RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM ZERO TO HERO, Volume 1, Part One by H. L. Watson - HTML preview

Chapter 10

On the fourth day of the week, I was informed by the Tinkerer's assistant that I had to undergo yet another examination by the Tinkerer teacher in person. The news arrived at dawn, delivered by Merrick, who appeared at my door with his customary punctuality. The morning light caught on his wire-rimmed spectacles as he handed me the formal notice, the parchment heavy and cream-colored, sealed with dark blue wax bearing an unfamiliar symbol—perhaps the mark of the Tinkerer's guild.

"Be ready by midday," Merrick instructed, his tone professional but not unkind. "The Master does not tolerate tardiness." With that, he departed, footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving me alone with the weighty implications of this summons. My owner Jiren had been given instructions to arrange this meeting, and he seemed uncharacteristically agitated when I encountered him at breakfast. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it with unusual frequency, and his fingers drummed a nervous rhythm against the polished wood of the dining table.

"This is it, boy," he told me, barely looking up from the ledger before him. "Don't disappoint me. I've invested too much for you to fail now." The unspoken threat hung in the air between us. By midday, my bodyguard-slash-chaperone—the broad-shouldered Berserker who had escorted me to the manor on my first day—arrived to accompany me to the workshop. He wore the same impassive expression as always, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts. The sword at his hip gleamed in the sunlight, meticulously maintained like everything else about him. "Come," he said simply, gesturing toward the door.

We traveled through the bustling streets of Azure Reach, navigating through crowds of merchants hawking their wares, nobles carried in ornate sedan chairs, and citizens going about their daily business. The city hummed with life and energy, the air filled with the mingled scents of cooking food, animal droppings, perfumed nobles, and the indefinable aroma of too many people in too small a space. Occasionally, the wind would shift, bringing a hint of fresh air from the river that curved around the eastern edge of the city.

The workshop district occupied a section of the city dominated by the constant cacophony of industry—the rhythmic pounding of hammers on metal, the hiss of steam from various contraptions, the shouts of apprentices running errands. The buildings here were sturdy and practical, constructed of stone and brick rather than the wood that predominated in the residential areas. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, creating a perpetual haze that hung over the district like a translucent ceiling.

The Tinkerer teacher's workshop stood apart from the others, both in size and design. Three stories tall, with large windows that gleamed with unusual clarity, it combined practical functionality with elements that hinted at its magical purpose. Brass pipework crawled across the exterior walls like metallic vines. Small devices that resembled clockwork insects clung to the roofline, their tiny gears occasionally catching the light as they rotated. The door itself was a masterpiece of engineering—interlocking panels of dark wood and metal that slid apart at our approach, responding to some unseen mechanism.

Upon arrival, I found myself among two other students who appeared to be around my age, if not younger. One was a lanky youth with unkempt straw-colored hair that fell over one eye, giving him a perpetually startled appearance. His fingers never stopped moving, constantly fiddling with small metal objects he pulled from the numerous pockets of his oil-stained vest. The other was shorter and more solidly built, with close-cropped dark hair and calculating eyes that assessed everything and everyone with obvious suspicion. Both wore similar attire to mine— simple, practical clothing that would not interfere with delicate work. The workshop's interior was a marvel of organized chaos. Workbenches lined the walls, cluttered with half-finished contraptions, tools arranged in patterns that suggested frequent use, and jars of substances I couldn't identify. The air was heavy with the smell of hot metal, machine oil, and an underlying sweetness that might have been magical residue. Mechanisms both large and small occupied the center of the room, some motionless, others clicking, whirring, or pulsing with colored light. A spiral staircase in one corner led to the upper floors, its brass steps worn in the center from years of use.

We waited there for what seemed like hours for the Tinkerer teacher to arrive, the tension between us growing with each passing minute. None of us spoke, each lost in our own thoughts and speculations about the coming assessment. The assistant—Merrick—sat at his desk near the door, busy with paperwork, occasionally glancing up at us with a mixture of pity and mild amusement, as if privy to a joke we had yet to understand. Finally, after an hour of waiting, an elderly man entered the room, who looked to be in his eighties, with a dark tan complexion that suggested a lifetime spent under foreign skies. Deep lines etched his face, particularly around his eyes and mouth, telling stories of laughter, concentration, and perhaps hardship. His white hair was cropped close to his scalp, revealing the shape of his skull and emphasizing the sharp angles of his features. In my old world he might have been mistaken as someone from Africa, judging from his complexion alone, but I knew that in this world there were many various factors that made up a person's ethnicity, and I was not fully informed on all of them.

