Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 2 - Chapter 3

Spring of the Twelfth Year (III)

Supplement

An accompanying booklet or addendum to a rulebook that adds to the base game. Can add skills and items for PCs, fresh settings for adventures, new NPCs, and different enemy types to combat.

Seeing a more developed world is often fun, but unrestricted expansion can sometimes lead to great confusion.

Following my unforgettable episode on the twilight hill, I returned home without hope for tranquility. Putting our little princess to sleep was a nightmare.

And of course it was. Elisa was seven and mentally even younger; she was bound to throw a fuss after being kidnapped, witnessing a bloodbath, and being told that she was to leave home in two to three days. For a young child with a small view of the world, her parents and family were existence itself. I may have been her favorite, but she loved every member of our household nearly as much.

Elisa beamed when our father lifted her into the air. She loved our mother’s cooking and went on and on about how she’d help too when she was all grown up. Our three older brothers fawned over her, and she played the part of a proper princess when she was with them.

And she was just as fond of her kind new sister-in-law as she was of her blood relations. Having been surrounded by boys all her life, she was always ecstatic when Mina found a moment between chores to do her hair. Elisa had been starved of girly activities in this household full of men, so her excitement was especially pronounced.

No matter the reason, a literal child could not swallow the thought of being torn away from her beloved family. To borrow an age-old adage, she’s just a kid.

We all tried to explain that I’d be with her and that it was for her own good, but that failed to quell Elisa’s tantrum. It was easy to say that her lack of understanding was evidence of her immaturity, but anyone that could remember their own childhood could only look on in pain. Had I been in her shoes, I doubt I would have obediently followed a fishy methuselah stranger to the capital. I knew with my current psyche that this was necessary for the peace of our family and canton. However, thinking back to my real seven-year-old self, it would have been utterly impossible to convince me.

Everyone’s understanding of Elisa’s pain fueled our efforts to assuage her. Halfway through the night, she finally ran out of energy and fell asleep—but at this rate, she’d run amok in the morning too.

Once our family had overcome the fierce battle that would have earned us a mountain of complaints in any apartment complex, everyone was drained. The young husband and wife dragged themselves to their own lodging and the twins marched to their room like a pair of living dead. My mother had carried Elisa to her bed, but had knocked out with her judging from the fact that she still hadn’t returned. Crumpled up like old rags, my father and I were the only ones left in the living room.

“Would you like something to drink, father?”

“Yeah, I would,” he said wearily. He threw himself onto a chair and asked, “Can you go to the kitchen and bring me the special?”

I opened a false bottom in our kitchen cupboard to uncover my father’s prized liquor (he’d shown me where it was knowing that I wouldn’t swipe it while he wasn’t looking). The liquid gold was rye whiskey, famed as a staple in the empire’s northern region. I’d stopped being surprised at the presence of historically misplaced items long ago, and carefully pulled out the clear glass bottle.

One look was enough to tell it hadn’t been cheap. Horse-drawn caravans were the most common means of transportation, so imported goods were mind-bogglingly expensive. Unlike the twenty-first century, a single click of a button did not suffice to sample exotic flavors from pole to pole.

The whiskey must have tripled in price on its long journey here, and my father only relished it on two types of occasions. First, he drank in the event of a monumentally good turn. Once, when Elisa had recovered from a particularly nasty fever, I’d seen him slowly, blissfully sipping away at a glass. The second was when a situation arose that was too hard for him to bear sober.

With a third of the bottle left, my father portioned it out into a shot glass and downed it without bothering to dilute. The odor was enough to tell that the liquor was strong. I was impressed for a moment until the thought crossed my mind that perhaps this was the only way he could cope with our current reality; I’d never seen my dependable old man so spiritless.

The first gulp hadn’t been enough, so he drank again, and then a third time, until his hands finally stopped.

“Erich, do you want a shot?”

A mellow amber rolled back and forth in the small glass he handed me. The pungent scent of alcohol didn’t suit my twelve-year-old palate, so I normally would have refused. Yet tonight, I too wanted a drink.

Knocking it back, the burning heat and surprisingly appetizing flavor slid down into my gut. The acidic aftertaste wasn’t bad either, and I reckoned that I would enjoy this drink immensely once my tongue had a few years to develop.

