Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 1 - Chapter 3

Winter of the Seventh Year

Fixed Value

A set number used in calculations that does not rely on dice rolls. Outside of critical rolls like snake eyes or boxcars, TRPGs generally use an additive formula of [Fixed value (representing base ability)] + [Dice roll] = result.

For example, say one’s <Strength> (fixed value) is 5 and wants to push a rock. If the number needed to succeed is a 12, the player will need a total value of 7 from their rolling 2D6. This dice roll adds an element of randomness for the players to enjoy.

However, if this fixed value was at 6 or 7, the minimum die result needed to succeed would be lower; hence, in systems that use them, higher fixed values indicate stronger characters.

Summer here was pleasantly dry compared to my motherland, and the year quickly slipped into autumn. The pantheon of gods that oversaw Rhine and its border states counted the Harvest Goddess among its number, and the overwhelming workload of Her season made it pass by before I knew it.

I didn’t have the time to appreciate the romantic vista of shimmering wheat, swayed by the wind under the setting autumn sun. Nor could I spare a moment to grow sentimental over another year of age to my name. My brothers and I were instead hurried along to help out around the farm whenever we could.

With all the things that needed to be done during the harvest, a child of seven years was more than enough to be considered a farmhand. My family had gotten their money’s worth out of me: the childish stamina that I’d once thought to be limitless was drained in the blink of an eye. In fact, the only memories I had of autumn were of fieldwork and sleep. I couldn’t help marveling at how my brothers would continue to play outside after a day’s work was done.

We had more on our plates than just our own family farm. The idea of a canton wasn’t just for show—a part of our taxes were to be paid in maintenance of the lord’s fields. His countless acres of land were split up between all the households of the canton to manage, and there was still more to be done.

I had to lend a hand at my relatives’ farms as well, after all. No matter how bothersome it was, I couldn’t make light of this sort of cooperation. In an age wholly removed from modern conveniences and advanced agricultural equipment, manpower was king. The fields would remain blocked up with wheat forever if we didn’t rope in our kin to push through all the work. We needed to be able to sow the seeds of flowers before it began snowing, so we could turn them into the soil as green manure come springtime. Otherwise, we could face serious repercussions during next year’s harvest.

Our reaping managed to conclude before the Harvest Goddess clocked out for the year. As the hustle of autumn began giving way to the bustle of winter preparations, a stray memory itched in the back of my mind. Modern Japanese farms only maintained a single crop that was sown in spring and reaped in fall, so I hadn’t given this any thought, but I suddenly realized that the plant we were handling was wheat.

The sort of wheat that we were cultivating was a winter cereal, meaning it was meant to be sown in the fall and reaped near the end of spring. Although I never got to see its ending, I had once read a comic that went into detail about the modern agricultural industry, so the memory was rather clear. Konigstuhl’s climate was less prone to deep snowdrifts than that of the manga, but I doubted the wheat itself could differ so wildly, and I asked the adults around me for an explanation.

“What are you on about, Erich?” my father asked. “You plant wheat in the spring. That’s when the Harvest Goddess decided we should sow our seeds.”

“The earth is a dress made for the Harvest Goddess,” my mother explained. “We want to dress Her in the most beautiful dress during the most bountiful time of year, so we sow our seeds in the springtime.”

The answers I received contained little substance. The only throughline in each of them was the mention of our deity, the Harvest Goddess. There wasn’t much use in theorizing on my own, so I decided to simply go and ask someone who knew the answer. At any rate, I was used to this sort of initial investigation being a common part of any campaign. The important part was to ask “What’s that?” whenever I was faced with an unfamiliar term.

I found a moment between my winter prep chores to sneak off to church and asked the bishop the same question, where I finally got a satisfactory response. Just as my parents had stated, the Harvest Goddess was using Her divine power to dictate the crops’ planting season.

This was something that I had already assumed from my own blessings, but the bishop’s teachings confirmed that the gods of this world were proven existences, unlike the deities of my previous life. They wrought miracles upon the earth, whispered prophecies into the ears of the faithful, and smote heathens with prejudice. They governed the world with their awesome powers and were undeniably present in our lives.