He leaned heavily on his staff—a gnarled piece of wood topped with a strange crystalline formation that emitted a faint blue glow. The staff appeared both decorative and functional, bearing intricate carvings along its length that might have been writing or merely ornamental. His tired appearance suggested that he was on the brink of exhaustion, his shoulders slightly stooped and his movements measured, as if conserving energy. His robes, though of fine quality, hung somewhat loosely on his frame, suggesting recent weight loss or the general diminishing that sometimes accompanies advanced age.

However, his sharp and focused eyes conveyed his intellect—dark eyes that missed nothing, shining with an inner vitality that belied his aged body. They moved rapidly, taking in every detail of the room and its occupants, lingering momentarily on each of us before continuing their assessment. Those eyes gave me hope that he was a competent teacher, despite his apparent physical frailty. After all, I didn't want to be taught by someone who was confused and forgetful. The room fell completely silent as he entered, even the various mechanical devices seeming to quiet their operations in deference to his presence. The scent of something herbal and medicinal accompanied him—perhaps a poultice or tonic he used to manage the aches of old age. As the Tinkerer teacher made his way across the room, his staff tapping a deliberate rhythm against the stone floor, he scrutinized us with a piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate to the core of my being. I could sense his keen observation skills, noting how his eyes narrowed slightly when they lingered on certain details—the calluses on my hands, the posture I adopted, perhaps even my breathing pattern. I wondered what he was thinking about us, what criteria he was using to form his initial judgments.

Nevertheless, I stood tall and tried to project confidence, despite my nervousness. My palms were sweaty, and I fought the urge to wipe them on my trousers, not wanting to appear anxious under his evaluating stare.

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of teacher he would be—patient or demanding, encouraging or critical. Would he be the type to guide with a gentle hand, or would he throw his students into the deep end and watch them struggle to swim? But I was determined to make the most of this opportunity to learn from him, regardless of his methods. As he reached us, positioning himself before our small group with deliberate slowness, I prepared myself for what was to come, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves.

The man cleared his throat, the sound unexpectedly loud in the quiet workshop. He addressed us with a cryptic message, his voice deep and resonant despite his age, carrying easily through the room without seeming to exert effort.

"Today, you lads will either feel very fortunate or very disappointed," he said, his tone neutral but his words laden with significance. The other two students and I exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what to make of his words. A sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The old teacher continued speaking, his hands clasped over the top of his staff. "I am too old to train three students. I only agreed to train one more Tinkerer, and I am determined to select the most competent and determined candidate from amongst you this day." His gaze moved between us, giving each of us a moment of his direct attention, as if measuring our reactions to his proclamation.

"The preliminary examination that you have passed showed that you at least have some intelligence," he continued, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone, "but now I am looking for much more than that. This final test will assess your determination and class quality, and it would be far more intense than any assessment that you had undergone to date." As a tinkerer, he explained, we typically had low ranked affinities, which made it difficult for standard assessments to accurately evaluate our potential. His fingers tapped against his staff as he spoke, emphasizing key points. Instead, a more intense method was needed, and only the most worthy candidate would be selected to be his apprentice.

He turned slightly, gesturing toward a large apparatus that stood in the center of the workshop— a contraption I hadn't paid much attention to earlier. It consisted of a pedestal topped with a large orb that pulsed with an inner light, connected to various tubes and wires that led to a control panel several feet away. The orb itself was roughly the size of a basketball, its surface a swirling mixture of colors that never seemed to settle into a pattern. Something about it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, an instinctual response to power I didn't understand. "This device," the old man said, his voice dropping slightly, "will test your very essence. It will push you beyond your limits, force you to confront your own capabilities in ways you cannot yet imagine." The light from the orb reflected in his dark eyes, making them gleam with an almost predatory intensity.

He gave us the option to leave if we didn't want to undergo the test, but we would forfeit our chance to be his apprentice. His lips curved into a slight smile that never reached his eyes. A gleam in his eye hinted at the challenge he was presenting to us. Only one of us would make it past the test, and the one with the highest-class quality would win the apprenticeship. The gravity of the situation sank in, and I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety coursing through me like an electrical current. My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. I knew I had to give it my all to have any chance of succeeding. The other two students remained silent, seemingly intimidated by the daunting challenge ahead, though the shorter one's jaw clenched visibly, a sign of either determination or fear. But I was determined to prove myself worthy and become the tinkerer's apprentice. The test would likely be intense, but I was ready to push myself to the limit and see where my skills could take me. This could be my only chance to gain the knowledge and skills I might need to find my way back home—or at least to carve out a place for myself in this strange new world. The old man's words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his expectations. My two rivals and I exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what to expect. The large glowing orb standing on a small pillar seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, beckoning us forward. Its light had intensified, casting long shadows across the workshop floor and illuminating our faces from below, giving us all a slightly spectral appearance.

