Chapter 7: Crafting

“Is it true you fought a dragon with a toothpick, Elara?” a burly warrior bellowed, his voice echoing in the rafters. Elara’s stomach clenched. The lies grew like weeds, threatening to choke out the meager peace she’d found.

“I heard you can disappear in a puff of smoke!” a lean, sneaky looking rogue whispered, leaning too close. A shudder ran through her. Disappear? She disappeared from her old world. The world she missed so much.

She let their ridiculous stories unfurl, a grotesque tapestry woven from their admiration and her deep, gnawing fear. Sometimes, she’d offer a weak correction, a flimsy attempt to rein in the runaway narrative. “A toothpick? No, no! That dragon needed a good slashing!” Then, with a forced laugh, “Disappear? Look over there! I can make the piece of chicken disappear off your plate!”

It was a performance, a carefully constructed illusion. A lie, vast and suffocating, yet it kept her belly full and the cold at bay. No longer did the whispers of “Death” follow her like a shadow; now, they murmured “Hero.” The sound was a hollow mockery in her ears.

One sun-dappled afternoon, the inn thrummed with a new kind of energy. A boisterous group of adventurers, fresh from a triumphant hunt, filled the air with their loud, happy chatter, showering everyone with free ale. Elara sat amidst the clamor, a piece of roasted chicken forgotten in her hand. The ale, warm and fuzzy in her veins, softened the edges of her anxiety, lending her a false sense of bravery.

A shadow fell over her, not the chilling one of her past, but a broad, familiar silhouette. She looked up, her gaze snagging on Kael’s face. He stood there, a formidable figure in his well-worn leather, his eyes holding a strange blend of surprise and amusement. His gaze swept over the adoring adventurers, lingering on their expectant faces, then settled on Elara, who was doing her best impression of modesty, picking at her chicken.

A slow, knowing smile spread across Kael’s lips, followed by a short, sharp burst of laughter. “So, this is where the legendary ‘Troll Slayer’ hides, eh?” His voice cut through the din, drawing every eye. Elara’s face burned. She shot him a desperate, pleading look, a tiny shake of her head that screamed, Don't you dare!

He only laughed again, a low rumble that resonated with her growing humiliation. He saw it, then. The flicker of shame, the desperate hope in her eyes, the free food, the overflowing cups. He understood the fragile charade.

Kael shook his head, still chuckling. “You certainly have a way with things, Elara. And letting others have theirs.” He settled beside her, pushing aside a clutter of empty tankards. “So, the goblin menace is no more, I hear? And a few troll villages, too?” His eyes danced with a teasing light, but beneath it, a current of worry, almost tenderness. He was amused, yes, but he also saw her.

The other adventurers, eager for more tales, immediately launched into exaggerated accounts of Elara’s “amazing feats.” Elara offered vague nods, letting the wild stories unfurl around her. Kael listened, his knowing chuckles confirming her fear. He knew the truth. Yet, a strange, shaky relief settled over her. He wasn’t going to expose her. She was safe, for now.

Later, when the inn had emptied save for the two of them, the casual banter evaporated. The flickering lanterns cast dancing shadows. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

“So,” Kael began, leaning back, his voice low. “Still no luck with that… ‘menu’ of yours?”

Elara sighed, a deep, tired sound that seemed to carry the weight of her countless failures. “No. Nothing. I try. It’s like trying to grab smoke.” Frustration clawed at her throat.

Kael studied her, a furrow in his brow. He’d witnessed countless struggles with new magic, but Elara’s inability to access her menu baffled him. He’d explained it many ways, ways even children understood, yet her mind remained stubbornly closed.

“It’s not that you don’t understand the concept,” Kael mused, piecing together a puzzle. “It’s like… a wall. Like your mind simply refuses to let you see it. As if a part of you is fighting against it.” He tapped his temple. “A mental block. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not about intelligence or effort. It’s something deeper.”

Elara’s eyes widened, the words striking a chord, heavy yet strangely comforting. A mental block. It wasn’t entirely her fault, then. Something in her own brain, deep and unyielding, was simply saying no. The truth, however, did little to soothe the sting of her helplessness. This menu, this system, was the key to power, to understanding this brutal world.

Kael nodded. “It’s the only explanation. Hmm.” He paused, a new idea sparking in his eyes. “Maybe we need a trigger. When someone levels up or gains a new skill, their menu pops open.” He looked at Elara, hope blossoming in his gaze. “What if we find very weak enemies? You could participate in the fight, even if it’s just a poke with your dagger. See if it unlocks something for you.”