“That was great. You really are my son,” he said.

Picking the glass back up with a laugh, he poured himself another and downed it like the first. Since the liquor was so strong, I figured it would pair well with a snack; I brought out some leftover dried meats from winter and my father began cutting them without a word.

“I never would’ve thought it’d turn out like this. Fate is so cruel.”

The alcoholic lubricant had begun to loosen his lips. Following his fourth shot, he locked eyes with me and his mouth quivered with hesitation, but eventually started speaking very quietly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I’m actually a second-born son.”

“Really?” I had no idea.

Both of my grandparents had passed away before I’d been born—out of us children, only Heinz had ever seen them, and it had been when he was too young to remember—and I’d never heard this detail from anyone else. Our relatives in the canton had no reason to go out of their way to tell us. I had uncles that had become bridegrooms and aunts that had become brides, but not a single one of them had ever mentioned anything of the sort.

I wonder how my father inherited the house in this era of primogeniture?

“That’s right. My brother, well, when I was... Was I eighteen?”

“Don’t ask me.”

Drink clouded his mind and the finer numerical details eluded him. After his drunken question, he mumbled, “Ah, that’s right. I was eighteen,” and nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Apparently, my father’s elder brother and sister-in-law had fallen to a local plague before I’d been born. As the next in line of succession, he’d been urgently recalled to take care of the house and farm.

The shock of losing their firstborn had weakened my grandparents considerably, and the two of them had passed on shortly before the twins had been born. As a result, we were the only ones left at this house.

“That’s why I know how much it hurts to give up on your dreams because of something out of your control.” He spoke as if he were trying to swallow some intangible woe.

I’m sure he understood. My father had once been a young boy chasing his own dreams. In fact, he must have practically run away from home to not stay in the house as a second-born son.

“You see, I used to be a mercenary.”

“Huh? You?!”

Here I’d thought that nothing could possibly surprise me more than the fact that Elisa was a changeling, yet my expectations were shattered before the day’s end.

My dad was a mercenary? This model farmer, popular throughout our canton—a sellsword, of all things?!

The image of mercenaries wasn’t any better in the Trialist Empire than it was abroad: career fighters who earned a living by hacking and slashing, mixing their own blood with their enemies’. My father was certainly hardy, but I didn’t see him fitting in with that crowd.

“Seven wars and fifteen skirmishes were all I could fit in three years’ time. I cut down two generals and earned a fair bit of change. That’s partly how we could afford more land a few years back. I bought Holter from an ol’ buddy’s place.”

Today was a dizzying day. Surprising information and sensational events waited for me at every turn, crashing down like the waves of a rough sea. My little sister was a changeling, my childhood friend had opened a hole in my ear, and now my model citizen father turned out to be a former merc. Give me a break, the shock’s gonna fuse my cerebellum.

“But see, when my ol’ man came cryin’ to me all sad and broken...I couldn’t say no. The same fists that used to hurt so bad were clingin’ to me so weakly...”

My father stared off into the distance in remembrance: he must have been imagining his own father’s frail, withered hands. I felt like I could imagine why a mercenary that could twist off the stiff arms of other warriors couldn’t have peeled away the thin stalks of a wrinkled farmer.

“I woulda never thought I’d make you do the same.”

I’m sure my father had faced his own struggles. Mercenaries were practically cousins to bandits, but they were also professionals who shored up holes in proper armies—halfway to real soldiers. Where adventurers were expected to act in small parties, mercs based their entire livelihoods on coordinating with their company. His oath to the fellow troops he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with was sure to have been tough to break.

I could hardly imagine the agony of leaving that behind. Seeing his speech morph—no, revert—to a gruff and unfamiliar dialect as he dove into nostalgia plainly hinted at what he had left behind.

“I’m sorry. I know you have somethin’ you wanna do. I’m so sorry that we’re pushing this terrible fate on you.”

Drowning in stupor, my father’s sobbing words soaked painfully into my heart. I couldn’t help but sympathize. No parent could ever remain free of guilt as they sent their child to shoulder a burden that they could hardly be expected to repay within their lifetime. Yet even so...

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Huhhh?”

