The cleared-out field Marnie had promised was less of a scenic meadow and more of a desolate stretch of dirt and scorched grass at the edge of the Industrial District. It was the kind of place where things went to be blown up or abandoned, far enough from the city center that a localized explosion wouldn't cause a diplomatic incident.

  Marnie spent several minutes dragging heavy, reinforced iron targets from her crate, spacing them out across the dust.

  "Alright, kid," Marnie called out, wiping sweat from her brow with her blackened apron. "Let’s see if you’re a marksman or just a very expensive flashlight. Standard blast procedure: open the palm, lock the elbow, and imagine your mana flowing into the arm like water through a pipe. Once the hum reaches a pitch you can feel in your teeth, let it rip."

  Aiven stepped forward, his new grey shirt feeling itchy against his skin. He raised his left arm. The brass felt warm now, a steady, rhythmic throb that matched his own heartbeat. He opened his palm toward the nearest target.

  Imagine the mana.

  Aiven imagined a gate containing his mana. He thought of opening the gate, just a crack.

  The Armvil Mark 3 responded instantly. A low, vibrating hum began in the shoulder joint, sliding down the silver-etched crystal pathways. The teardrop stone in his bicep began to pulse with a blinding white light.

  Hummmmmmmmmm—

  "Now! Release it!" Marnie yelled.

  Aiven visualized the gate swinging wide.

  BOOM.

  A bolt of pure white energy, thick as a man’s torso, shrieked out of his palm. The recoil was so violent it nearly sent Aiven sprawling backward into the dust. The bolt whistled past the iron target, missing it by at least three feet, and slammed directly into a massive, ancient oak tree fifty yards behind it.

  The sound of the impact was like a thunderclap. A jagged, smoking dent appeared in the thick trunk, wood splinters raining down like lethal snow.

  Aiven stared at his hand, which was still smoking.

  "Master!" Virelle appeared at his side, clapping her hands with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for a world-changing miracle. "Such precision! Did you see how the bolt avoided that dull, ugly piece of iron to strike the majestic tree instead? A truly artistic choice. Your mastery of the unexpected is unparalleled."

  Aiven looked at the smoking tree, then at his theatrical mage. "Virelle, there’s really no need to force the praise. I missed a stationary target. It was embarrassing."

  "I am never forced!" she insisted, floating in front of him and adjusting his collar as if he’d just won a tournament. "The tree was clearly an agent of the enemy. You sensed its treachery before I did."

  "It’s a tree, Virelle," Aiven deadpanned.

  Marnie trotted over, scribbling furiously in her soot-stained notebook. "Accuracy: Abysmal. Kinetic output: Terrifying. Note: Recoil may require a heavier stance or... more muscle on the kid." She looked up at Aiven. "The longer you charge it, the nastier the blast, kid. But listen to me: the maximum safe charge is five seconds. Any longer than that and you'll reach the point of no return. You’ll melt the internal gears and probably take your shoulder with it. Five seconds. Got it?"

  "Five seconds," Aiven repeated, his heart hammering. He looked down at the brass limb. "Marnie... can I ask you something?"

  "As long as it doesn't involve returning the Armvil," she grunted.

  "How did you know?" Aiven asked, his voice dropping. "I mean, my mana signature...I’m just an E-rank.”

  Marnie stopped writing. She adjusted her brass goggles, her eyes uncharacteristically unreadable for a moment. She looked at Aiven, then at the living disaster floating beside him, and finally at the smoking crater in the oak tree.

  "Call it a hunch, lad," Marnie said, her blunt voice returning with a shrug. "I’ve spent decades listening to the sound of metal and magic hitting each other. You don't need to see the fire to know when a furnace is about to burst its seams."

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  She turned back toward the targets, waving a hand dismissively. "Now stop asking questions and get back to aiming. That tree is still standing, and I’ve got three more targets to ruin."

  Aiven watched her walk away. The answer was too simple, too practiced. But as the Armvil Mark 3 hummed against his side, he realized that for the first time, he didn't care if it was a trap. He was a man with two arms again—and one of them was capable of providing the strength he needed.

  Aiven spent the next few hours in a cycle of humming brass and white light. By the time the sky had deepened into a bruised purple and the first stars began to peek through the Industrial District’s smog, he finally managed to hit three targets in a row without bruising his ribs or threatening the local flora.

  Gurgle.

  The sound was distinct—a low, seismic groan that definitely didn't come from a mechanical gear.