Elara’s heart gave a hopeful flutter. A chance. A real, tangible chance to finally break free from this maddening ignorance. “Yes!” she whispered, her voice thick with eagerness. “Anything! I’ll try anything.”

The next morning, the air still crisp with dawn, Kael and Elara left town, heading towards the shadowy embrace of the forest. Her simple dress and cloak felt flimsy against the chill, and the small dagger at her hip felt impossibly heavy. Kael, a picture of quiet competence, moved beside her. His worn armor gleaming faintly and his longsword ready.

But they weren’t alone. Elara’s stomach tightened as she noticed them, figures trailing behind, their attempts at nonchalance transparent. Two at first, then four, then a small group. Adventurers. The ones from the inn. Their eyes, though pretending to wander, were fixed on her. They were curious. They wanted to see the “Troll Slayer” in action, to witness her legendary ability.

A hot wave of shame washed over her, making her dizzy. This was impossible. How could she participate in a fight without exposing the raw, pathetic truth of her utter uselessness? She couldn’t fight. Not like them. Not like anyone. She could only die. And that, she knew, was hardly a skill worthy of admiration.

Kael, too, noticed the growing crowd behind them. A soft sigh escaped his lips, but Elara caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He probably found the whole situation darkly comedic.

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They walked deeper into the woods, the main path fading into softer earth, the air growing cooler, the sunlight dappling through the dense canopy. Kael searched for something specific, a creature almost too weak to be a threat.

Finally, he stopped, his sword pointing. “There,” he whispered.

Elara squinted. Under a large, moss-covered rock, a tiny green blob pulsed. A slime. No bigger than her head, translucent and harmless. A low-level creature, the kind that might dissolve from a stern glare. Yet, even this pathetic thing filled her with a cold dread that made her hands tremble.

The adventurers behind them stirred, a ripple of whispered curiosity passing through the crowd at the sight of such an insignificant monster.

“Go on,” Kael urged, a gentle nudge against her arm. “Just a little poke. Anything to trigger that you’re part of the fight.”

Elara stood rooted, her feet like lead. She couldn’t even pretend to fight this tiny thing without shattering the illusion, revealing herself as a fraud. She would look foolish. Worse, she would look weak.

Kael hesitated, a brief flicker of indecision crossing his face, then he moved. A blur of motion. His longsword, which had seemed permanently sheathed, appeared in his hand. One fluid step, a swift, almost casual swing, and the slime simply ceased to exist.

Elara stared at the empty spot, her heart sinking, a cold stone in her chest. She had done nothing.

Kael sheathed his sword, his gaze on her gentle, tinged with a faint sadness. “Remember, Elara,” he said, his voice soft, “you only level up if you participate in the fight. That’s how this world works.” He wasn’t cruel, just stating an undeniable fact. But the words landed like a heavy blow.

The fragile hope she had nursed moments before drained away, leaving only a hollow ache. She was still trapped. The mental block remained. And she still couldn’t fight. She was a lie. A useless, helpless lie.

“Let’s go back,” Elara said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Back to town.” She didn’t wait for Kael, turning abruptly, her steps heavy, her shoulders slumped. The adventurers, still chattering, followed, their innocent admiration a sharp, mocking echo in her ears.

Back in the inn, the air felt colder, dustier than before. The adventurers had dispersed, leaving Elara alone, her small dagger clutched in her hand. It felt light, insignificant, utterly useless.

“That’s a pretty simple blade for a ‘Troll Slayer,’ wouldn’t you say?” Kael’s voice cut through the silence. He had lingered, now sitting across from her, meticulously polishing a piece of armor. His tone wasn’t unkind, merely observational. “Most heroes are always looking for better gear. High-level weapons, magic swords, things that hit harder, move faster.”

Elara looked at her dagger. A dull piece of metal, a crude wooden handle. It was for opening rations, not slaying monsters. “I guess,” she mumbled. “I don’t have much else. This is the dagger you gave me.”

“No,” Kael agreed, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “And you can’t exactly go raiding dungeons for fancy loot.” He gave her a pointed look. “I sold most of my extra gear when I returned. But I could help you find some basic, low-level stuff. Nothing great, but better than that.” He nodded at her pitiful dagger.