In essence, they were the classic TRPG gods who were only a fervent prayer away from responding with heavenly blessing. It was this blessing that altered seasons and flora according to the gods’ whims. The Harvest Goddess presided over fertility of both man and field, and as the arbiter of life itself, She had bid us decorate Her when life was most abundant. Since the land was Her corporeal form, this meant we were to plan our harvest for the fall.

The bishop was kind enough to explain our holy mythos in greater detail than anything I’d heard in our usual service. “In the spring, we fashion pajamas out of green grass to ensure She can wake comfortably. We then till the earth and plant our crops, creating a thin veil for Her to ward off the summer heat. A golden dress embellished with all manners of fruit is then weaved in autumn to celebrate the year’s cycle. Once all the work is done, the Harvest Goddess takes to bed in a blanket of white snow.”

I’m sure the bishop was willing to teach me during this chaotic rush of a season (he had been stuffing his winter clothes with cotton while lecturing me) only because I’d been a good participant at church. I had memorized the hymns we sang during service, and it was clear that I wasn’t asking to make light of the faith. He stroked the emerging white in his neatly kept beard and added, “We also offset our harvest season from those of neighboring nations to avoid conflict.” Apparently, this information was only meant to be learned by ordained priests, but he simply patted me on the head and sent me along after telling me this.

I had experienced the feeling of my world expanding many times before, but now I felt as invigorated as the day I bought my first supplementary rulebook. There was something touching about immersing myself in the world that I couldn’t get from looking through the stats pages that came with my abilities. How fun!

Excitedly sticking my head into anything that was even remotely interesting was vital. No output can emerge without input, and success in this combo-driven world was directly linked to the amount of data I had on hand. Hoarding information was an important piece of groundwork.

Thanks to the bishop, I spent the rest of the day as chipper as could be while I did my abundant winter chores. I didn’t live in a region that was prone to being buried in snow, but the chill of winter was still a real threat. The temperature frequently dipped below freezing, as evidenced by the iced jars of water I sometimes saw in the morning.

Even as a child, there was plenty to do: for example, many of the kids in our friend group were tasked with augmenting our firewood stack with stray branches or hunting for fruits that kept well. However, the children of Konigstuhl were more than happy to help. In fact, this sort of “chore” could be done in the same forest we played in, so it felt more like an extension of playtime than work. Plus, it was a special form of play we could only enjoy once a year, and our parents praised us when we did well. How could we not want to help?

But the fun times are always short to last. Winter preparations were already a challenge to complete, but as my sister Elisa approached her second birthday, she came down with a terrible fever that sent our household into a state of emergency.

[Tips] The gods are higher existences that have made their presence known. If the world were a desktop PC, then the gods would be administrators who could utilize the software installed on it. They watch over those who inhabit their programs and gain power from their faith.

There is no telling when an innocent soul shall return to the gods, for their innocence cannot bear the corrupt cruelty of ephemeral reality.

Johannes shook the old Rhinian adage out of his mind and wiped the sweat off his panting babe. His youngest was red-hot and gasping for air as she writhed around in bed. Little Elisa had been born on a cold, cold winter night two years ago. She had come into a dim and icy world, a new moon hanging overhead. She’d been smaller than she should have, and had been slow to mature as well.

One year would be enough for other children to show signs of speech and command their wobbly legs. Elisa was nearing two and had yet to call for her mother and father. Furthermore, she had still not risen to her feet, let alone taken her first steps. In fact, she had only just been weaned off her mother’s teat as of last month.

The nun who’d midwived her had eased Johannes’s and Hanna’s concerns by saying that the child had simply been born a tad early, and cast a miracle to improve Elisa’s hardiness. Even then, Elisa’s growth was worryingly slow.

The couple had first thought their child to be diseased and then suspected that she may be deaf. They even considered some terrible malfunction somewhere in the sensitive regions within her skull, but all of these theories came up dry. They’d had no choice but to accept that this was how she was.

And after all that, she was now hotter to the touch than an open fire. She coughed up all of the water they gave her, let alone any sort of porridge. With her throat too raspy and her nose too clogged even to cry, the couple were made acutely aware of the fleeting nature of their daughter’s life.

Their family had been free of troubles until Elisa had come along. The three eldest boys, taking after their father, had never once come down with any serious illness. Erich was as scrawny as his mother, but even he had grown up perfectly healthy. They’d never had to beg the bishop for a miracle, and the only times they called upon a physician was to tend to a bruise or cut. They had grown complacent. Our children will grow up in good health, they’d thought.

