Having made a declaration of intent, Otis finished repairing what he could of Zlatan's shack. It wasn't much but a small corner was soon replaced and other connecting aspects were beaten back into more-or-less correct positions. It was a chore but it wasn't something the young smith minded. Skills were hard to progress and the work changed up Otis' usual routine of trying to create evermore perfect forms of the same forms of armour and weaponry. Whilst it would have been more interesting trying to develop a range within his arsenal of equipment, Otis had chosen to focus on perfecting a small selection of pieces he thought would be most useful to him. There wasn't enough time to diversify and the potential to be a master of none was all too frightening.

This time, having resolved to make the war hammer he was keen to get to it. If everything went according to plan, he would soon have a more versatile and dominating weapon. Otis didn't want to jinx himself, but it felt as though he could sense the achievement behind this milestone, as though the threat he could present to his opponents would take a qualitative leap forward. The more he envisioned this next step the more a nervous excitement rose in his throat.

Since his last bout, Otis had healed significantly. Despite the cuts, gouges, and thick bruising it had been some time since he had fought the wolves. For whatever reason, his first bouts had all come in relatively quick succession but this had come to a standstill soon after. It was odd but a welcome respite that Otis happily used to lick his wounds and think. He had debated his choice for a number of days but, despite his doubts, he had kept coming back to the same answer. He didn't have time to train other weapons but the hammer was something that he would have to be intimately familiar with. As he continued his practice it had become the only constant in Otis' life. Even if he was kidnapped and thrown to the wilds a hammer would be his first port of call. It was a natural decision but one the inexperienced mage struggled to make. Whether it was his own perceptions of the war hammer, history, or grimdark representations in fiction it was a weapon for experienced warriors. Novices were given spears. Thrust into a world of magic, Otis was painfully aware of how easily it might be to overestimate his own abilities. Could he really wield a war hammer? Was this all leading to a devasting fall to his own hubris and bloody demise? Compared to comics, the truth of this new life was the same as it had been on Earth; without hard work and constant training he would be mediocre, at best.

Looking at his own hammer, a condensed rectangular block attached to a small handle smothered in reinforced cloth rag, the shift in scale and complexity of what he was trying to create would be leagues apart. He knew he'd prepared for this but with any new endeavour there was a certain level of apprehension, especially within the city.

"Good as new," Otis said patting the newly reforged metal of Zlatan's shack.

"Knew we kept you around for a reason," Zlatan thanked him with a friendly punch on the shoulder and with a gentle kick of the newly fitted metal.

Originally worried that he would be a burden on the duo, Otis smiled at the thanks. Many times he had considered that without them he'd no doubt be dead. It felt good to be able to help in the small ways but there was a longing to help more. Knowing that their opponents were so much more powerful than his own, his ability to forge armour felt woefully lacking.

"We'll keep a lookout if you want to get started," Mooch said, perceptively. He had known that once Otis made up his mind he would be itching to begin but the earnest excitement the young mage possessed made him smile; it was a pleasant reminder of the world he had once known.

Without much else to be said, Otis smiled and dipped back into his tent. The still sweat-laden mattress constructed from strips of condensed rags was hastily upturned and presented a layer of dusty earth. Kneeling, Otis brushed away the dirt near where the head of the mattress had been. After a moment, the smoothed and impacted dirt gave way to reveal a rough sheet of metal. Blackish and unrefined the metal plate looked perfectly ordinary, save for its hidden position in the dirt. If it had been discovered accidentally it might have looked like lost scrap embedded and forgotten.

As he stared down at his hidden creation, Otis' grubby fingers traced the edges of the rectangular metal sheet till he found two slightly raised folds on either side. With a tug, the metal grew thicker. Yanking at the exposed folds, it slowly became evident that the metal lid was part of a larger creation. On the advice of both of his companions, Otis had constructed it early on in his stay, soon after his second fight. It was a small chest for the possessions he'd rather keep hidden away. As would be found secret stashes hidden around the slave city of Fortune's Favour, within this box a collection of various metals and hides formed a collage of colour. Shards and sheared-off segments of gifts given to now-deceased fighters littered the small chest. The collection wasn't vast but it was nothing to shy away from. Within the city, there were all too many people who would snag such gems without hesitation. As in all the ways the slaves mimicked freemen, there was a market for items of prestige and value. Although lootings from fallen opponents were more highly admired and respected there were "pirate captains" who revelled in the spoils of others. These people were known by many names but were thieves at best.

Crime was low in the city on a visible level. There were few brawls and no obvious gang rivalries, and it wasn't known how long it had been since the last direct murder. The slave city dwelt below the arena of Fortune's Favour and it was a basic assumption that the masters above wouldn't tolerate damage to their merchandise. By all accounts, someone unaware of the implicit threat looming above might wander the city for the first time and mistake it for a peaceful place. The lack of obvious activity didn't mean that there weren't also thriving criminal professions. It was subtle and more often without a physical component. The greatest threats in the magical worlds were far beyond the pickpockets or muggers of major cities on Earth. Here you might lose all your worldly possessions and never realise they were yours to begin with. Zlatan was all too willing to recount seeing one such pirate flaunting his wealth, only to have his victims stare on in envy, unaware they were looking upon what was rightfully theirs. Although this threat was much more instantaneous when higher-level individuals were involved, the threat persisted amongst the lower ranks over a longer period to manifest. These lower level mages took the time to slowly worm a mental tether through an unaware target almost imperceptibly. Even among the most observant groups there were cases of theft but it was nothing compared to the fate of those alone. Lone men and women were quickly located and robbed of any material advantage they had managed to fight and claw away for themselves, dazed and confused for the entirety of their short stay.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

An assault of the mind was far more damning than coming to physical blows. Although the city looked peaceful there was an undercurrent of secrets that proliferated every nook and cranny. It was a city of curious eyes and jealous hands.

