Neon's fingers quivered as he fumbled open the old cabinet, its wooden doors creaking in protest like something awoken from a long slumber. Inside, vials glinted faintly—liquids of deep emerald, cobalt, and molten gold swirling like captured weather. His breath hitched. He grabbed two. No time to think. No time to savor.

He tilted them back.

The taste hit like glass shards and fire. Bitter. Metallic. Alive. The burn carved down his throat, searing away the damp chill that clung to him like death.

His chest seized.

"I'm out of mana," he muttered, voice little more than gravel scraping the back of his throat. His eyes flicked to the bench. His helmet—his lifeline—rested there, darkened, its arcane core flickering faint and dim.

Without pause, Neon yanked the leather pouch from his belt and pulled a new mana core—a smooth crystalline shard, thrumming with soft azure light. It pulsed in his palm like a captured breath, humming with restrained energy.

He popped the helmet's side panel open, fingers slick and clumsy. The old core dropped out like a spent heart. The new one slid in with a click. The glow surged—steady, eager, alive again.

From across the shadow-drenched room, Calder's voice cut through the quiet like a rasping blade through cloth.

"Ye're runnin' yerself to cinders, lad," he warned. His Highland brogue rolled heavy with concern. "Burn that mana too fast, an' ye'll be nothin' but smoke an' bones before the next hour's out."

Neon didn't turn. He didn't need to.

"The people of mudgate needs help, they don't have an hour." he said, tone sharp, urgent, alive with something just short of panic. "And neither do we."

---

Calder wiped soot from his forehead, eyes glinting in the candlelight, face carved from fire and stone. He didn't argue. Not yet.

Outside, the world screamed. Faint at first—distant cries, distant crashes. But they crawled closer. A mournful howl rose like a beast in mourning, met seconds later by a low boom that made the old shutters rattle and the dust rain down in fine, glittering sheets.

The workshop groaned with age, but it stood. Somehow, it still stood.

Neon sat hunched over the main bench, breath ragged. The air around him stank of burnt oil, sweat, and coppery blood. Brass gears were strewn across the tabletop, tangled wires coiled like sleeping snakes. A shattered vial glinted in the guttering candlelight.

The flame danced erratically, casting shadows that flickered across Neon's strained face. The light clung to him—barely, stubbornly—as if even the fire refused to abandon him.

"We need parts," he whispered hoarsely. His voice was low, yet it cut cleanly through the noise. S.A.B.R.E., nestled against the bench leg, responded with a nervous skitter. Its tiny mechanical limbs clicked in a rhythm that sounded eerily like pacing.

The spider-bot chirred once—a whirr of acknowledgment—then darted into the dark, vanishing into the maze of shelves and shelves of scrap.

Neon surged upright, fueled by borrowed energy and sheer will. He hauled a rusted bin onto the table and dumped it out. Screws, gears, coils, plates—all of it spilled forth in a clattering downpour, cold and bright.

His hands moved like he was born to this.

Wired for it.

---

Brass and copper, iron and bone, all blurred beneath his fingers as he sorted, stripped, snapped, and stacked. Each motion was deliberate, driven, and tinged with desperation.

"Master!" he called, not pausing. His voice cracked under the strain. "I need your help! Can you build this?!"

Calder looked up mid-swing, hammer buried halfway into the fresh barricade he was reinforcing. The wood shuddered with the force, dust and resin misting into the air.

"What're ye—" he started, but Neon slapped a parchment down, half-sketched already. Lines rough but intentional took shape under his frantic strokes.

A weapon. Brutal. Compact. A stripped-down crossbow with no elegance—just kill power. No artistry. Just survival.

Calder dropped his hammer, his footsteps heavy and sure as he approached. He leaned over Neon's shoulder. The candlelight flickered in his eyes.

"Where'd ye learn that kind o' linework?" he asked, eyebrow raised beneath the soot.

Neon didn't answer. Couldn't. S.A.B.R.E. returned with a leap, landing beside the blueprint, tapping one limb against the sketched trigger with a deliberate clink.

A flaw. A fix. A warning.

Neon nodded.

Behind him, Calder exhaled through his nose, deep and tired. "Ye are a mad child," he muttered, but his hands were already reaching for the heavy toolset on the wall, pulling down clamps and calipers, spanners and solder.

Then Neon did something that made Calder pause.

He reached into his coat and drew out a long, jagged object. Not steel. Not stone.

A tooth.

---

Dark and wet with something thicker than blood. Its edge shimmered faintly with a rune pulsing beneath the surface—alchemical and ancient, like a secret whispered into the marrow of the world.

He slammed it into the table with a sharp clack. The sound rang loud. Clear. Final.

"This," Neon said. His voice was low, iron wrapped in fire. "This is what I'm planning."

Calder stared, eyes narrowing, every inch of him bracing like an old wolf smelling storm.

"Ye do know what that is, aye?" he asked quietly.

Neon nodded once.

"Then ye also know," Calder continued, voice rough with dread, "this path yer drawin'? It'll cost. It always does."

"I'll pay," Neon said, unwavering. "Just help me build it."

For a moment, there was only the wind outside and the ghost-hum of mana pulsing in the helmet core. Then Calder moved.

He rolled up his sleeves.

"Aye, then," he growled. "Let's make the bastards regret ever steppin' foot in this realm."

And the forge came alive.