The old man continued to explain, his voice low and measured, the words falling into the silence like stones into still water. "This test will not be easy, it will be painful and will determine your class quality or if you prefer untapped potential." He moved toward the orb, his hand hovering near its surface without quite touching it.

He then likened it to a Tinkerer using different materials to achieve different outcomes, with higher quality materials yielding better results. "A skilled craftsman can create wonders even with base materials," he said, his fingers tracing patterns in the air as he spoke, "but give that same craftsman the finest materials, and he can reshape the very world." His eyes gleamed with passion, revealing the depth of his dedication to his craft. "You," he continued, looking at each of us in turn, "are to be my raw materials, and I will settle for nothing less than the highest quality. I have no interest in mediocrity. My final student will be my masterpiece, my legacy to the world of Tinkerers."

As he finished speaking, the old man looked at us with a challenge in his eyes, his posture straightening slightly as if drawing on reserves of strength. "Which one of you will go first?" he asked, his tone sharpening. "And which of you will go home?" The workshop fell silent again, save for the soft humming of the orb and the occasional tick or whir from the various devices scattered around the room. The sweet, metallic scent of magic grew stronger, emanating from the orb as its glow intensified further. I felt a sense of trepidation wash over me, an almost physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. But also a growing sense of determination arose within me, pushing back against the fear. I wanted to prove myself, to show that I was worthy of being the old man's apprentice, his masterpiece. Jiren's investment in me, my own desire to learn, the possibility of finding a way home—all of these factors combined into a powerful motivation that steeled my resolve. As I stood on the threshold, ready to take the test, I observed one of my rivals standing beside me—the lanky youth with the straw-colored hair. Without a shred of humility, he walked towards the orb as if he didn't believe the old man's warnings. His posture exuded confidence bordering on arrogance, his movements casual and untroubled. With a taunting grin on his face, he boldly placed his hand on the orb, daring the old man to do his worst. "Let's get this over with," he said, his voice cocky and dismissive. "I've got plans for the afternoon." A few strands of his hair stood on end as he approached the orb, responding to whatever energy it emitted.

The old man only smiled in response, a slow, knowing smile that should have served as a warning. He walked behind the orb, his movements deliberate and unhurried, and pulled a lever to start the machine. The control panel lit up with various colored lights, and dials began to spin of their own accord. Suddenly, a surge of electricity coursed through the young man's body, visible as blue-white energy that danced across his skin and made his hair stand completely on end. His cocky expression transformed into one of agony as he screamed, the sound echoing off the workshop walls.

He writhed in pain as the machine relentlessly continued its assault, his body rigid one moment and convulsing the next. His eyes bulged, and his face contorted into a mask of suffering. After 20 seconds of enduring the shock, he fell back, breaking contact with the orb and collapsing to the floor. He lay there gasping for breath, his chest heaving with exertion, and glaring up at the old teacher in anger. His previously neat clothes were now disheveled and singed in places, small wisps of smoke rising from the fabric.

"What are you trying to do, kill me?" He exclaimed, his voice hoarse from screaming. Frustration twisted his features as he struggled to sit up, his limbs trembling from the aftereffects of the machine's probe of his affinities. The scent of ozone and burned hair hung in the air around him.

The old man simply smiled, unmoved by the display of suffering. "You haven't completed the assessment yet. Care to try again from scratch?" His tone was light, almost conversational, as if he were offering the youth a cup of tea rather than another round of torment. The young man shook his head in frustration, his previous confidence shattered. Stumbling to his feet, he cast one final glare at the old Tinkerer before running out of the building, nearly colliding with a workbench in his haste to escape. The door slid shut behind him with a decisive thud, leaving the workshop in momentary silence.

The old man looked at the remaining two of us—myself and the shorter, dark-haired youth—and uttered a single word, his voice neutral but expectant: "Next."

