Character: Ronnie. Level 21.

Strength 5.3 - first modification.

Dexterity 15.5 - third modification.

Reaction 3,2 - no modification.

Magic 0 - no modification.

Amount of experience 2%

All indicators are normal.

People have always imagined the figures of the blacksmithing craft as huge muscular demigods of high stature and a long beard. Ronnie was no exception to the rule. A year ago, he went to meet Doffersnoah in the real world for the first time. What was his surprise when the door to the workshop was opened by an ordinary man who looked not more than forty-five or forty-six. Black, greasy hair, combed back, slightly touched the shoulders. The eyes were silver-gray in color to match the steel. Prickly, stiff, unkempt stubble, gray in places, overgrown around the mouth and chin. A wrinkled forehead and a flimsy, withered body. The teeth were yellow, but even. He was leading a monologue on the topic of how people used to kill animals to get food. And now what? All products are artificial, they are made in laboratories. In conclusion, he said that killing is a part of humans, whether he wants it or not, and hunting is his craft, which provides sustenance. As soon as people moved away from this concept, they became as artificial as their food. Empty shells consuming empty shells.

After so much time, they reunited again. Both worked on the silencer for Barrett and a new rifle for five full days. By the evening of the last day, with the last 9.3x64 mm bullet fired, the last stage of work was completed – accurizing. Doffersnoah breathed a sigh of relief, and Ronnie got up and handed him the finished SVDK. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and with it, the full moon was rising, catching up with its eternal enemy on the same razor plane. The blacksmith took a large-caliber Dragunov rifle and took it to the workshop. A minute later he came back out and brought two folding chairs and a table, put a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on them. They sat down at the edge of the world, at the place of its formation, where infinity stretched across the surface of heaven and earth. There in the deserted valley, every part of the landscape smelled of antiquity and primitiveness. As far as you look, everything seemed to contain knowledge and secrets lost in centuries-old history. Amber-colored moss covered the ancient gray cobblestones with a warm blanket. The green grass bent in a bow under the gusts of the ocean wind. Salty air filled their lungs, removing from them all the gunpowder dirt and soot that they had inhaled during production. The waves straightened their hunchbacked backs and beat against the rocks, making the sounds of dull cannon shots. Many huge boulders to the east of these two forgotten souls joined together and created a kind of ruined hill, in the dangerously large crevices of which orphan trees grew and bloomed.

"This place is worth any money," Doffersnoah said.

Ronnie nodded and watched as the blacksmith poured a light brown drink into his glass.

"Want some?"

"No," said Ronnie, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes, and feeling what his ancestors probably felt on Earth tens of thousands of years ago.

"If I sell several of these beauties for ten million each, I can buy the last few hectares of land in the district. Then I'll divide them into sectors and start growing herbs for the alchemists."

"Good plan."

Doffersnoah gulped down a glass and poured himself another and stared at the horizon.

"Why Brigitte?" Ronnie asked.

The blacksmith laughed in response.

"Brigitte is the name of an ancient goddess who patronized blacksmiths. She's also a great friend of mine. You know, the places here are beautiful, but sometimes it's getting lonely. That's why I'm talking to her."

"And how’s it?"

"What?"

"Your conversations."

"It's great, boy. She's a good talker. Better than any therapist."

"It’d do good to listen to him, Ronnie."

"Leave me alone."

"Why?"

"Cuz you pay them for listening to you. She doesn't need it. In addition, she can advise me on something, and these pricks, it feels like as if they studied at the owl house, where they adopted the secret knowledge of nodding their heads and moo in agreement with a "hoot, hoot"."

Ronnie smiled slightly and said, trying to justify them somehow, even though he did not believe it himself:

"They ask guiding questions."

"Let them shove them in the ass. Talking to a friend is always better. Try it sometime. And start with the name."

"I don't believe that artificial intelligence is better than a human."

"How long has it been since you talked to people?"

"It depends on what you mean by "talked"."

"Heart-to-heart communication."

"I don't remember."

"That's what I'm talking about. Go outside and listen to someone's conversation. It seems that people began to be born from wooden stumps."

Ronnie let out a restrained laugh and scratched his head and stretched his neck a little and the legs.

"Wooden stumps? It's funny."

"My father also said that the better the technology, the dumber a person is."

"A dubious statement."

"Hard to say," Doffersnoah replied and drank more whiskey and poured another fifty grams into a glass.

The blacksmith leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and said:

"Listen, boy, there's one thought that bothers me. If a Doppelganger can change shapes, then why didn't it just turn into a bird and fly away?"

"I don't know. Maybe the one who was born to crawl is not destined to fly. Or maybe because it has never killed flying creatures."

"It didn't kill you either."

Ronnie raised his fist to his chin, thought about it, and answered:

"You're right. So, it's the first option then."

"Have you met this monster before? How did he exactly replicate you? It would need to see you first in order to do it, no."

"I don't know. The game mechanics here are sometimes strange. The Doppelganger turned into not only me and the players it killed. It also replicated Nika and one monster that I had previously met in the Nepril desert. Maybe it was that monster…"

"Or met the monster from the desert and learned about your looks from it."

"Do you think that monsters live their own lives behind our backs?"

"I think so, but what's the point of guessing. I feel like it would be great if it turned out to be true. Imagine that the world of Thalack lives its own life, and we seem to be violating the usual order of things here. As a result, the events of this world adapt to our intervention."

"You went too far with the conspiracy theory and the possibilities of the developers. We are not living in the thirtieth century."

"It's a pity that we didn't get any items from it," the blacksmith finished the monologue, ignoring his friend’s interruption and staying in the world of his imagination.

"Yeah," Ronnie said and nodded.

"Where did you get this amulet from?"

"Which one?"

"The one that's around your neck, boy. Don't take me for a blind man."

Ronnie pulled out the FuruGovest and twirled it in his hand.

"I forgot about it," he said and paused a little, like an actor in a drama theater, "It fell from the wild-boss I've killed in the desert."

"Have you found out about its effects yet?"

"No. Now it's useless, like an ordinary jewelry thing."

"Such items, they are like comrades-in-arms. While everything is quiet and smooth, they sit next to you in the trench and wait, but as soon as the battle begins, and you see death firsthand, they will lend a helping hand."

"Where did you learn to speak so beautifully?"

"I've read a lot of books to my wife."

"She can't do it herself?"

"I don't want to start a conversation about it."

The blacksmith took a glass of whiskey and drained it and poured again exactly the same amount as it was as if he had measured it with a ruler. He drank it without further explanation and wiped the stubble on his face. Ronnie leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair and propped his cheek with his fist. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Doffersnoah spoke again.