My resolution was exactly as I’d told Margit: I was going to become what I wanted to be. And I truly did want to be the cool older brother that was there for Elisa. Besides, our debt was massive, but by no means insurmountable. I could earn as much money as I set my mind to making. It was too early to steep in the throes of despair and break down into a tearful apology.

“I’m Elisa’s brother. Isn’t showing off to my little sister my whole job? How could I ever hate you for something that I want to do?”

I delivered my decree with a smile, stealing away his glass before he got too drunk and emptying it in my own mouth. The concentrated alcohol burned my throat and I could feel it boil in my stomach. Letting the heat rise to my brain, I left all hesitation in the dust and let myself bask in melodrama.

“No one is to blame. Not you, not mother, and not even Elisa herself. So please, won’t you stop apologizing? I’m only leaving to show off, after all.”

Holding back the words I wanted to say just because they were embarrassing would be a mistake. Just as every brother wishes to show off to his little sister, every son’s sincerest hope is to console his heartbroken father.

“Hah, I see. You’re just showin’ off?”

“That’s right. Once I’m done with that, I’ll go and do what I really want to do. I swear.”

“Ha ha ha, really now? Really?” He merrily repeated himself a few more times and then suddenly got up from his seat. He ordered me to sit still and left the room. With my well-trained Listening skill, I could hear him head toward our basement storage room.

To the best of my knowledge, there was nothing of interest there. It stored tools that we rarely used and foodstuffs that kept best in cool, dark locations.

After enough time to cool a hot bowl of soup, my father returned with a bag covered in dirt. The basement didn’t have any flooring, so I presumed that he’d dug it up. I’d known we had valuables hidden underground somewhere, and judging from how neatly it had been sealed away, it must have contained something priceless.

“I want you to take this. Figured I’d give it to you when you left the house, but I can tell that it ain’t too early to hand it off now.”

My father pulled out a single sword covered in oil paper from the bag. With its ornamentation removed and its blade neatly oiled, the weapon looked like the quintessential Western arming sword. Plain as it was, the majestic steel gleamed in the candlelight.

“I used to use her ’fore I quit. My spear, shield, and armor all went out the door for cash, but I cut down a real general for this one. I just couldn’t give her up. But I’m sure she woulda fetched a pretty penny,” my father bragged.

He was precision incarnate while wiping off the oil with a spare rag, looking as happy as could be. What was more, the care that had gone into its wrapping left it without a speck of rust: my father’s love for the blade could be seen in its healthy coat of oil and the fact that it had been kept underground, away from oxygen.

“It ain’t quite on the same level as mystarille or mystic blades, but this is a damn good sword. I’m no expert, but the blacksmith said it was made with some fancy technique called pattern welding.”

I didn’t know this at the time, but I would find out later that pattern welding referred to forging together several different metallic compounds and laminating them into a single blade. Like the infamous swords of my motherland, the core and exterior were folded from slightly different substances, creating a tenacious edge perfect for cutting.

“I remember you looked at me like I was a blitherin’ idiot back then, but I was just so happy.”

“Back then” probably meant the autumn festival where I’d cut through a helmet. At the time, I had indeed thought, “What are you doing, old man?!” when he’d used a whole drachma to buy everyone drinks.

However, now I could see why. For a man who had literally put his life on the line to earn his keep, seeing his own son turn into a legendary swordsman that would live on in the canton for the rest of the generation must have filled him with a glee like no other.

“So I got a li’l full of myself and went wild. Well, not like I regret it, though.”

How wondrous it was to see him speak of me with such pride and joy. My father had a thin yet full smile of maturity on his face, but I averted my gaze in embarrassment. Had I looked any longer, I was sure to burst into tears.

“So this sword is all yours.”

He wiped off the last of the oil and handed the weapon to me. Stripped of embellishment, all that remained was the side view of a wolf engraved on the side of the blade along with an epitaph that was hardly legible through its scratches.

“Schutzwolfe?”

“Yep. She gets her name from an old monster from legend.”

I had heard the basics of the myth myself. It recounted a wolf that roamed the streets at night; although it would devour the rude on the spot, it would lead the weak and those who demonstrated proper respect to safety.

