The Dark Lord of Crafting: Book Two: A Crafting LitRPG by William Myrl

Author:William Myrl [Myrl, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press
Published: 2025-07-22T00:00:00+00:00

MY ALLOY

The years had not been kind to Gent. His hair was gray and thinning, tied back in a ponytail. His wide, pockmarked face held deep-sunken eyes that hinted at almost as much weariness and stress as he deserved.

Either Naifan’s interpretation of the situation had spread, or Bojack had lied to the baron about who he was expecting to come out of the portal. He adjusted his surcoat, his hand brushing over the sign of a leaping rabbit, and instead of bowing, pressed his fist over his heart.

“Dark Lord, it is an unfathomable honor to be graced with your presence,” he said.

“Where is Orobas?” I demanded. Though the helm hid my face, I wondered if he would recognize my voice. But there was no recognition in his expression, only weariness and a little fear. Of course he didn’t know my voice. He hadn’t heard it in years.

“The aychar is in Henterfell,” he said, “advising the High King in regards to the war.”

“Good,” I said. If there was a war, Dargoth hadn’t taken everything yet. Kevin was slacking again. “You are dismissed.”

Gent blinked. “My Lord, I’m afraid my instructions were not as clear as they could have been. His Eminence, Orobas, merely asked that I inform him if the portal ever became active. He did not tell me it was you he was waiting for. May I ask what I can do for you, and what your purpose is here, after all this time?”

“No. Go home, Gent.” Seeing him didn’t fill me with rage. My initial anger hadn’t truly been meant for him. He was just a pawn. This wasn’t my town anymore, and he could keep it.

Bojack was in Henterfell, which meant I could pay a visit to Godwod as soon I’d finished looting this place. My thoughts about him were less forgiving.

Gent started to talk again, stuttering to a stop as he found himself facing my receding back. In the treasure room, I retrieved the atreanum pick and halted in front of the storage system against the back wall.

A light kick activated the runic field. A deep blue, semitransparent shield shimmered up from the floor. It was darkest around my foot, responding to the pressure of my toe.

This wasn’t a resource block that could be harvested, but to a hammer, everything looks like a nail. With quick, light strokes, I attacked the shield.

It fizzed and sparked wherever the edge of my pick connected. Monitoring my tool for any signs of damage, I kept it up for nearly a full minute, during which the glow of the runes grew in intensity. Their hues brightened from a calm navy to an alarmed powder blue before shorting out.

Simple as that, the wealth of my predecessors was free for the taking. It wouldn’t be worth it.

Stacks of medallions subdivided into neat, square cubbies filled the first chest. It was all standard equipment: picks, shovels, hoes, axes, and shields, a lot of shields. No special materials. Stuff I could have made myself. The chests

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