Zestial arrived at Aldren Pell’s workshop before sunrise.
Aldren was already working.
The forge illuminated the open shutters with an orange glow, and every strike of his hammer echoed down the empty street.
Zestial stopped outside.
Scout stood beside him wearing his supply harness.
“You’re early,” the Palico said.
“By four minutes.”
The hammering stopped.
Aldren’s voice came from inside.
“If you have enough time to talk, you have enough time to sweep.”
Zestial entered.
A broom was waiting against the wall.
Aldren pointed at the floor.
“Metal scraps in the iron bin.
Coal in the coal bucket.
Anything glowing stays where it is.
Anything you don’t recognize, you ask before touching.”
Zestial picked up the broom.
“When do we begin?”
“We have.”
The floor did not look dirty.
Then Zestial began sweeping.
Metal dust emerged from every crack.
Scale from the forge collected beneath the anvil.
Tiny fragments hid under tables and beside the quenching trough.
Scout inspected the first pile.
“Separate those.”
“They’re scraps.”
“They are different scraps.”
Aldren looked toward them.
“What did he say?”
“He thinks the metal should be sorted.”
“The cat is correct.”
Scout’s fur lifted.
“Palico,” Zestial and Scout said together.
Aldren heard one correction and an offended meow.
He pointed toward four smaller containers.
“Iron.
Steel.
Copper.
Unknown.”
Zestial crouched beside the pile.
Several pieces were obvious.
Others were not.
He picked up a dark fragment.
“Steel?”
Aldren glanced at it.
“Iron.”
Zestial examined the broken edge.
“It’s harder than the others.”
“Because it was worked differently.”
Zestial placed it in the iron container.
The next piece was dull gray with a faint blue line through its surface.
He felt magic inside it.
“Unknown.”
Aldren finally looked interested.
“Why?”
“It contains ethernano.”
“Many metals do.”
“The distribution is uneven.”
Aldren held out his hand.
Zestial gave him the fragment.
“Lacrima slag,” the craftsman said.
“Useless for structural work.
Dangerous if heated without knowing what magic contaminated it.”
Scout leaned closer.
“What happens?”
“It might release smoke.
It might release stored magic.
It might do nothing until someone strikes it.”
Alastor would have loved it.
That was reason enough to keep it away from him.
Zestial put it in the unknown container.
Aldren watched him continue sorting.
“You have good magical sensitivity.”
“My Requip needs me to understand what I’m storing.”
“Understanding that something exists is not the same as knowing what it will do in a forge.”
“I know.”
“No, you accept that I said it.
Knowing comes later.”
Zestial continued sweeping.
He disliked the distinction.
That probably meant it mattered.
When the floor was clean, Aldren placed three metal bars on the workbench.
They appeared identical.
“Tell me which one should become a hammer.”
Zestial inspected the first.
Then the second.
Then the third.
He lifted each one.
The second was slightly heavier.
“The second.”
“Why?”
“More material.”
“Wrong.”
Zestial set it down.
He examined their surfaces again.
“The first has fewer imperfections.”
“Also wrong.”
Scout sniffed near the bars without touching them.
“The third was struck more consistently.”
Zestial looked at him.
Aldren heard a thoughtful chirp.
“The Palico sees it,” he said.
Zestial studied the third bar.
Faint lines ran along its length.
Not cracks.
Patterns left by repeated working.
“The grain.”
Aldren nodded.
“The first bar is cleaner.
The second is heavier.
The third has been folded and worked properly.
A hammer made from the first might look better.
One made from the second might feel more impressive.”
“The third survives longer.”
“If the smith doesn’t ruin it.”
Aldren gave Zestial a pair of heavy gloves.
They were too large.
Zestial tightened the wrist straps.
“Am I using the forge?”
“No.”
The gloves came off again.
Aldren placed a damaged hammer on the table.
“You’re removing the handle.”
Zestial examined it.
The wooden haft had split near the head.
Someone had wrapped the fracture with wire and continued using it.