The sword must have been christened with the hope that it would lead its wielder back to those who awaited them... Ironically, it ended up with me.

Regardless, it was a stellar weapon. Its center of mass was well-placed despite its stark outline, and one swing was enough to tell it wasn’t just light, but usably light. Swords relied on weight and speed to cut down their foes, and this was a flawless example of the right balance. I had a feeling that I could cut through a helmet made of pure mystarille with this.

“I leave it to you. Keep Elisa safe for us, Mr. Brother.” With that said, my father neatly recorked the bottle and quietly returned it to its original hiding spot.

“I will.” As he mumbled about drinking too much and stumbled to his bedroom, I remained standing with my head bowed.

[Tips] There are three types of mystic blades: adamant swords created by a magical process known as arcane forging; swords permanently enhanced with strengthening magic; and the physical manifestation of the concept of a “sword” or “slashing.” Generally, most people think of either the first, second, or a combination of the two when they speak of mystic blades.

A lone training dummy stood before me. It consisted of an old, run-down set of armor wrapped around a wooden core, and had been beaten hundreds, if not thousands of times by watchmen over the years.

The scaled plates of metal were stained with long-dried blood; I could only assume it to be the final memento of some buffoon who tried to lay a hand on our canton. Whatever the case, it could no longer tell its story.

All I knew was that the wood beneath was sturdy and the armor itself had kept its form despite its years of abuse under the Konigstuhl Watch. Still, this was more than enough—at the very least, no human would be as sturdy as a chunk of armored wood.

“Hup!” I forwent both shouting and jumping and simply swung nimbly. Swords are maneuvered with the chest and legs, not the arms. I moved my entire body in sync, planting my feet and striking at the perfect angle to bolster my downward swing with the force of the earth supporting me.

With perfect form, even a young boy of twelve years could split shingled metal in two. The sword slipped through its target without catching on the wood or paralyzing my hand. All that remained was the lingering gratification of the elegant strike.

A gentle breeze rolled past us, causing one half of the target to slide down as if it had only just realized its fatal wound. Schutzwolfe’s sleek fang lived up to its name.

“By the Goddess!” the smith shouted in awe. He had graciously accepted my ludicrous request for a sheath and grip to be made in two days, and had even gone out of his way to polish the sword despite the fact that I’d woken him up in the wee hours of the morning.

Good, this will do. With a sword of this quality, cutting through flesh would be a simple matter of following the basics. I’d brought Hybrid Sword Arts to VI: Expert in my four years of training, so this much was to be expected when I factored in all my supporting skills and traits. Humility may be a virtue, but my ability had earned me the right to wield my father’s beloved sword.

Going forward, I could concede that I was inexperienced, but never would I let myself claim to be weak. I’d protected my sister and inherited my father’s dreams with my own two hands. I solemnly vowed to never defile either their pride or mine.

“Whew, my eyes aren’t playing tricks, are they?”

The smith had come to see me test out Schutzwolfe under the pretext of checking the quality of his work, though that was surely an excuse. His trained eye couldn’t find a single nick, let alone a bend in the metal.

“The blade’s perfectly straight and doesn’t even have a scratch after cutting right through that? That ain’t normal.”

To be fair, even the finest of blades usually didn’t—or rather, couldn’t—split armor in two, so his surprise was well-founded. Swords weren’t designed to do that; I wouldn’t have tried a stunt like this if I hadn’t been testing its mettle. But just this once, I wanted to see what it was like to swing at full force.

“Kid, you sure you’re not the avatar of some god of war?”

“Please, I’m just Erich. Fourth son to Johannes, a farmer in Konigstuhl canton.”

I sheathed my sword with a smile. Although it had been made in a rush, the sheath was as excellent as the rest of the dvergar smith’s work. There hadn’t been a speck of spare metal or wood on the freshly sharpened blade, and the new cover was perfectly snug.

“In my opinion, I can’t help but think the Smithing God has blessed you with his favor. Are you sure you don’t have any divine blood?”

“Shut up, you brat. Don’t go around throwing compliments that make people all fuzzy.”

I felt invigorated. Now then, tomorrow’s the day. I better go help wipe the tears of our crying princess.

[Tips] A skilled blade can cut down any obstacle.