It couldn't be said that Otis had used his time efficiently since his eyes had been opened to the truth of his progression. After amassing an array of heavy materials, he had lifted, thrown and taken a wholly juvenile glee in understanding the developments of his form. As though he were an infant who had just discovered their toes, each aspect of his physicality felt different and unexpected. Although the changes became evident quickly, Otis didn't care to move on. He enjoyed the feeling of moving forward, of being something more. He had felt this kind of progress in his crafting but it was wholly more captivating to literally feel it in his fists, in his flesh, and in his bones. The revelation that his physiology had undergone substantive changes without his notice was bizarre but welcome. Basking in this feeling was a release that Otis had sorely needed.

Throughout this period of "experimentation" Otis had amassed a sizable treasury of scrap metal and shards of other materials that he was careful to keep secret. Whilst he was enthralled with discovering his new potential, this material was an opportunity to progress his crafting that he couldn't let go. Still, he had seen the capability of pirates and wasn't keen on doing so again quite so soon. Whilst he brandished the broken weaponry, he slipped more precious resources into nooks in his amassed haul before slipping them into a small pouch on his waist, for safekeeping.

Albeit without the scientific rigour that would have come from proper measurements and standardised weights, Otis was sure his strength vastly outstripped that of when he had arrived. A small bundle of broken swords would have been more than enough for him on his arrival; now he struggled to balance enough to carry. As he had lifted more and more scrap, bound together with circlets of leather, the strength the young smith was able to call upon was just enough to lift the growing stack each time. When he thought he had reached his potential, there was yet more strength he managed to exert. He was stronger, faster, and more able to endure.

"You are gonna be so disgustingly sore," Zlatan laughed.

Even though even Rage had winced, Otis didn't feel a thing. He didn't ache, he wasn't sore, and even the tell-tale signs of seizing up were nowhere to be seen. He was tired and sweaty and that was all. He'd worked until he was out of breath and his head ached from the strained exertion of lifting ever greater loads.

"I feel fine... I feel great," Otis beamed back.

Laying down on the ground of their encampment, Otis stared at the distant ceiling. Drunk on the endorphins of exertion, a starry-eyed smile christening his face.

"Dope," Rage sighed.

They were all too used to seeing young mages commit the same mistakes but to make such an error across three levels of progression... Otis was going to be in a world of pain.

Undeterred, it wasn't long until Otis found himself tinkering with his crafting skill. 'Mana Manipulation' wasn't a simple skill, there was a certain physicality to its use that Otis had quickly discovered. If it wasn't the mental strain he was resisting, it was asserting his will over the materials. Even the blacksmiths within the subterranean city were able to mould creations to their will through heat and physically wrenching materials into position. Other skills were likely to have similar physical components but Otis' were rooted so in an attainable way. He couldn't conjure a fireball in the same way he could warp metal, even with the aid of some elaborate machine his results would be wholly lacklustre. In contrast, the simplest of mankind knew they could hammer something into shape or heat metal to make it malleable. After tens of thousands of years mankind had, without the use of mana, created an array of machines from spacefaring to AI-controlled domestic cleaning robots.

His new physicality raised interesting questions though. Could he drive mana in materials better? Would he be able to withstand the mental strain for longer? If so, what kind of weaponry and armour could he make, if they could be made in one cast rather than two or three? There were so many variables to test with the changes to his physique, let alone the mental stats he couldn't yet decipher effectively.

It was intuition that guided Otis' first cast. Within the relative safety of The Veil he had used nails to make the netted sculpture of the blacksmith. Now, however, without his own perceived limits and few immediate goals in mind, the possibilities of what he could craft felt endless. Stalled in indecisive limbo, Otis sat on the dirt ground of the encampment.

Seconds quickly turned to minutes. With only his own thoughts to occupy time, Otis felt trapped within the boundless directions. He thought back across his short journey. What would he have done differently? What could he improve upon?

