Church of the Machine God

As the saying goes, "Pull up the bellows and it goes whoosh, lift the sledgehammer and it clangs." At this moment, the player with the ID "Steel Frenzy" was frantically hammering iron with brute force, and a lot of wrought iron pipes had already piled up beside him.

Ignoring the scorching heat and the beads of sweat on his brow, Steel Frenzy was incredibly excited, as if he had inexhaustible energy.

This guy chose the Barbarian class but has hardly ever fought; he just wanted to have more strength.

This brute force was used for only one thing—forging iron.

Yes, he has been forging iron non-stop since he entered the game, and now he has become the youngest and strongest Blacksmith Shop in the Bator City.

The old blacksmith Tiefling, who Dammon at the Blacksmith Shop, watched from the side, puffing out his beard and glaring. "You brat, what's the use of tinkering with these junk things all day long?"

He shook his head and sighed, his face full of heartache.

"What a waste of materials! So much fine iron, if I were young back then, I could have forged you the best armor."

Steel Frenzy glanced disdainfully at the old blacksmith, his hands never stopping.

"It's not like I haven't worked hard for you. I've already met my targets. I can do whatever I want. Stop nagging me."

He stared at the crooked steel pipes, his expression turning excited again, his tone filled with inexplicable agitation. "Old Dai, just you wait and see."

"The direction of the times lies beneath my hammer!"

"Steel Frenzy" said with great enthusiasm as he forged iron.

Dammon: "."

Fortunately, he had seen a lot of these days, and no matter what these guys who called themselves "players" said or did, Old Dammon was not surprised at all.

"Tsk tsk, these guys."

There's nothing special about it; it's just a habit.

Dammon was lost in his memories.

A few months ago, he was minding the Blacksmith Shop when two players came in to buy equipment, seemingly out of the ordinary.

One of them was chatting with him, while the other brazenly started stealing from the Blacksmith Shop. He went in and ransacked the place, making a mess of everything, and even put his hand into Dammon's pocket.

Meanwhile, his accomplice, who was trying to "attract attention," continued chatting with him without batting an eye.

This greatly shocked Dai Mo. He had seen thieves before, but never one so blatant.

Old Dammon could no longer bear it. His arm veins bulged, and he picked up a ten-pound iron hammer and knocked the two men down.

When he called the sheriff to take them away, the two "players" continued to struggle, looking incredulous and shouting nonsense such as "I went around to the back," "My concealment immunity is very high," and "I clearly entered the dialogue," leaving Dammon speechless.

However, as such incidents became more and more frequent, Old Dammon gradually became numb. When he knocked the thief unconscious with a hammer, he was expressionless, just like a skilled old farmer harvesting wheat.

However, he later discovered the positive side of these players: they were tireless and even risked their lives.

For example, he no longer needs to work; all the work in his hands has been handed over to these blacksmith apprentices.

"It's done! It's done!"

"I did it!"

The excited shouts of the Steel Frenzy interrupted old Dammon's contemplation.

Just as he was about to step forward to take a look, the dozen or so blacksmith apprentice players swarmed forward, completely disregarding the old man, Dammon, standing beside him.

"These disrespectful bastards."

Old Dammon muttered to himself.

However, he simply couldn't be bothered to look anymore; who knew what kind of nonsense they were researching?

Old Dammon lay back in his chair, squinted his eyes, covered his face with an old, yellowed book, and enjoyed the leisurely time when he didn't have to work.

"It's done! It's done!"

The Steel Frenzy roared wildly.

The crowd surrounded the Blacksmith Shop, staring intently at the rough iron gun barrel that had just cooled down.

These people are all members of the same guild—the Church of the Machine God.

This is a guild composed of machine enthusiasts, led by "Steel Frenzy," whose motto is "Flesh and blood are weak, machines ascend!" Unfortunately, there are no mechanical classes among the basic classes in the early stages of the game.

Fortunately, they were surprised to find that the various reactions in reality could also be manifested in Erezege in the form of magic. So, this group of players from the [Church of the Machine God] found a new way and created a new path of blacksmithing.

The Dammon Blacksmith Shop now has many more items: iron pipes, crude springs, taps and dies, simple lathes, bench drills, bench vises and files, all made by this group of machine enthusiasts.

Because they were doing him work for free, Dammon turned a blind eye and let them do whatever they wanted.

Guild member and renowned gun enthusiast "Battlefield Wheelchair Man" shouted, "Give me the best wood! Make sure the stock is big!"

The current Church of the Machine God players are busy at the Blacksmith Shop.

"One part saltpeter, two parts sulfur, three parts charcoal. With the current equipment and conditions not being good, let's make do with the old-fashioned black powder."

Where did our trigger and hammer go?

"Damn it, that old man Dammon took it and turned it into a ring. We have to redo it."

"As for gunpowder, let's use plowshare iron; it can be used even if it's broken."

"Bullets? We can add some lead to small steel balls, wrap them in cloth before firing, and stuff them directly into the barrel so they won't fall out."

Soon, after everyone had worked together, what was perhaps the first firearm in the land of Anzeta was produced.

An old-fashioned muzzle-loading shotgun lay there quietly, with a rough wrought iron barrel, a rudimentary hammer-firing mechanism, and an absurdly large wooden stock. Scattered around it were "bullets" wrapped in tarpaulin, and a dozen small steel balls had accidentally fallen out. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder.

Although it looks crudely made, like trash picked up from an abandoned factory, it embodies the hard work of many people.

The process of developing such a system in a place with productivity roughly equivalent to that of the Middle Ages was naturally fraught with hardship.

"Was it successful?"

"Quickly pick it up and try it."

Steel Frenzy carefully picked up the homemade gun and laboriously stuffed the bullets wrapped in tarpaulin into the barrel, with many steel balls falling out.

He slowly raised his homemade gun, aiming the muzzle at the scarecrow target that had been prepared beforehand.

The members of the Church of the Machine God held their breath.

"Bang!"

Gunshots rang out, like thunderclaps rising from the ground.

Old Dammon, who was fast asleep, was suddenly awakened and startled, and the book fell off his face.

He roared angrily, "What are you brats up to now?"

But they saw the group of players cheering, singing and dancing around a strangely shaped, broken iron pipe.

Beside them was a scarecrow, smashed to pieces and emitting black smoke, with still-warm iron balls scattered on the ground.

The air was filled with the smell of Gunsmoke.

"So he's been tinkering with these junk things again."

Old Dammon muttered something under his breath, then picked up the tattered book from the ground, dusted it off, covered his face with it again, and drifted off to sleep.