Leading Whitemane by the leather reins, my acoustic guitar securely strapped across the high wooden cantle of the saddle. I walked into the lower market square of Ordanskrone.
A heavy pouch of silver coins bounced against my hip. That’s the hard-earned reward from weeks of singing my lungs out at the tavern.
I felt like a man of real means. I wasn't going to be the pathetic liability in a cotton hoodie anymore. Today, I was buying steel.
I tied Whitemane to a wooden post outside the largest armory on the avenue. Above the heavy stone doorway hung a massive iron sign shaped like an anvil and a broadsword.
Inside, weapons and defensive gear lined the stone walls from floor to ceiling. Racks of chainmail hauberks hung like heavy drapery, while rows of polished steel breastplates gleamed under the hanging oil lanterns. A burly human smith with forearms like cured hams stood behind the counter, filing the edges of a visor.
"Need something that can take a blow," I announced, walking up with what I hoped was casual confidence. "Show me your finest plate cuirass."
The smith stopped his filing. He looked me up and down, at my frame, my baggy sweatpants, and my sneakers.
“We don’t welcome baggers here.”
“I’m not.” I shook the coin bag.
He cast a suspicious glance at me, then at Whitemane and the guitar outside.
"Hey, isn't that the minstrel from Brewstrong's tavern?" a passing merchant called from the open street, peeking his head inside. "The one who sings those foreign songs on the wooden box?"
People started to gather when they overheard this, wanting to see who I really am.
“You’re that bard in Brewstrong’s place?”
“Yes.” I’m surprised how fast words spread here.
“Why do you need armor?”
“Not your business.”
"Right this way," he said, clearly impatient.
He walked over to a wooden rack and pulled down a standard infantry steel breastplate. "Standard imperial issue. Hardened iron, four millimeters thick, lined with horsehair and boiled hide. Give it a lift."
I stepped forward, squared my shoulders, and gripped the edges with both hands.
I pulled.
The plate barely moved an inch off the wooden table.
Gritting my teeth, I bent my knees, let out a strained grunt, and hauled the metal upward with every ounce of force in my body. I managed to hoist it against my chest, but the downward gravitational pull was so terrifying that my knees buckled.
"Whoa, steady there!" the smith called out, but it was too late.
The metal dragged me down like an anchor.
My center of gravity collapsed, and I fell backward with a loud crash, the heavy steel cuirass landing flat on top of my ribs. I lay pinned on the stone floorboards like a turtle flipped onto its shell, flailing my arms and legs while struggling to lift the slab of iron off my chest.
A pair of mercenary guards resting by the weapon racks burst into roaring laughter.
"Look at the Bard!" one yelled, slapping his armored knee. "Pinned by an empty suit! The iron took him down without a fight!"
"By the gods, your stupid bard!" the smith laughed, effortlessly lifting the heavy breastplate off my chest with one casual hand. "Stick to strumming your strings, lad. A stiff autumn breeze would snap your spine in this."
A small crowd had gathered at the entrance, chuckling and whispering among themselves as I scrambled to my feet.
[Reputation decreased to 35]
[Reputation in Ordanskrone decreased to 30]
God damn it. Standard chainmail felt like wearing a bag of lead shot; boiled leather doublets were so rigid I couldn't even bend my elbows to touch my face.
My Strength stat of zero was definitely not joking, what an unforgiving bitch.
Desperate to leave with something to show for my coin, I rummaged through the bargain bin in the darkest corner of the shop.
My fingers brushed against a bizarre piece of dark, mottled metal.
It was a single left-side pauldron, fitted with a few black spikes protruding from the ridge. It was surprisingly light and secured with a single cross-chest leather harness. It looked like something crafted by mountain goblins or tribal raiders rather than imperial armorers.
"What is this?”
The smith squinted at it. "Some scavenger pulled that off a ruined altar in the northern wastes. Only the mighty Ordanis knows.”
How much for this?" I asked, eager to end the ordeal.
“Five silver pieces and take it out of my sight."
I slapped five coins onto the counter, strapped the spiky pauldron over my hoodie, and walked out into the street with my head down, ignoring the mocking grins of the crowd.
［Groschen coins decreased to 30]
As I untied Whitemane, a familiar, boisterous voice boomed across the square.
"Lee! There you are, my friend!"
I turned around to see Brewstrong marching toward me, and I barely recognized him. The former tavern keeper was geared for total war.
He wore a pristine suit of interlocking dwarven chainmail beneath a heavy iron-plated surcoat. A polished round shield was strapped to his back, a terrifying double-bitted bearded axe hung from his heavy leather belt, and a sturdy iron helmet with a nasal guard sat firmly on his brow.
He looked like an unstoppable iron steamroller.
"Brewstrong?" I blinked. "You sold the tavern already?"
"Signed the parchment this morning!" the dwarf declared. "Got four times what the place was worth. Paid off my suppliers, bought the finest mountain steel in the city, and still have a pouch of gold tucked in my boot."
He continued: "I came looking for you, my friend. I am joining your war host as your sworn personal vanguard."
I caught my breath. "Wait... my vanguard? Brewstrong, I don't even know where our destination is. Everything depends on what Countess Clara and her noble allies decide behind closed palace doors. The road ahead is going to be full of ambushes and dark sorcery."
"Do you think a son of the iron hills fears a bit of dark magic?" Brewstrong bellowed, waving his hand dismissively. "I spent twenty years pouring sour ale and listening to peasants whine about the harvest, and I had enough!
I promised myself that when I stepped out into the world again, I would follow a man worth my axe. You brought miracles to my taproom with nothing but a box. Wherever you ride, my axe rides beside you."
He stopped in front of me and pounded a fist over his heart plate with a loud clang.
Looking at the heavily armed dwarf standing loyally before me, a wave of pride washed over my chest.
Having a combat powerhouse guarding my flank would solve half my survival problems, not to mention making me look like an actual commander instead of an outcast stray.
"Alright," I said, reaching out to clasp his armored forearm. "Welcome aboard, Brewstrong."
"Honor to the company!" he grinned.
[Brewstrong has joined your party!]
[Charisma increased to 17]
I see… this is how to gain Charisma points, then.
Being viral doesn’t mean being charming. The same applies in reverse.
Makes sense, I guess.
Back in the real world, Clara presented me with another major crisis.