Only able to force a small amount of water down Elisa’s throat, Johannes paused from wiping at the endless torrent of sweat and turned to his wife. “...Can we afford the next dose?” he asked, holding her close. The local physician had accompanied a caravan to the Southern Sea for the cold winter, and it had been a great ordeal to purchase the medicine—both physically and financially.

“...It’s going to be tight,” Hanna replied. Johannes had often been teased that he didn’t deserve a woman of Hanna’s beauty, but now her usual charm had given way to a worn and haggard frown as she ruffled through their coin pouch. The autumn taxes and winter expenditures had left it remarkably light: all that remained were a number of bronze coins accompanied by a handful of silver. They had a small stash hidden away in their basement in case of theft, but even that would do little to bolster their purse.

They had spent some of their money expanding their fields upon receiving the magistrate’s approval. Some more had gone toward a workhorse to maintain the larger plot. Then they’d purchased paddy seeds to cultivate their new acreage. Had this catastrophe struck but one year earlier, weathering the storm would have been an elementary task. The timing was tragic.

Medicine was expensive. Medicinal herbs required constant care to prevent rot and were altogether meaningless without an experienced physician’s understanding of concoctive ratios. Furthermore, these herbalists did not aimlessly brew drugs to suit their fancy, but rather tailored each cure to its corresponding request, taking into account symptoms, age, and the like. The final product’s high price was a matter of course.

Little remained of the medicine the couple had emptied their pockets to purchase. It was plain to see that it would only last another dose or two—and if it did not cure Elisa, then there was little hope that anything would.

Many were the young souls who departed this world due to illness. Until now, Johannes and Hanna had been blessed with the extraordinary fortune to not see their children make for heavenly embrace at the hands of a cold. But in truth, death was a commonplace affair.

“...I see,” Johannes said bitterly. His hands tightened over his thighs. What kind of father can’t even save his own daughter? With the birth of Elisa, he had planned on expanding his farmland to provide a better life for everyone under his roof... His broad shoulders, toned through years of physical labor, now slumped under the immense weight of his own accursed decision.

There were means of quickly raising the funds. Johannes knew a handful of potential lenders, and in the worst-case scenario he could mortgage his newly expanded fields to produce the capital. But could he ask his wife and four healthy sons to sacrifice their futures to save his daughter?

Johannes’s emotions cried out to do all he could for Elisa, but the rational head of the household within him screamed to reconsider. While he held his daughter’s life in one hand, the weight of his wife and sons hung from the other. He could not justify spending the last of their savings to have a chance of nursing Elisa back to good health, all while risking death by starvation over the winter months for the rest of the family.

“Dear,” Hanna whispered, “do you think...”

“We...” Johannes paused, “We may have to prepare ourselves for the worst.”

“Dear!”

“Don’t make me say it! You know as well as I do!”

Once the last of the medicine was exhausted, they would need to steel themselves. There was no easy decision to be made here as their trains of thought spiraled into one another like snakes swallowing their own tails. Then, suddenly, the floorboards emitted a noticeable creak.

The pair whipped around in surprise and exclaimed, “Erich?!” There in the doorway stood their youngest son, with a sleepy sway to his step. The boys had been busy recently taking care of the house while Johannes and Hanna cared for their daughter, so Erich should have joined his brothers in the land of dreams long ago. To see him here now was a great shock; they didn’t want their children to hear such worrisome discussion.

“Mama, Papa...” Erich mumbled.

The boy was incredibly mature for his age, but a child was a child. Some things were fit for them to learn at their age, and others were better left unseen and unheard. The two parents stepped forward in a panic, fretting over what they would say to him. But this state of alarm caused their thoughts to freeze upon seeing the item in their son’s hand as he thrust his arm forward.

Erich’s small hands held a wooden statue. It depicted a voluptuous figure with rich, flowing locks that exuded an aura of motherhood—the Harvest Goddess Herself. The palpable motion in Her hair and the visible softness of Her body were alluring enough that even an uncultured couple of farmhands could see the mastery in its craftsmanship.

“If we sell this for money, will Elisa be okay?” Erich asked.

All of the color instantly drained from the two adults’ faces. After all, their son had just become a thief. While imperial law did not allow children to inherit their parent’s crimes, parents were fully responsible for the wrongdoings of their offspring.

