The Dark Lord of Crafting

Kevin had repurposed a cavern system running along Mount Doom’s eastern flank for food production. Beneath the fortress, above the pens under the mountain, Zareth led me through a narrow passage that opened into a multilayered factory farm. Each broad chamber, illuminated by yellow lamps, housed a different crop or animal.

The potato room was compact, the sprouts showing above tiers of wooden shelves connected to an irrigation system. Water flowed continuously through channels encircling the rows, and I suspected the source was a device similar to my limitless thermos hidden in the walls.

A farmer in a linen tunic and a straw hat moved among the planters. She stopped dead when she saw us enter the chamber, dropping to her knees in a bow. It hit me like a slap, Kevin had dressed his farmers as if they were Maincraft villagers.

“Don’t mind us,” I said, “this isn’t an official inspection.”

The farmer glanced up, sweat glistening on her shaved head. Confusion wrinkled her brow.

“Please continue your work,” Zareth said, and we moved on.

The beet and carrot rooms were identical to the first, a hydroponic set-up supported by the odd mechanics of the Survivor System. The crops wouldn’t grow at super-speeds unless Kevin made a habit of hanging out down here, but it was still a magical greenhouse.

“Do the workers handle the planting and harvesting?” I asked Zareth, keeping my voice low to not further confuse the Dargothians managing their assigned sections. The chambers were interconnected, a minecart track weaving through the walls, and I saw someone pushing a mound of wheat. The sound of the squeaking wheels was an unexpected reminder of Bedlam.

“Of course,” Zareth said, his sandals clopping as we walked. “The farms are sufficient to support the population of the mountain while being tended by mortal hands. I can produce the yield records for you if you would like.”

“No thanks, I’ll take your word on that.” My statement seemed to please him, though it had come more from disinterest than trust.

I was wondering about the lack of automation. In the game, redstone devices could be arranged so that some crops continued to produce indefinitely without the need for villagers. It would have surprised me if Kevin hadn’t invested some time in reproducing those builds, and the melon room did not disappoint.

A narrow platform of vines with just enough room for a melon to mature before it was smashed by one of the pistons placed above each patch. Realistically, it shouldn’t have worked. The piston would just crush the melon. Though most of the mechanisms of automation were hidden behind stone, I could see a hopper attached to a chest as an output.

Sure enough, the chest was half full of coins. Though I didn’t wait around to watch the melons grow, it was an easy assumption to make that being hit by a piston converted them into a coin, and the coins rolled down into a cart system concealed beneath the platform. Pistons acting as a tool to convert raw materials into coins went a long way to explaining how Kevin’s other factories worked.

The wheat chamber was an immense, ten feet high, arcing along the curve of what must have been the edge of the mountain. There were dozens of workers here; checking progress, planting seeds, using sickles to harvest mature stalks, and bundling them for transport all under the unremitting glow of a host of eternal torches.

Every time we passed by a farmer, they dropped to their knees. Rather than go through the whole conversation again, I just kept walking. They got back to work faster if they were ignored.

The livestock were housed in a series of barns similar to the monster pens below the mountain. Chickens pecked away at the ground in large coops, their clucking echoing throughout the chambers. A pump system provided them with water, while excess seeds from the farms were used as feed. There was no automation, real animals would have been hard to fit to the mechanics of a game that lacked collision rules. In Maincraft, you could cram unlimited pigs into a tiny pit and convert them to meat by exposing them to lava. That would have been more problematic in this case.

The cattle were free range, if you could count a tremendous enclosed cavern as free. It had grass, at least.

They were not normal cows.

The animals looked healthy enough, but there were mantles of brown-capped mushrooms sprouting from their backs. Mooshrooms? It was a passive mob from the game.

“Are those poisonous?” I asked.

“No, my Dark,” Zareth stroked his goatee. “Despite their appearance, these animals are untainted.”

“That’s hard to believe.” The mushrooms didn’t have the same coloration as Bedlam Wart, they looked like something that could have appeared in any natural pasture, but the fact that they were sprouting out of the hides of these animals implied there was nothing natural about this.

“That looks uncomfortable,” I said.