“Who repaired this?”
“No one.
Someone delayed replacing it.”
Zestial touched the wire.
“It could have failed during a swing.”
“It did.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No.”
Aldren’s expression said that was not the point.
Zestial picked up the proper tools.
He began unwinding the wire.
The work was slow.
The wire had sunk into the wood, and the split fibers caught against it.
Zestial’s bandaged fingers complained whenever he tightened his grip.
Aldren noticed.
“You’re holding the pliers too hard.”
“If I loosen them, they slip.”
“Then change the angle.”
Zestial did.
The wire moved more easily.
Tower habits, Porlyusica had called them.
Hands that expected tools to be taken away.
Hands that treated every task as something to finish before punishment arrived.
Zestial loosened his grip again.
The pliers did not leave him.
No one struck him for slowing down.
Eventually, the broken handle came free.
Aldren placed the hammer head in Zestial’s hands.
It was heavier than it looked.
Zestial turned it over.
One striking face had flattened unevenly.
The eye through the center was worn wider on one side.
“This can’t take another handle.”
“Why?”
“The eye is damaged.”
“Can it be repaired?”
Zestial considered it.
“Maybe.” Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Aldren took the head from him.
“Everything can be repaired if you’re willing to spend enough material, time, and effort.
The real question is whether it should be.”
He dropped the damaged head into the scrap bin.
Zestial watched it land.
“What if it matters to someone?”
“Then the answer changes.”
Aldren selected a new bar of metal.
“Tools have purpose.
They can also have history.
A craftsman needs to know which one the customer is paying him to preserve.”
Zestial thought of the weapon he intended to make for Alastor.
Not just a weapon.
Something his brother would carry into a place no one else could enter.
Something that might be the only object standing between Alastor and a charging monster.
“What makes a good hammer?” Zestial asked.
Aldren glanced at him.
“For forging?”
“For hunting.”
“That depends on what you’re hunting.”
Zestial smiled faintly.
Aldren noticed.
“You already have something in mind.”
“Only the beginning.”
“Then the beginning is probably wrong.”
“That seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”
“It’s experience.”
Aldren handed him the broom again.
“Sweep the back room.”
By the time Zestial returned to Fairy Tail, breakfast had ended.
Alastor stood in the training yard.
Makarov had drawn a single circle around him.
Porlyusica stood outside it with a medical bag and the expression of someone who expected every prediction she had made about children to be proven correct.
Gray, Cana, and Erza watched from the porch.
Alastor’s arms were covered in Great Jaggi scales.
Only Great Jaggi scales.
No Arzuros claws.
No Nargacuga eyes.
Makarov walked around him.
“How does your balance feel?”
“Normal.”
“You have a tail.”
Alastor looked behind himself.
A shortened Great Jaggi tail extended from the base of his spine.
“Mostly normal.”
“Walk to the marker.”
Alastor did.
The first three steps were awkward.
His shoulders leaned too far forward, and the tail moved opposite his hips.
By the fifth step, his posture changed.
His knees bent.
His weight settled over the altered feet.
The tail began moving with him instead of against him.
Makarov nodded.
“Better.”
Alastor reached the wooden marker.
“Can I run?”
“No.”
“Jump?”
“No.”
“Attack something?”
“No.”
Gray leaned toward Cana.
“This is boring.”
Erza looked at Alastor’s feet.
“He isn’t falling.”
“I didn’t say useless.
I said boring.”
Alastor turned.
The tail continued moving.
His hips did not.
He spun too far and nearly fell outside the circle.
Gray laughed.
Alastor pointed at him.
“Wait until I’m cleared.”
“No threats during medical observation,” Porlyusica said.
“It was scheduling.”
Zestial approached the yard.
Scout ran ahead and climbed onto the fence.
“How long has he held it?”
“Eleven minutes,” Makarov said.
Zestial frowned.
“That’s longer than before.”
Alastor grinned.
“And nothing hurts.”
Porlyusica struck the back of his knee with her spoon.
