Chapter 96: The Cult of the Machine God

Chapter 96: The Cult of the Machine God

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

As the saying goes, when you pull up the bellows with a whoosh and grab the big hammer that rings clang clang, the player with the ID "Iron Frenzy" was furiously hammering away with brute strength. Beside him, a pile of wrought iron pipes had already accumulated.

Iron Frenzy paid no heed to the scorching heat blowing against his face, nor did he mind the sweat dripping profusely from his forehead. His expression was extremely excited, as if he had endless energy.

This guy chose the Barbarian class but had hardly fought at all—just to have greater strength.

This brute strength was used for one thing only: forging.

Yes, ever since entering the game, he had been forging nonstop. Now, he had become the youngest and strongest blacksmith in Baator City's smithy.

The old tiefling blacksmith Dymo watched from the side, blowing his beard and glaring. "You kid, slacking off all day—what's the use of fiddling with this junk?"

He shook his head and sighed, his face full of heartache.

"What a waste of materials! So much fine iron—if I were young again, I could make you the best set of armor."

Iron Frenzy glanced disdainfully at the old blacksmith, his hands never stopping.

"It's not like I didn't do good work for you. I've long completed my task quota. I can do whatever I like; stop nagging me."

Looking at those crooked steel pipes, his expression became excited again, with inexplicable fervor in his tone:

"Old Dymo, just you wait and see."

"The direction of the times lies beneath my hammer!"

Iron Frenzy spoke spiritedly while passionately forging.

Dymo: "..."

Fortunately, he had seen a lot these days. These guys who called themselves "players"—no matter what they said or did—old Dymo didn't find it strange at all.

"Tsk tsk, these fellows."

Nothing more than getting used to it.

Dymo fell into his memories.

A few months ago, he was minding the smithy when two players seemingly came to purchase equipment normally.

One chatted casually with him, while the other blatantly started stealing in the smithy, rummaging around noisily and making a mess, even reaching into Dymo's own pockets.

The accomplice trying to "distract" him remained calm and unflustered, chatting away without any change in expression.

This left Dymo greatly shocked. He had seen thieves before but never so brazen. He had seen brazen ones, but none this audacious.

Old Dymo couldn't bear it any longer. Veins bulging on his arms, he picked up a ten-pound iron hammer and knocked both of them down.

When he called the constable to take them away, the two "players" kept struggling, faces full of disbelief, shouting nonsense like "I circled behind you," "My stealth save is very high," and "We were clearly in dialogue mode," leaving Dymo utterly speechless.

However, as such incidents happened more and more, old Dymo gradually became numb. When he knocked out thieves with his hammer, his face remained expressionless, like an experienced farmer harvesting wheat.

Later, he also discovered the positive side of these players: they were tireless and even disregarded life and death.

For instance, he no longer had to work; all his tasks were handed over to these blacksmith apprentices.

"It's done! It's done!"

"I did it!"

Iron Frenzy's excited shout interrupted old Dymo's contemplation.

Just as he was about to step forward for a look, more than a dozen blacksmith apprentice players swarmed over, completely ignoring the elderly Dymo beside them.

"These impolite youngsters."

Old Dymo muttered softly.

But he couldn't be bothered to look anymore; who knew what weird things they were tinkering with?

Old Dymo leaned back in his chair, squinted his eyes, and placed an old, yellowed book over his face, enjoying the leisure of not having to work.

"It's done! It's done!"

Iron Frenzy shouted exuberantly.

Everyone crowded the smithy, eyes fixed on the freshly cooled, rough iron gun barrel.

These people were all members of the same guild—the [Cult of the Machine God].

This was a guild composed of machine enthusiasts. The guild leader was "Iron Frenzy," and their slogan was "The flesh is weak; machinery ascends!" Unfortunately, the game's early basic classes didn't involve machinery.

Fortunately, they were surprised to find that various reactions in reality could manifest as magic in Erezaghe. So this group of [Cult of the Machine God] players blazed a new trail in forging—blacksmithing.

Now, Dymo's smithy had many new items: iron pipes, crude springs, taps and dies, simple lathes, bench drills, vices, files, and more—all crafted by these machine fanatics.

Seeing that they were working for free, Dymo turned a blind eye, letting them mess around.

A guild member and famous firearms enthusiast, "Battlefield Wheelchair Man," shouted, "Bring me the best wood! The stock needs to be big!"

The players of the Cult of the Machine God were now busy and delighted in the smithy.

"One part saltpeter, two parts sulfur, three parts charcoal. The equipment isn't great, so let's make do with traditional black powder."

"Where did our trigger and hammer go?"

"Damn, old Dymo took them to make rings; we'll have to remake them."

"What about gunpowder grains? Let's use wrought iron—smash it up, and it'll barely work."

"Bullets? Small steel balls will do; we can add some lead. Before firing, wrap them in cloth and stuff them directly into the barrel so they won't fall out."

Soon, after everyone's busy efforts,

Perhaps the first firearm on the land of Anzerta was born.

A front-loading, firing shotgun lay there quietly. It had a rough wrought iron barrel, a simple hammer-firing mechanism, an absurdly large wooden stock, and oilcloth-wrapped "bullets" scattered beside it—some small steel balls had even spilled out. The scent of saltpeter permeated the surroundings.

Although it looked crude, like junk from an abandoned factory, it embodied everyone's hard work.

Creating such a device in a place with productivity equivalent to the Middle Ages was naturally a challenging process.

"Did it succeed?"

"Quick, pick it up and try it."

Iron Frenzy carefully picked up the makeshift gun, laboriously stuffed the oilcloth-wrapped bullet into the barrel, with many steel balls falling out.

He slowly raised the gun, aiming at the scarecrow target that had been prepared.

The members of the [Cult of the Machine God] all held their breath.

"Bang!"

The gunshot rang out, like thunder on a clear day.

Old Dymo, who had been sleeping soundly, was jolted awake, startled enough that the book fell from his face.

He shouted angrily, "You brats, what are you up to now?"

But he saw that group of players cheering and dancing around a strangely shaped broken iron pipe.

Beside them was a scarecrow that had been blasted apart, black smoke rising from it, and still-warm iron pellets scattered on the ground.

The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder.

"So they're messing with that junk again."

Old Dymo muttered softly, picked up the tattered book from the ground, patted off the dust, placed it back over his face, and drifted back to sleep.