As we made our way through the livestock enclosures, the cows, or rather, the mooshrooms, became gradually aware of our presence. They were big, some of their heads hanging as high as my shoulders, and close up it looked like mycelium was wrinkling their hides. Their eyes, large and placid, showed no signs of aggression or pain.

Despite their unusual appearance, they acted much like any other cow. Their movements were unhurried, ambling through their enclosure and gathering around water channels to drink. A group of them raised their heads in unison, watching us approach with clear interest, their wide nostrils flaring as they took in our scent.

One cow, even bigger than the rest, made its way towards us. It was an impressive specimen, with a towering rack of mushrooms arching from its back. It ambled forward across the grassy enclosure.

When I held out my gauntlet, it moved closer, extending its thick neck and lowering its massive head. Its wet nose pushed against the metal of my palm, snorting softly as it sniffed. The touch was gentle.

“They seem happy,” I said.

“Of course,” Zareth agreed, “they are your subjects.”

That was a non-sequitur if I’ve ever heard one.

“I assume there is a slaughterhouse of some kind.”

“Naturally, is it your desire to continue the inspection?”

“No, this is enough.”

Zareth suggested we visit the garrison, and I saw no reason to disagree. We still hadn’t discussed the fact that I wasn’t Kevin, and my vizier made no move to broach the subject. The details may have been secondary to him. The Dark Lord was the Dark Lord, and Zareth wasn’t interested in seeing the face behind the mask.

Mount Doom’s fortress was a multilayered complex sprawled across the front face of the mountain. Constructed in tiers, with multiple walls and chokepoints, it was essentially Minis Tirith painted black. An entire town’s worth of people resided behind those walls, mostly the families of the soldiers. As we made our way down to the outer wall, it gave me the impression of a bustling village, though there was no public market, and the residents kept dropping to their knees whenever they saw me.

We were going to have to put out a memo or something. Abject obeisance was not necessary, and if I was going to be spending my days here, the practice would continually interrupt everybody’s day, aside from making me uncomfortable.

The main garrison was located beside the outermost gate, a tremendous set of stone doors that could only be opened by a pair of massive wheels operated by trolls. When we arrived, someone had already warned the Major that I was on a walkabout, and we were met by the same man who had questioned Bojack in the great hall.

Major Garron was a silver-haired soldier with broad shoulders and perpetual stubble. He might have been physically past his prime, but he held himself erect and clearly adhered to a training regimen as strict as that he enforced on his recruits. He wasn’t decked out in stormtrooper gear today, wearing a functional tunic instead, but the epaulet on his shoulder was marked with the insignia of his rank.

“Your darkness,” he put his fist over his heart for the fourth or fifth time, “We were not expecting you. May I assemble the men for your approval on the parade grounds?”

“The secondary field, if you would, Major,” Zareth answered for me. I’d been letting him lead. If I was going to play the role of the Dark Lord, as well as bring my family here, it was important for me to know as much as possible about Mount Doom and its occupants. Letting the garrison get used to me was a good thing.

"Of course, Vizier. Immediately." Garron saluted again, then pivoted on his heel and fast-walked away.

Zareth and I stood in silence for a moment, watching the Major's retreating figure. His back was stiff, his steps firm and precise. I felt a pang of respect for the man. His loyalty was clear, even if it was to someone else. That wasn’t quite right, while there was no reason to complicate matters with explanations about the coup, I suspected that like the vizier, Garron’s attachment was to the throne, not the man who sat on it. In the minds of my subjects, there was no separation between the two.

"The first public act of this new phase in your rulership," Zareth broke the silence, though his words were barely above a whisper. He was not speaking to the Dark Lord but to the man beneath the helmet. "Do you have any questions as to what is expected of you?."

I did, indeed. "What do I normally do in situations like these?"

Zareth's lips twitched in what could have been a smile. "Nothing too taxing, my lord. Stand tall, as you are, a symbol of the might and invincibility of our nation. They will not expect an oration.”

I nodded, falling into step beside him as we followed the path Major Garron had taken. "And after the inspection?"

"We can meet with the other officers if you wish,” Zareth said, his hand brushing over a sheaf of scrolls he carried. “Or visit the storerooms or the stables. I am completely at your service, though being the only acting vizier, several clerical matters are pending my attention. Most of what occurs in the fortress is beneath the interest of our Dark Lord, if you would forgive my impertinence for saying so.”