Otis suppressed these thoughts as he took a gamble. Compiling all his takings into a single treasure was risky but would pay dividends in the arena if he could obscure the fanciful items within his war hammer. Stuffing the metal components into a leather bag, Otis set about his work quickly.

Moving to the firepit, centrally located between their separate dwellings, Otis dumped the contents of the bag into a heated pot hung above the pit. Zlatan appeared to be dozing on the roof of his shack, but Mooch was nowhere to be seen. Otis knew he was likely scouting about the cluttered territory outside the small courtyard between each of their sleeping quarters. The man's senses were far more alert than either Otis' or Zlatan's own. Performing a ranger-type role, Mooch's senses were the ultimate combatant to the threat of mental threat. He could feel their clawing attempts on him and could even spot the telltale signs of a pirate from hundreds of metres away. Although the cursed battle-mage appeared docile he was undoubtedly straining his senses too, sense for tremors and sounds in the immediate vicinity. It was a second line of defence if Mooch missed something. Fortune's favour would certainly be upon Otis if he could finish the forging of his weapon before any snooping eyes lingered too long.

Building off of prior knowledge, the level 2 mage was now intimately familiar with the difficulties of forging items individually before merging them. Taking from the blacksmiths of Earth and the similar approaches of the blacksmiths in the cave city, Otis looked to melt down his wares first before he tried to use his [Manipulate]. Besides the ease of creating the weapon, it would make it easier to disguise the recognisable details and features of the scavenged items. That said, even a small war hammer would be a lucrative weapon to the right bidder, even as a simple ornamental trophy.

"Wish me luck," Otis mumbled.

Zlatan said nothing from his perch but gave a slight nod as he continued to focus on his surroundings.

Although Otis couldn't increase the heat of the fire he sped up the melting process by tugging at the bonds. Manipulating the material in this way also ensured that mana seamlessly permeated the material as it blended into one, if he could maintain his focus it would allow him to better mould its shape before it cooled. The rest of the process wasn't as smooth and he hadn't had time to build the set-up as he would have liked but it would have to do.

Otis took a few quick breaths before throwing the weight of his mind into the forging process. At this point, the metals were warping and twisting into a glowing sticky ball of melded materials. Imprinting the vision he had for the final product Otis grimaced as the metal stretched out within the heat of the central pot. These materials were better quality and purer than most of the scrap tat that was strewn about the dumping site. Out of these materials, the head of his war hammer would be formed. In a round, he would try to complete the shape of his weapon and condense it as much as he could. Still, the process put an ever greater burden on his mind. Enduring the grinding pain as it all tried to slide away against the heat of the pot and resist him, a heavy sweat quickly spread across Otis' brow.

As he sat above the blacksmith, Zlatan shifted uncomfortably. For once, it wasn't out of boredom that he was disturbed but instead by the absolute lack of anything. As Mooch shifted about their corner of the cityscape he tap softly against other objects. This wasn't loud enough for most people to hear but if you were listening closely these light knocks stood out starkly against the usual noise of the city. These were knocks Zlatan had to strain to detect but had slipped his attention for too long now. Straining to pick up every iota of sound, suddenly he realised it wasn't that he couldn't hear but that there was nothing to be heard. Mooch had gone quiet.

It had happened before but it was rare. Each time before, it had been frenzied fighters dropped from the arena that still had bloodlust running through their veins. Those were fighters that everyone avoided. This was different, there had been no such fighter, not for several hours now. Something was wrong.

Suddenly, he heard it. Quiet, fleet-footed, footsteps. Flitting his eyes open, it was Mooch. Silently traversing the slums, the ranger now rounded the outside of his shack. His face was easy to read and it screamed of an imminent threat as he stared into Zlatan's eyes.

"Tarot's coming," came Mooch's urgent whisper.

Tarot was a pirate thief and a slightly higher in level than they were. The fact Mooch had been alerted to his presence, so early, only meant he hadn't cared to skulk around like he usually would. For whatever reason, he wanted them to know he was coming.

"You're sure he's coming here?!"

"He's made a fucking bee-line."

Neither of them outright feared Tarot, not together. The man was known to operate in the shadows around the scrap pile everyone frequented, scouting for hidden gems and the individuals that had gotten there before him. The real unopposable threats were far fewer and waited to pray on pirates with an already hefty haul. This being the case, Tarot's presence didn't make sense. There was no way Otis' small haul of goodies could have been spotted. They weren't anywhere near the pirate's usual hunting ground for one and even if they had been the scrap pile was truly too vast for even several teams to scout wholly. Still, even if it were a matter of bad luck Tarot wouldn't flaunt his presence so brazenly. Mooch hadn't need to express any of this for them to know the pirate captain was here for something else.

"Right to your doorstep, that's right."

Despite their hushed whispers, they had been heard.