《The not-immortal Blacksmith》01 The not-immortal Blacksmith - Prologue

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Prologue - A human

My name is Maxwell. I’m a human. I am 24 years old… Well that’s not entirely correct, I look 24 years old, and will continue to look like that until I die.

Now many know the end of Demon Lord Mackelis IV, so I won’t go into all the details, but instead I will tell you of the aftermath.

The great hero “Tristan of Denvrr" from the "lands united Murika” had just killed Mackelis, and I lay bleeding to death on the floor of the throne room. Tristan walked to me, his smallest boomstick in hand, “Maxwell, I can’t have you die here, not after all your service to me! Drink this! It is the potion the Goddess gifted me when I first arrived. It will heal you.”

I gurgled on the floor. He unceremoniously dumped the potion down my throat.

It burned. Fire poured out of my wounds. I fell unconscious.

Several days later I awoke. The castle was dark, dreary, and empty. On the floor nearby was a pile of treasures and a note. “I hope this letter finds you well. Here are the remains of our treasure, I will not need them back home. Take them and start that shop you keep yammering on about! Tristan”

I will be honest with you, I wept. My friend of the last three years was gone, and I felt empty.

Let us “fast forward” for 5 years. I am now living in the northern town of Lyken Burg. It resides on the edge of the great northern desert known as "The Desert of Demons". I have been able to finally graduate from an apprentice to a full on master blacksmith! My life is busy with my shop and new bride!

Adventurers pass through town occasionally, looking for spoils of war from the Demon Kings forgotten armories. I reminisce with them about what I remember. A good time is had by all.

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Another uneventful five years pass. I have three children. I love my life, my wife and children!

Time goes by in a blaze, then, one day, I realize that my wife is getting gray hair. I have none. Not a single bit. I haven’t had a winter sniffle in…FOREVER! I start to dye my beard and hair.

More time has passed. My children are adults and married. Deborah (my wife) and I have left the shop to our youngest, he was the one who wanted it. Deborah is blind from the pox that hit 12 years ago. I’m pretending to be a feeble old man.

It is now spring. My wife of 43 years is dead. I look 24. After the funeral, I tell my children that I am going on a pilgrimage to the great city of Belergrad, and that I will not be back.

There are many tears shed, and well wishes. My youngest granddaughter crawls onto my lap and whispers into my ear, “Daddy and I know. There will always be a place for you here.”

I depart the now large city with the clothes on my back, and a spring in my step.

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