Bronze rank brewer a lit.., p.1
Bronze Rank Brewer: A LitRPG fantasy adventure, page 1
Copyright © 2022 James Ghoul
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: CAP
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 1
Birds
If a day could ever smell like silver, this was such a day.
A cold wind skated across my skin and tousled the ends of my hair. Its lingering bite had something to say–a heralding that marked the last day of autumn. How peculiar that a simple wind could signal the coming of winter so acutely. Yet I had ten years of experience in these woods, and not a year went by where the wind was wrong. I learned to trust such signs.
Crisp. Chilly. Thick.
The wind was also a form of prophecy. This winter would be colder than most. More brutal. It would begin with a tremendous amount of snowfall, then end in a great upheaval of fog and mist and hunkering clouds. I could feel it in my gut.
Soon life would enter a deep hibernation. I was a bit weary myself, having been rudely pulled from my dreams. I was nagged from my sleep by the banging of my cabin door. It had come off the top hinge months ago and still hung dejected against the frame. A large rock kept the skewed door closed. Overnight, the wind had managed to push the door, which in turn had pushed the rock. The gap was wide enough that the door now slapped between the stone and doorframe whenever a gust of wind rolled through.
I sat up and slipped my feet out from under my wool blankets, then rubbed my face to wake my brain. The birds were up as well, chirping brightly. I guessed it was about time I got up as well. There was a lot to do before winter built its nest in my woods.
Fixing the door is priority number one. Then I should chop some wood, take an inventory of foodstuffs, and work on evaporating salt water. But first, let’s feed our friends.
I say “our,” because I don’t feel alone, despite living so far from other humans. These northern woods have become great friends to me. We’ve known each other for…
That’s right; ten years to the day.
I whistled a chipper tune while I crossed the cabin to check on the stove by the broken door. Through the iron grate I saw a universe of smoldering embers, so I added a few more logs to get a good fire going for breakfast. If the front door wasn’t busted, the fire would have been twice its strength.
Upon the stove was an iron pot where I’d let salt water evaporate overnight. I stirred the leftover salt, breaking the crystals it had formed.
Another spoonful to add to the jar. Should be almost full now.
I retrieved a large clay jar from a bottom shelf across the room and set it upon the table. As suspected, it was almost filled to the brim with salt. I added what little I’d gained from last night's evaporation, and descended to my cellar. I was careful to climb down the ladder, not wanting to drop this year's worth of work.
The ladder had only a few rungs, and the cellar tunneled at a gentle slope into the earth. It was dark and smelled of rich earth and exposed roots. Barrels lined either side and I blindly felt for the shelves at the end. My hand searched for an empty space between other clay jars and I set the jar of salt between them.
Better grab another empty jar for more salt. Can never have too much.
I used salt mostly for preservation. I had half a barrel’s worth of salted fish and intended to fill the whole thing up before the first snowfall.
Before I go down to the sea for more saltwater, I’ll have myself a bit of breakfast, then feed the birds.
I wiped out the iron pot, piled in a handful of potatoes I’d grown this fall, and placed the pot right above the hottest spot of the stove.
While I waited for the better part of an hour for the taters to bake, I crushed up some wild walnuts and sunflower seeds. I spread the rich meal out onto a wooden plate, then shouldered the cabin door open.
“Morning friends,” I said, and set the plate upon the roof of the cabin. Since the roof wasn’t so angled, it sat snuggly upon the moss encrusted shingles. Only when I came back inside, after propping the door wide open, did the bird’s come and feast.
I heard them land on the roof, hop about, peck at the plate, and chirp in discord. I did this every morning. Every morning for nearly a decade.
I should celebrate today. Perhaps go for a nice long hike? Screw it—might as well fix the door. I’ll celebrate by accomplishing a long overdue item on my list—that’s what I’ll do. Right after my morning routine.
I bundled up a few baked potatoes in a cloth, then set them in my bear hide backpack. I also packed in my daily saltwater jar with its cork, and a waterskin of fresh water. Then I set off down the long trail to the sea.
The trail was inefficient. I had cut a path through this land many years ago and maintained it every spring and summer. It wove between personal scenic interests until finally reaching the shore. When I’d cut the path, I was drawn to a copse of massive old t
I smelled the salt water, standing beneath the almost bare canopy of sumacs. My senses were filled by the salted wind. Infinitesimal droplets of the sea sprayed across the coast as I drew nearer. The dirt and leaf laden forest floor blended with the sand. I began to hear the sea crashing endlessly ahead. White surfs broke against bronze sand in the distance.
I passed a hand over boulders that I’d split with my forester axe to give me clear access to the coast. The axe had taken a little bit of damage, but had still been powerful enough to cleave through the giant boulders with ease and almost without noise. I remember passing the bit of the axe through the stone like butter like it was yesterday.
I was glad to have a few powerful Lumberjack skills. Perks of having been an adventurer long ago in another life. I’d used those skills briefly when I’d first carved out a life for myself in these woods. I no longer called on them now. My forester axe had enough power instilled in its form to substitute for those old skills.
That’s all behind me now. Just me and my level 337 Lumberjack skills. Away from humans, and as far from monsters and dungeons as I can be.
Adventuring was for other people. I’d risked my life enough. All I wanted now was exactly this. Living isolated and at peace. Having the birds and the trees as my companions. Having the sea so near to me.
The water was cold today. I slipped my leather boots off and rolled up my pants. I grabbed my clay jar, and waded beyond the surf where the clams were clustered and the water was clearer. I carefully dipped the jar into the water and skimmed the surface until it was nearly full.