  Virelle stiffened mid-air, her back straightening with exaggerated elegance. She smoothed her lavender skirts, looking everywhere but at Aiven. "That... was a localized atmospheric tremor. Nothing more."

  GURGLE.

  Aiven looked at her with a tired, knowing smile. "That atmospheric tremor sounded hungry."

  "Preposterous," Virelle sniffed, though a faint pink hue touched her cheeks. "I am a being of refined magical essence. I do not succumb to the primitive urges of the gut."

  "Right. Well, I'm a being of primitive urges," Aiven said, turning to Marnie as he rubbed his aching shoulder. "It's late. Why don't we get some dinner? My treat. You helped me out a lot today."

  "Your treat?" Marnie's eyes lit up behind her goggles. "Kid, you're a scholar and a gentleman. I know just the place. It's close, it's hearty, and they don't ask questions about who's bleeding."

  "Wait! Master, you cannot be serious!" Virelle objected, floating down to block his path. "You wish to dine with this... this soot-merchant? In a place that likely serves 'hearty' as a euphemism for 'inedible'?"

  "She spent three years building this arm, Virelle," Aiven said, steering her gently by the elbow. "Buying her a meal is the least I can do."

  Marnie led them three blocks over to a cellar entrance marked by a swinging sign depicting a gear-shaped mug. The sign read The Lubricated Larynx. As they descended the stairs, the air became thick with the smell of heavy oil, roasted root vegetables, and the boisterous roar of dozens of dwarves.

  "Oh, by the Stars," Virelle gasped, covering her nose with a silk handkerchief. "It smells like a merchant ship’s engine room! Master, the humidity alone is going to ruin my hair!"

  Several nearby dwarves stopped mid-gulp, their bearded faces turning toward the elf with annoyed glares.

  "Ah, don't mind her!" Aiven said quickly, his social anxiety flaring as he waved his hands frantically. "She's just... she's had a long day of atmospheric tremors! Very stressful!"

  "Right!" Marnie added, slapping a nearby dwarf on the back so hard his beer sloshed. "She's an aristocrat, boys! Thinks air is a delicacy! Back to your swill!"

  The dwarves grumbled but returned to their meals. Marnie grinned at Aiven. "I'll handle the ordering, kid. You just find a table that isn't too sticky. Long as you're paying, I'll make sure we get the good stuff."

  Aiven and a very reluctant Virelle found a corner table. Virelle sat as if the bench were made of hot coals, her skirts gathered tightly around her. "I feel as though I am being marinated in machine grease," she whispered.

  Marnie returned shortly, carrying three massive stone bowls of a thick, dark brown mixture that looked remarkably like wet clay.

  "Here we go! Magma-Mash with Obsidian Crust," Marnie announced, sliding a bowl in front of each of them. "Dwarf favorite. It's mostly shredded mountain-goat, roasted beets, and enough black pepper to restart a dead heart."

  Virelle stared at the bowl as if it contained a live venomous snake. "I refuse. I simply refuse to partake in this... tectonic porridge."

  Aiven took a cautious bite. It was surprisingly savory—salty, spicy, and incredibly filling. "It's actually pretty good, Virelle. Give it a try."

  Virelle looked at the bowl, then at Aiven, and then—after another seismic rumble from her stomach—picked up a heavy iron spoon. She took a tiny, cautious nibble.

  Her eyes widened. She took another, larger bite. Then another. Within minutes, she was eating with a speed that was decidedly un-aristocratic, though she still tried to maintain a look of mild disdain between swallows.

  "It is... acceptable," she muttered, wiping a bit of gravy from her lip. "For a peasant mash. It has a certain... robust charm."

  Aiven smiled into his bowl. Her stomach is definitely easier to please than her ego, he thought.

  The rest of the dinner passed with casual banter—Marnie recounting tales of her failed prototypes (including the one that turned a chicken into a projectile), and Virelle occasionally chiming in to correct Marnie’s "inferior" grasp of magical theory.

  Eventually, they climbed back out into the cool night air.

  "Good luck with the arm, kid," Marnie said, nodding to Aiven. "Remember: five seconds on the blast, and drop by once a week for a tune-up. If it starts clicking like a cricket, stop using it immediately."

  "I will. Thanks for everything, Marnie," Aiven said.

  Virelle huffed and turned her back. "It dreads me to have to return to this place."

  As they walked back toward Aiven’s apartment, the white light of the Armvil Mark 3 hummed softly at his side. The day had been long, painful, and ridiculously expensive, but as Aiven looked at his new hand, he felt a strange sense of completeness.