The altered leg buckled.
Alastor caught himself with the tail.
“What was that for?”
“Testing.”
“You could warn me.”
“Danger rarely announces itself.”
Makarov looked toward Zestial.
“How was the workshop?”
“I swept.”
Alastor waited.
“That’s it?”
“I also sorted metal and removed a broken hammer handle.”
Alastor stared at him.
“Your great apprenticeship has begun with cleaning.”
“It usually does,” Makarov said.
Zestial entered the yard.
“Why the full Great Jaggi hybrid?”
“Coherence,” Makarov answered.
“If his body takes one pattern completely, it may experience less strain than combining individually useful parts.”
Porlyusica gestured toward Alastor.
“His spine and hips are adjusting together.
That is safer than attaching a tail or different legs without the supporting structure.”
“Safer,” Alastor repeated.
“Important word.”
“Not safe.”
“Less exciting word.”
Porlyusica pointed at the ground.
“Sit.”
Alastor dismissed the transformation first.
The tail disappeared.
His legs returned to human proportions.
Then they gave out.
Zestial caught one arm while Makarov steadied the other.
Alastor sagged between them.
“I thought nothing hurt,” Zestial said.
“It didn’t until I changed back.”
Porlyusica crouched beside him.
His calves trembled beneath her fingers.
“Transformation concealed the fatigue.”
Alastor looked down.
“It can do that?”
“Apparently.”
Makarov’s expression became more serious.
“That means feeling capable is not evidence that you should continue.”
Alastor leaned back on his hands.
“That feels like a targeted lesson.”
“It is.”
Porlyusica examined his knees and lower back.
“No tearing.
No displacement.
Muscle exhaustion and magical depletion.”
“Can I use Arzuros after lunch?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“When?”
“When your legs stop shaking.”
“They’ll stop soon.”
The muscles contracted again.
Alastor winced.
Porlyusica looked at him.
“Tomorrow,” he amended.
Zestial watched the tremor travel through his brother’s legs.
The damaged hammer head came back to him.
A tool could continue working after it should have been discarded.
That didn’t mean it was safe.
“When I make your weapon,” Zestial said, “it needs to measure strain.”
Alastor looked at him.
“Weapons don’t measure things.”
“Mine will.”
Aldren would probably tell him the idea was wrong.
That only meant Zestial needed to learn why.
Porlyusica sent Alastor inside with orders to drink water, eat, and remain seated.
Erza went with him.
Gray followed after insisting he was only going inside because he was hungry.
Cana followed Gray because she did not trust him to leave Alastor alone.
Porlyusica gathered her medical bag.
Zestial remained in the yard.
“You still want to study?” she asked.
“You have already been working since before sunrise.”
“Yes.”
“You’re tired.”
“A little.”
Porlyusica began walking toward the eastern road.
“Then keep up.”
Her first lesson took place behind her house.
Rows of plants grew beneath the forest canopy.
Some occupied marked beds.
Others climbed trellises or hung from shallow baskets attached to the treehouse.
Porlyusica placed five leaves on a wooden table.
“Identify them.”
Zestial stared at her.
“I’ve never seen them before.”
“Then identify what you can.”
He looked at the first leaf.
Broad shape.
Smooth edge.
Pale underside.
The second had serrated edges and fine hairs along its stem.
The third gave off a sharp scent without being touched.
Scout stood on the table but kept his paws away from every sample.
“Two may be medicinal,” he said.
“One resembles an antidotal herb, but resemblance is not proof.”
Zestial nodded.
Porlyusica watched him.
“What did he say?”
“That unfamiliar plants shouldn’t be identified from appearance alone.”
“Good.
The Palico may remain.”
Scout sat taller.
Zestial pointed toward the third leaf.
“Strong scent.
Possibly irritating.”
“Possibly.”
“The hairs on the second could carry oil or cause a rash.”
“Possibly.”
“The first has damage near the stem.”
Porlyusica waited.