My heart skipped a beat as I started to step forward, determined to succeed where my competition had failed. The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath my feet, my body leaning involuntarily toward the orb as if drawn by an invisible force. But before I could even make a move, the other young man had already rushed forward and placed his hand on the orb, moving with surprising speed for someone of his stocky build. I cursed under my breath, frustrated at being beaten to the punch once again, my opportunity to prove myself delayed yet again. The old Tinkerer's smile was laced with amusement as he watched the young man approach the machine, his dark eyes lighting up with interest. "Well now, you certainly get an A for effort," he remarked, nodding approvingly. "But we're not testing for effort, we're testing for endurance. Let's see how well you do at that, boy." With a pull of the lever, the machine whirred to life once more, the hum rising in pitch and intensity.

The young man's howls of pain echoed through the workshop as the machine assessed him, his stocky frame rigid with tension. Unlike the first candidate, however, he maintained his grip on the orb, his face contorted into a grimace of determination even as the pain clearly tore through him. The grueling process continued for a full five minutes, yet the young man refused to let go. His knuckles turned white with the effort of maintaining contact, and sweat poured down his face, dripping onto the floor below.

Finally, the machine cut off on its own, the lights on the control panel dimming and the orb's glow subsiding to its previous level. The young man collapsed to the floor, panting and exhausted, his body occasionally twitching with residual energy. The old man's assistants rushed over with a stretcher, carrying the young man away to one of the back rooms where he could recover from the ordeal. His face, though pale and drawn with exhaustion, held a hint of satisfaction, as if he knew he had performed well.

The old Tinkerer smiled to himself as he examined the readouts from behind his machine, his fingers tracing lines of data that appeared on a small screen embedded in the control panel. "Not bad at all," he muttered, impressed by what he saw. "This young man has the qualities of a B-grade tinkerer, with seven affinities to his name. I can certainly forge him into something useful." His tone held genuine approval, suggesting that the second candidate had significantly outperformed the first.

As the old man looked up at me, I could tell he was unimpressed by what remained. His eyes swept over me, taking in my unremarkable appearance, my clear nervousness, perhaps even detecting my foreign origin. His expression suggested he had already made up his mind about my potential—or lack thereof.

"I'm going to be honest with you lad," he said gravely, leaning more heavily on his staff. "This young man is going to be tough to beat. In all my years of training, I've only come across two others with his level of qualifications. Are you sure you want to go through with this? Even if you do, there's no guarantee that you'll beat this assessment. This young man is above average for a Tinkerer." His tone was not unkind, merely practical, as if offering me a dignified way to withdraw.

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the old man's words pressing down on me. The room seemed suddenly smaller, closing in around me as I contemplated my decision. The memory of the other candidates' suffering was fresh in my mind, the echoes of their screams still ringing in my ears. But deeper than my fear was my determination—to learn, to survive, to find a way home someday.

"I still like to give it a try, sir," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound confident. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. The old man merely shrugged, his expression suggesting that he'd seen many young fools come and go. "Have it your way. It's your funeral, but don't say I didn't warn you, kid." The words were delivered flatly, without particular emphasis or concern. With a deep breath that did little to calm my racing heart, I stepped forward and placed my hands on the warm orb. The surface felt strangely alive beneath my palms, vibrating slightly with contained energy. Heat radiated into my skin, neither pleasant nor painful but somehow significant, as if the machine was already beginning its assessment. As the old man pulled the lever and the machine whirred to life once more, I braced myself for the onslaught of pain that was sure to follow, tensing every muscle in anticipation.

The machine cut on with a high-pitched whine, and pain unlike anything I had ever experienced surged through my body. I writhed in immense agony, with every fiber of my being screaming for me to let go. My body felt like it was engulfed in flames, every nerve ending simultaneously ablaze with torment. My mind was a chaotic mess of fragmented thoughts and primal instincts, all centered around the overwhelming desire to escape the pain. But I couldn't let go, not now. Through the haze of suffering, I thought of all the people I loved back home—my mother's gentle smile, my father's proud gaze, the friends who had shared my journey through life. Their faces flickered through my mind, each one a reminder of what I had lost and what I might someday regain. I knew that this could be my only chance to find my way back. If I was ever going to make it home, I had to master my Class. There was no turning back, I could only move forward through this trial by fire.