Larceny carried a great deal of potential punishments, but fines and exemplary punishment made up the majority. While tales circulated of first-time offenders getting off with a public announcement of their crimes, most were sentenced to live for a time in chains or wooden shackles to show the world their sins. If the stolen item was particularly valuable, there was a chance that their hands could be taken as damages.

Even to an untrained eye, the idol before them was clearly quite sophisticated. The wood had been refined into an avatar of the Goddess, and even in its unpainted state it would clearly fetch a ludicrous sum. It belonged in a temple, not their humble abode.

“Erich, where the hell did you get this...?” Johannes asked, grabbing his son by the shoulders. At that moment, he looked down to the boy’s tattered pants that had been passed down through three iterations of brothers, noticing that copious wood shavings still clung to them. The wooden carving also smelled strongly of recent cuts, with no trace of varnish to the odor. While the finish was smooth, it had clearly been a painstaking effort with a rough file, and the texture of the conifers the family used for firewood peeked out from beneath the surface.

“I made it,” Erich explained. “But it took me a really long time. I tried copying the one at the church.”

Now that he mentioned it, the statue was more of a statuette: it was about the length of a forearm. It was reasonable to think it had been carved out of a piece of firewood.

Still, as curiously dexterous as their son was, it was nigh-unthinkable that he had created something like this without a proper tool to his name. It wouldn’t be strange for the work to fetch a few gold pieces if it were given some finishing tou—gold pieces?! The husband and wife gasped in unison.

“Erich,” Johannes asked in confirmation, “did you really make this? All by yourself?”

“Yup,” Erich replied while picking a splinter out of his hand. He held back a yawn and continued, “I did a little bit at a time, since you and Mama have been talking about how much money we need ever since Elisa got sick.”

His parents were overcome with shame. They had spoken in hushed whispers long after the sun set so their children wouldn’t hear, and yet their youngest son had caught their conversations as clear as day. No mother or father would want their child to have to carry such worries.

“I’m busy in the daytime,” Erich explained, “so I’ve been working when the moon goes up high in the sky. Then it’s pretty bright.”

Johannes buried his face in his hands. His growing boy had been fighting drowsiness every night to stay up late working on a way to help. He felt as though he had failed him as a father.

“Do you think this will help pay for the medicine?” Erich asked.

“...Yeah. You did well... You’re amazing.” Whenever Johannes praised his sons, he always added “You really are my son” to the end. But tonight, he could not bring himself to do so. Such words from a disappointing father were wasted on a spectacular son.

Selling the statue to the church would certainly yield enough to buy more medicine. In fact, if they dedicated it to the church, they could petition for the use of a <Miracle> instead. The Harvest Goddess’s curative powers were not as potent as the Night Goddess’s, who presided over healing, but it was more than enough to cure an illness or two.

“You’re amazing,” the father repeated. “You really are... You really are Elisa’s brother.”

“Her brother?” echoed the son.

“Yeah, you’re a wonderful brother... Honestly.” Johannes lifted up his nodding son to take him to the children’s bedroom. Erich had failed to get any proper rest in the past few days working by moonlight as he had. On top of that, he had been helping out around the house, so the fatigue clung to him now like a set of wet clothes dragging along everywhere he went. “It’s time to go to bed. Leave the rest to me.”

“’Kay... Good ni...mm...” the boy trailed off.

Carrying his sleeping son in his arms, Johannes let out a massive sigh. I’m going to go to the church as soon as people begin to rise in the morning. The son had given it his all; now the father was to repay it in kind.

Johannes ignored his own clinging weariness and swore to the icy moon beyond the window that he would succeed. The moon was full tonight. In the Rhinian pantheon, the perfect glowing circle in the sky represented the manifestation of one half of the two parental gods: the Night Goddess, who presided over motherhood and divinity.

With the Mother Goddess and Her sidereal attendants as witness, Johannes gently laid his hardworking son to rest and quietly returned to his daughter’s side.

[Tips] Miracles are acts of divinity that bring about realities that would otherwise be considered unfathomable. The will of the gods bends reality toward “truth” and can warp the laws of physics and nature to do so.

Those with the power to bring about miracles do so with considerable gravity, regardless of their faith. Miracles remain miracles precisely because they do not occur casually.