Zik confirmed. But look at the balance. Go on, do
some flourishes. Feel how the weight shifts.
Kael
executed a few clumsy passes.
— It’s...
different from my short sword. Very different.
— Completely
different, Zik agreed with a nod. A rapier isn’t made for
cleaving or slashing like a common soldier's blade. It’s made for
the thrust. To pierce. To find the gaps in the enemy’s guard.
— The
thrust?
— The
point strikes. You aim for the joints, the narrow gaps between armour
plates, the unprotected vital points. It’s a weapon of surgical
precision, Kael, not brute power. You pierce the heart, the lungs,
the throat. Clean. Fast. Deadly.
[KAEL'S
CURRENT MP: 38]
[PRECISE THRUST: 5 MP PER HIT]
[PARRY/DEFLECT: 3 MP PER ACTION]
[MAXIMUM USES PER
COMBAT:
7 THRUSTS OR 13 PARRIES (OR A COMBINATION)]
— Wait,
Kael exclaimed, each thrust costs me 5 MP? That’s
huge!
— Just
the special critical thrusts, I think. It’s a technical weapon, Zik
explained patiently. It requires intense concentration.
Absolute precision. Perfect timing. It’s normal that it consumes
your inner energy. You can’t just swing it like a brute and expect
results.
— And
I can parry with it?
— Yeah.
The rapier is excellent in active defense. You deflect enemy strikes,
destabilize the opponent, create openings where there were none. But
it also costs energy because you have to anticipate, you have to
react at the exact right micro-second.
Zik
examined the sword more closely, turning it over in his green hands,
his yellow eyes scrutinizing every detail of the ornate guard.
— You
know... this is a complete professional duelist's outfit. Light mail,
precision rapier. This guy wasn’t some amateur playing soldier.
— So
what? What does that change for me?
— Well,
think about it. You chose Warrior as your base class. But at level
10, you can evolve into a specialization. There are four possible
paths, remember?
— Which
ones?
— Weapon
Master, Mercenary, Duelist, and Knight. The Knight is exclusively
reserved for humans. The others are open to all races.
— Duelist...,
Kael whispered. He looked at the dull rapier in his hand, feeling its
weight, its perfect balance. I’d like that, I think.
— This
sword is worth choosing a class that fits it, Zik approved with
conviction. I saw a duelist fight once, three years ago, in an
underground arena in Lower-Ports. He had a rapier almost identical to
this one and a long dagger in his left hand. Damn, it was beautiful.
Fast. Precise. Deadly.
— A
long dagger?
— Yeah.
About sixteen inches of blade. To block, parry, counter at close
range. Or a reinforced cape in his left hand. Catch blades. Snap them
aside. Blinded one guy for half a second. That was enough.
— A
cape? Serious?
— Totally
serious. But anyway, you have your rusty short sword. It could do the
trick as a defensive secondary weapon for now.
— You
mean... fighting with both at the same time? Rapier and short sword?
— Exactly.
Right hand, rapier for the precise thrust and the elegant parry. Left
hand, short sword to block heavy strikes, deflect attacks, and slash
if the opportunity arises and the enemy gets too close. It requires
an enormous amount of training and coordination, but with your
Agility ...
Kael
looked at his two weapons. The dull but mortally balanced rapier. The
short sword, rusty but functional despite everything.
— I
could really learn to fight like that?
— You'll
have to train. A lot. Every single day. Dual-wielding is extremely
technical. Hand-eye coordination. Timing. Anticipation. But yeah,
with hard work, you could become formidable.
[SUGGESTED
COMBAT STYLE: ASYMMETRICAL DUELIST]
[RIGHT HAND: RAPIER (PRECISE
THRUST, ELEGANT PARRY)]
[LEFT HAND: SHORT SWORD (DEFENSIVE
GUARD, OPPORTUNISTIC SLASHES)]
[POTENTIAL SYNERGY: +15%
DAMAGE IN CLOSE COMBAT]
[PREREQUISITE: INTENSIVE TRAINING
REQUIRED, MINIMUM 100 HOURS OF PRACTICE]
— The System says I
could, Kael whispered, his eyes shining with a new excitement. With
training. It sounds... really cool.
— Very cool, Zik
approved with a predatory smile. And deadly. Very, very deadly.
Kael carefully attached
the rapier to his frayed rope belt on his right side for a quick
draw. He kept his rusty short sword on the other side, on his left.
Two weapons. Two styles. A potentially lethal combination.
— Well. Shall we
continue toward Hill-Furt? he asked, adjusting his equipment.
— We continue.
They resumed their
journey north, Kael walking with a newfound confidence despite the
plain, dull equipment he wore — at least in appearance.
But Zik knew.
And so did I, in my island, away fr—
— Ah I see,
is sunbathing, living his best life while he inflicts grey skies and
porcine stenches on us!
—
Anyway. It wasn't plain
equipment. It was legendary dormant equipment. A professional duelist
dead for decades. A protector of ladies whose honour had been
questioned. Sir Black-Forest.
And one day, when Kael
used it enough, when he trained enough, when he fought enough…
— To defend the honour
of the women he bedded, heh heh heh!
— Ha ha. You’re an
idiot, Zik. And you laugh like a donkey.
The quicksilver would
wake up. And Kael with it.
Provided we let him.
Provided they don’t close my file first.
After all... if he
loses the equipment. If someone else recovers it. It won't be the end
of the world. I could move up in rank. A small promotion. A transfer,
maybe. Another sector. Another hero. Another beginning.
I am still young.
Statistically profitable. I’m not supposed to go down with my
subjects.
So yes. I'm going to
give it my all for him until Day 7.
Low profile. The
system likes efficient narrators. Not attached narrators.
Let's hope the next
one is simple. An elementalist. A brute. Someone you can push without
thinking.