And so, I chanted to myself, the words becoming a mental mantra that provided a focal point beyond the pain: "I have to move forward, the only way is forward!" With each repetition, my determination grew, and my anger intensified—anger at being brought to this world against my will, anger at being enslaved, anger at being forced to endure this torment to prove my worth. The pain continued, radiating from the orb up my arms and through my entire body, but I refused to let it consume me. My teeth ground together so hard I feared they might crack, and my vision narrowed to a tunnel focused solely on the swirling colors within the orb. Finally, after what felt like an eternity suspended in agony, the machine shut off with a series of declining beeps, and the pain subsided, leaving behind a tingling numbness that was almost pleasurable by comparison. I panted heavily, my chest heaving with the effort to draw air into lungs that felt scorched from within. Sweat drenched my clothes, and my legs trembled so violently I feared they might give way beneath me. But I remained standing, staring back at the old man with a fierce determination in my eyes, refusing to show weakness now that the worst was over.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, dark eyes assessing me as if seeing me for the first time. The workshop had fallen completely silent, even the various mechanisms seeming to hold their breath in anticipation.

"Look kid," the old man finally said, his voice softer than before, "I appreciate your determination, it's clear that you're trying to accomplish something significant. But I'm going to be honest with you, I've only encountered two other Tinkerers with an assessment as high as the young man who came before you." His words were measured, neither encouraging nor dismissing.

I didn't say anything, just continued to look at him with unwavering determination, drawing upon reserves of strength I hadn't known I possessed. The silence stretched between us, the only sound the occasional drip of sweat falling from my chin to the floor below. Finally, I spoke up, my voice steadier than I expected. "You can tell me all of this after you've finished looking at my results," I said firmly, unwilling to accept judgment before all the evidence was in. The old man raised an eyebrow, surprised by my confidence in the face of what he clearly considered a foregone conclusion.

The old man shrugged nonchalantly, resigned to my determination to see the assessment through. "Very well," he muttered, turning back to the control panel. He began to review the results, his fingers moving across the screen, calling up different displays and data points. I noticed his posture change subtly as he read, his back straightening and his head tilting forward with increased interest.

Then I could see his eyes widen as he read through the readouts, his expression transforming from mere professional interest to genuine shock. His grip on his staff tightened, knuckles whitening with the force of it. Looking up at me with newfound intensity, he asked fiercely, "Kid, where did you say you were from? I thought you were just some sort of slave." His voice carried an urgency that hadn't been present before, suggesting that whatever he'd seen had fundamentally changed his assessment of me.

I explained that I was an otherworlder, brought to this world through the last magic gate. The words came easily despite my exhaustion, perhaps because they represented a truth I had accepted but not yet fully processed. "I didn't ask to come here," I added, a hint of bitterness creeping into my tone despite my attempt to remain neutral. The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully, the gesture slow and contemplative. "Ah, that explains it," he said, nodding to himself. "I've always heard rumors that otherworlders possess more power than the native born, but this proves it." His eyes had taken on a gleam of excitement, like a researcher who had just stumbled upon a groundbreaking discovery. Interrupting him, I asked if he could share the results of my assessment. My heart pounded with anticipation, the moment of truth finally at hand. Whatever these results were, they would shape my future in this world, defining my opportunities and limitations in ways I couldn't yet fully comprehend.

The old man smiled and chuckled to himself, a sound of genuine pleasure rather than derision. "Sure, sure, where's my head?" he replied, tapping his temple with one gnarled finger. "According to my assessment machine here, you have 12 magic affinities, all with a strength ranking of R1. But the amazing thing I see here is that your class quality grade is S grade." He pronounced the letter with particular emphasis, his voice rising in excitement. I looked at him, unsure of what that meant in the context of this world's magical ranking system. The classifications were still new to me, their significance not yet fully clear. "Sir, is that good?" I asked, hoping I hadn't endured all that pain only to discover I was somehow deficient. The old man nearly shouted in excitement, his previous weariness seemingly forgotten in the rush of discovery. "Is that good?" he repeated, gesturing expansively with his free hand. "I've never seen a higher grade than S grade! You will definitely be my apprentice, young man. I wanted my last student to be my crowning achievement before I officially went off to live as a hermit, and it seems fate, the gods, or whatever entity you pray to has given me the best quality material to work with. You win, young man. You most certainly win." His enthusiasm was contagious, his eyes bright with possibilities I could only begin to imagine. I couldn't believe it. All of the pain and determination had paid off in the best possible way. Relief flooded through me, weakening my knees and bringing unexpected moisture to my eyes that I quickly blinked away. I would be able to train with one of the greatest Tinkerers of this time, and learn from his expertise. The knowledge I gained might someday lead me home—or at least allow me to carve out a place for myself in this strange new world. With a grin on my face that felt both foreign and entirely appropriate, I thanked the old man for the opportunity and vowed to work hard to live up to his expectations. The future was bright, and I was ready to take on whatever challenges lay ahead.