“You have my permission to find yourself some help.”

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head, “I will draw from among the scribes.” It was risky to rely so much on one man, but the last thing I wanted was to get bogged down in a bureaucratic day job. General management of the fortress was not my priority right now.

The training field was on the other side of the second wall, a flat arena of white stone with a dark pillar flying the flag of Dargoth in each corner. There were already soldiers pouring out of a tunnel that connected to the barracks, swiftly assuming ready positions. I threw back my shoulders, as I ascended a low stage set between two of the pillars, trying to look the part, though my armor did all of the work for me.

Zareth offered me a small, approving nod before announcing our arrival. “Behold, the Dark Lord!”

Captain Garron echoed the announcement, his voice carrying over the field, and the soldiers straightened in their formation, their gazes locked on the mountain behind me. It took about five more minutes for the entire garrison to file out and get into position, at which point they saluted me with their spears, and Garron led them in a round of hoo-haas. This was followed by a shift in formation, going from a square to a wedge, which then spun around. They marched back and forth for a bit before returning to a square and saluting me in unison.

They were a well-disciplined group, but only about a third of them were wearing the steel plate and chain combo that I’d come to think of as stormtrooper armor. The rest were in black tabards, presumably rousted out of the barracks or from non-active duty to put on a show.

I’d killed hundreds of men like this while trying to save the lillits from capture. They’d been soldiers for the enemy under the command of a literal demon, and I hadn’t felt sorry for their fates. Now I was the one consorting with demons. These soldiers had a cushy post, here at Mount Doom, considering active conflicts were going on in the north, and there was an impending battle in the west. So many others were not so fortunate, and I was suddenly the one responsible for them.

Could I just pull our forces out of Henterfell and tell King Egard he could have the border back? The idea of leaving Godwod to his fate at the hands of a vengeful king was an appealing one. If Egard wanted to retaliate after that, he’d have a hell of a time trying to cross the desert that separated our kingdoms. Bojack wanted me to expand Dargoth, but he hadn’t given me any commands regarding Henterfell specifically. What would he say to pulling out of the west so we could focus on the Orkhans in the north who were actively encroaching on our territory?

The display lasted a few more minutes, at the end of which, Major Garron dismissed the men and strode over to the stage to salute me himself.

“Do you have any words for us, my Dark?”

“Very impressive, Captain. The fortress is in good hands.”

The major beamed, saluted again, and marched off after Zareth gestured to show he was dismissed.

“When was the last time these men had to fight to defend the mountain?” I asked the vizier.

“These men?” He raised an eyebrow. “Never. Mount Doom has not been assaulted in living memory.”

Kevin’s empire had been peaceful, in its way.

“I’m going to speak with Orobas. If I need you, will you be in the tower?”

“I will,” Zareth bowed deeply, “send for me whenever you desire.”

I went to check on Kevin. In a sense, taking his place as the Dark Lord had catapulted me into the endgame. If I had been playing Maincraft, it was hard to imagine where I would go from here. I could build monuments, but Kevin had already built them. Collect more resources? He already had everything that could be found on Plana. If this had been a game, I would have been at the point of considering starting a new seed. Surviving, building a shelter, crafting your way up the tech tree, that was the fun. I hadn’t gotten into alchemy yet, but there had to be a brewing station around the fortress somewhere.

Of course, having material wealth wasn’t the ultimate goal in life. Wealth was only useful insofar as it provided for the things that truly mattered; family, friendship, and health. The former Dark Lord had been healthy enough, but as far as I could tell, he hadn’t forged any real bonds with the people around him. His relationship with the demons had been entirely transactional, and aside from that, surrounded by servants and soldiers, he had been almost as alone as he was now.

Kevin huddled in a corner of the diamond box, and Bojack watched him, as patient as a stone. That sort of thing was probably normal for a demon, though I did wonder what he was thinking about. It was weird to consider a demon’s internal life, but they had to have them.

“Any progress,” I asked.

“No,” the demon chuckled. “He has been crying.”

“I get that,” I said. Solitary was rough.