Zestial leaned closer without touching it.
Small dark spots clustered around the damaged section.
“Disease?”
“Insects.”
He looked again.
Tiny eggs sat beneath the leaf.
Porlyusica swept all five samples into a clay bowl.
“You cannot identify them.”
“No.”
“That is the correct answer.”
Zestial frowned.
“Then what was the test?”
“Whether you would pretend.”
She selected a clean cutting board.
“Medicine punishes confidence unsupported by knowledge.”
She showed him how to wash his hands properly.
Not quickly.
Properly.
Under the nails.
Between the fingers.
Around every small cut.
Then she made him clean the table.
Afterward, he cleaned it again because he had placed one unwashed bowl on its corner.
Only then did she teach him anything resembling medicine.
She showed him how to grind a dried leaf without scattering the powder.
How to hold a bottle so the label remained visible.
How to smell an unknown substance by moving the air toward himself rather than placing his face over it.
How to tie a bandage that applied pressure without stopping circulation.
Scout observed every step.
When Zestial wrapped a strip around the Palico’s forearm, Scout flexed his paw.
“Too tight.”
Zestial loosened it.
“Now it will slip.”
Zestial adjusted the knot.
Scout tested it again.
“Adequate.”
Porlyusica examined the bandage.
“Loose.”
Scout looked down at it.
Zestial tried not to smile.
The Palico narrowed his eyes.
“I was evaluating his confidence.”
Porlyusica retied the bandage.
Her knot used less cloth and held more securely.
Zestial studied it.
“Again,” she ordered.
He removed the bandage and started over.
By sunset, his fingers ached.
Not from gripping too hard.
From learning not to.
On the walk back to Magnolia, Scout rode on his shoulder.
“You didn’t poison either of us,” the Palico said.
“High praise.”
“You also failed to set me on fire at the forge.”
“I never approached the forge.”
“Successful prevention remains success.”
The guild was loud when they returned.
It was always loud.
Alastor occupied the end of one table with both legs stretched across a second chair.
Erza sat beside him, reading one of Makarov’s books on Requip theory.
Gray had fallen asleep with his head on the table.
Cana was stacking cards on his hair.
Alastor looked toward Zestial.
“How many people did you save?”
“None.”
“How many swords did you make?”
“None.”
“How many secret medicines did you learn?”
“None.”
Alastor nodded gravely.
“Successful day.”
“It was.”
The sincerity caught Alastor off guard.
Zestial sat opposite him and opened his notebook.
“What are you writing?”
“The first weapon plan.”
Alastor lowered his voice.
“Arena weapon?”
“Yes.”
Zestial turned to a blank page.
“Aldren asked what makes a good hunting hammer.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t.”
“Excellent answer.”
“He said it depends on what I’m hunting.”
Alastor grinned.
“Monsters.”
“Different monsters require different answers.”
“Still want a hammer.”
“I know.”
Zestial drew a simple circle.
The hammer head.
Then a long handle beneath it.
Nothing explosive.
Nothing magical.
Not yet.
First, he needed something that would not fly apart when Alastor swung it.
“The first version will be simple,” Zestial said.
“How simple?”
“Metal head.
Reinforced handle.
Adjustable grip.
A release mechanism in case your hand changes size.”
“No explosions?”
“No.”
“Shotgun?”
“No.”
“Hidden blade?”
“No.”
Alastor looked disappointed.
Zestial continued drawing.
“Once the basic weapon survives you, we improve it.”
Alastor studied the outline.
Then his expression changed.
Not disappointment now.
Anticipation.
“When do we start?”
“I already did.”
Zestial wrote the first requirement beneath the design.
It must return with him.
The arena existed only inside Alastor’s mind.
Zestial could not enter it.
He could not fight there.
He could not pull his brother out if something went wrong.
But he could make certain Alastor didn’t return empty-handed.
Across the table, Alastor watched the first lines of the Hammer take shape.
For the first time since the arena appeared, the second star no longer felt like something he had to face alone.