Small fish drifted by my ankles. Clams opened and closed. I felt the brine of the sea cling to my hair. It filled my nose with the smell of minerals and a distant earth. Though I could not see across the sea, I imagined a place similar to here. Maybe filled with monsters. Maybe filled with people. Perhaps another isolated part of the world where life could simply exist. Just like I was simply existing: chopping wood, hunting and foraging, harvesting salt, and preparing for winter.
I popped the cork on the jar and waded back to shore. I slipped it into my backpack, and brought out the bundled potatoes and waterskin. I put myself on the sand with my back to a whitewashed tree trunk that had beached there years ago. Then I took my time to eat my simple breakfast.
The skin of the potatoes cracked open. The tubers were so fluffy and buttery, they fell apart like clouds. Steam rose from the broken food and smelled heavenly. While I ate, I fell in love with the sea once more.
The wind was persistent here. I had to admit that I was cold and shivering. I found comfort in the lingering warmth of the rest of my potatoes before washing them down with cold fresh water from the waterskin.
I lifted my drink and toasted to the sea, then to the land beside and behind me. These precious surroundings fulfilled my life completely.
“To another ten years.”
For another hour I shivered until my body acclimated to the cold. During that time, the sun traveled a short distance through layers of silver clouds.
Better get to chopping some wood and fixing that door.
I picked myself up and brushed the bronze sand from my legs, my hands, and my clothes. After gathering my things and throwing my arms through the straps of my hide backpack, I waved to the sea.
See you later dear friend.
I returned home through the sumacs, across the field, over the hill, through thin pines and the rest of the twisting trail. I stopped when I came upon the clearing of my cabin.
I had logged this area during my first summer here. It was now a large overgrown meadow. My cabin rested on the other side between two autumn gardens. Upon the path that meandered toward the cabin were new tracks. Not of any animal I was familiar with.
I glanced around before crouching for further inspection. Large round imprints formed a heel and three giant toes. Smaller indentations before each toe told me that this thing had long claws. I splayed my hand across one of the tracks, coming just short of its size.
I warily followed the tracks which led straight to my cabin. The door was open and I couldn’t recall if I’d left it that way or not. I slowly approached the open door at an angle and quietly peeked inside. I didn’t see anything on quick inspection.
My forester axe was leaning against the wall by the stove so I grabbed it and retreated a distance, in case anything tried to jump out at me.
A monster? I didn’t think there were any dungeons nearby, so nothing nefarious could have come from an overgrown dungeon.
I held my axe before me. As I moved, I could almost see the very air itself split at the powerfully sharp edge of the axe. It always reminded me of my Lumberjack skills.
I had a plethora of skills, just like everyone else in this world. Since living so isolated, it wasn’t often that I thought about my skills. I’d long ago turned off quest notifications, and status notifications. I haven’t even looked at my inventory in a long time. There was just no reason to. I didn’t even use the interface anymore.
I hoped I could keep things that way, but now a monster prowled my woods.
I noticed the plate I’d set on the roof was now on the ground. I thought of the birds and realized they were quiet. The canopy of the surrounding trees was quiet. The underbrush was quiet. Even the wind barely uttered a whisper.
I took another quick look around the cabin and saw nothing. I checked for more tracks, but the earth was more compact there from my comings and goings, so I found none. However, both gardens had been disturbed. The monster had made a mess in the soft earth of the garden and I tried to make sense of its path. Several squash were missing. They weren’t cut from the vine, they were torn.
I might have to harvest early to avoid losing more winter food. The front door may have to wait until after I collect all these vegetables.
I couldn’t tell where the tracks went. I walked the perimeter a few times and kept an eye to the ground and an ear to the woods. Then I briefly scouted along some trails.
On my last return to my meadow, I heard the birds start to chirp up again until they all resumed their perpetual songs. The wind picked up again, and leaves began to lazily float down on gentle slopes.
Better put some salt water to evaporate, then harvest some squash. Then I’ll fix the door, and make a nice cup of tea. Yea, with a monster about, I’ll definitely have to fix the door before the day is over.
Chapter 2
Something Was Sticking Around
My potatoes were gone—the rest of the potatoes I’d baked over the stove were mysteriously gone. Not a single thing else was out of place.
Someone or something had been in my cabin.
I will definitely fix that door tonight.
Maybe whatever had come by was in need of food. How could I fault them for enjoying some freshly baked potatoes?
I wiped out the pot, and filled it a quarter of the way with fresh saltwater. I added another log to the stove and made sure that the grate was closed and secure. I retrieved another iron pot from a shelf and set it on the stove, then filled it with freshwater from a barrel in the corner.
A nice cup of tea ought to make up for half a breakfast.
While the water boiled, I searched through the baskets below my bed for my favorite wool sweater. It was gray with stripes of white and fell a little long on me. The sleeves were also too long and I had to fold them back. When it had been new, the wool had scratched my neck and the bottom of my chin. It had softened over time and we got along quite well now.
I heard water sizzle on the stove as it splashed so I dragged the pot a few inches away from the hottest spot. I fetched some crumbled, roasted chicory root, and dumped a good handful of it in the boiling water. Steam floated up, carrying the rich, deep-earth aroma with it.
Squash time.
Over the next hour I harvested two barrel’s worth of squash. The task was repetitive. Clip the vine, carry in a handful at a time, descend to the cellar, pack them in a barrel, then repeat. There were more squash still growing and I wanted them to get bigger before harvesting them. I wasn’t sure how much more they’d grow since winter was quickly approaching. The smaller ones tasted better anyway.