“Where do these items even come from?” Elara mused aloud, her mind latching onto a new idea, a different path. A tiny, desperate tendril of hope. “Do people just… find them? Or does someone… make them?”

Kael shrugged. “Both, mostly. Some rare things you find. Most things are made. Swords, armor, pots, and even some magic items. Someone crafts them.”

Crafts them. The words spun in Elara’s mind, a quiet spark igniting in the vast darkness of her despair. If she couldn’t fight, if she couldn’t level up, if she couldn’t even open the menu… maybe she could make things. She could make her own gear.

Her thoughts began to race, a whirlwind of desperate possibilities. If she could become a crafter, she wouldn't need to fight for fancy weapons. She could forge them. It would be cheaper, too. She wouldn't have to squander her dwindling coins on basic necessities. And! And no one would scorn her for being low-level if she were a crafter. Crafting was a skill, a respected profession, even if it lacked the flashy allure of combat. She could be a low-level crafter. That sounded infinitely better than a low-level hero who couldn’t even swing a sword without dying.

This was it. A way out of the deception, a desperate, shimmering thread leading away from the constant fear of exposure. A way to truly belong in this world, not just pretend. A way to be useful, to earn her keep, without having to die over and over and over. A way to stop being a fake hero and become a real… something. Anything.

“Kael!” she exclaimed, her voice suddenly vibrant with a fragile, newfound energy. She sat up straight, her eyes bright. “Can you… Can you help me find crafting supplies? Basic ones. I want to try. I want to be a crafter!”

Kael blinked, visibly surprised by her sudden, passionate outburst. He looked at her, then at the useless dagger clutched in her hand, then back at her determined face. A slow smile spread across his lips, erasing the last vestiges of amusement. “A crafter, eh? That’s… a thought. Well, I suppose you’ll need tools. And materials.” He pushed himself up. “Tomorrow. Let’s see what we can find in town. Nothing too fancy to start, mind you. But we can get you a basic hammer and tools.”

The next day was a blur of activity. Kael, ever the pragmatist, led her to the small, dusty smithies scattered throughout town. Each one yielded a single, precious tool, if anything. It took most of the morning to gather what she needed: a small, sturdy hammer, a pair of barely usable tongs, solid picks, and a thick, slightly stiff leather apron to protect her meager clothes. The apron, she discovered, was the most difficult and expensive find, grudgingly parted with by a huge blacksmith for what seemed like a large sum.

With Kael’s help and his money, she finally possessed the tools to begin. The blacksmith, still grumbling, allowed her to use his forge until she could earn enough to pay for its use. As long as she stayed out of his way.

Holding the hammer, feeling its solid weight in her hand, Elara felt a surge of genuine excitement. It was heavy, tangible. It felt like something she could actually use. Something she could do. Not just die, not just pretend.

And then, the harsh reality struck.

She had the tools. But what about the materials? She needed metal. Wood. Leather. Rare things for better items.

Where did crafters acquire these things? They ventured out. They mined for ore. They chopped wood. They hunted animals for hides. They explored dangerous ruins for special components.

But Elara couldn’t do any of that. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t leave the dubious safety of the town without risking another soul-crushing round of deaths, the chilling field forever etched in her mind. And she had no money to buy a steady stream of raw materials. Kael had given her a start, a generous, unexpected kindness, but she couldn’t ask him to fund her endless supply chain.

Her crafting ambitions, which had soared so high, suddenly crashed back down to earth. Hard. Without the ability to fight for resources or the endless coins to buy them, her dreams of forging high-level gear, of becoming a master crafter, stalled, dead in the water.

She lifted the small hammer again. It felt heavy now, not with the promise of creation, but with the suffocating weight of her limitations. She looked at the tiny iron sheet that one of the blacksmiths had given her. She could try to make something small. A nail, maybe. Or a very, very small, very ugly spoon.

Frustration, cold and sharp, twisted in her gut. Even this, a simple, useful skill, was blocked by her inability to fight. By the unfair, brutal rules of this world.

But Elara wasn’t a quitter. Not anymore. She had faced endless death, a parade of horrors. She had survived goblin attacks, mocking whispers, and embarrassing rumors. She wouldn’t let this, this infuriating wall, stop her. She might not forge a magic sword today. She might not even manage a decent nail. But she would try. She would hit the metal. She would learn. She would persist. Even if it was just a small, stubborn spark in the vast, unfair darkness of her situation. She would not give up on this new, fragile hope. Not yet.