As he toyed with a small length of twisted metal, between his fingers, Otis' thoughts whirled and turned ever inwards. What path was he following? Was he a blacksmith, a gladiator, or something else?

In the end, the same intuitive process began to guide his thoughts.

His powers suggested he was more of a blacksmith... but when he turned inwards he couldn't forget his early survival, the automaton, or his current situation. The life of a slave wasn't something he had wanted, nor did he want to fight for his life, but there was a certain allure to it. Fighting for his right to survive, with a strength of his own, was charming like nothing he had ever experienced. Whether that was the hot-blooded enthusiasm of his youth or an inner calling was impossible to tell. And then came his newest skill 'Mana-Shielding', that seemed purpose built for combat even if it was monumentally useful during the forging process.

Compelled by his earliest experience of crafting, Otis felt his mana slip within the shards of metal between his fingers. Controlled and familiar to his senses now, the metal warped and twisted, quickly. He thought about how things had changed, how he had changed. Understanding that this process was more than the literal changes of his powers, he was not only something else but someone else, emotion welled within the smith.

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Within his mind's eye, Otis looked back on his first sculpture. He had already challenged his perception on whether it was a blacksmith toiling over his craft or a pummelling strike. The automaton he had barely survived was a marvel and yet somehow so much more soul-less than Otis would hope to create, himself. Why couldn't he be more? Why couldn't he be both?

'I want to be more,' Otis thought, his desire building within him.

The metal continued to morph within his palms, as each thought built his Path. Tugged into points and soft curves, the structure of the previous figure began to take shape. The sculpture had the same netted structure as the first created within The Veil, although the struts that made up its form were thicker and more detailed than the original counterpart. With each passing moment, more details began to etch themselves into the piece: folds and stippled points gave the appearance of weathered fabric or skin. As Otis sought out his true path his creation took on clarity that matched his own thoughts of self-actualisation.

Only as he continued to forge, did the aches begin. A faint awareness of his tightening muscles barely registered within his mind, as the young mage worked. None of this registered within the litany of thoughts currently consuming Otis' thoughts.

Unlike Otis, his companions knew the wrath of what awaited him. Their inexperienced and under-levelled companion held out against the incoming pains of advancing his physiology admirably but it was the creation between his palms that captured their attention. Not one of them had the expertise or understanding of smithing to understand the calibre of crafting occurring before them, yet each one could appreciate the exceptionalism of Otis' actions. Each of them had senses more than enough to sense the chance occurring. Their ability to sense mana too illuminated the immense control Otis had over and within the materials before him.

"Incredible..." Nightmare whispered.

None of them had Paths like Otis but each of them could appreciate the scene in front of them in different ways. Nightmare focused on the manipulation of his own being. He understood the intricacies of fundamentally altering a structure better than most. The shifting structure appeared almost sentient but he could sense the shifting tides of mana as the piece was shaped. Seamless and unfettered, it was the control Otis had over the mana that shocked him. Nightmare had months and years to shape his nature and yet he was witnessing countless alterations being made and held in a single sitting. The materials they worked with were different but the skill and endurance weren't lost on him.

Rage, Zlatan, and Mooch, were all familiar with powerfully charged attacks and precisely attacking chinks in their opponents defence. None of the them were blacksmiths and yet intrisically they understood the level of concentration and precision that had to be occurring before them. Otis wasn't merely making one decision as he crafted but many that would have a profound impact on the outcome of the final piece. He was keeping a hold of the many tethers he was moulding, setting, and connecting to new paths within of the netted weave of the structure emerging.

Despite the continued strain of maintaining his work and a gradual upsurge in the soreness gradually invading his musculature, Otis was wholly consumed by his work. Flashes of imagined possibilities shone through his mind's eye. He saw himself as a smith; a creator of destruction, of defence, of beauty. He saw himself embroiled in combat; as a gladiator, as a warrior, as an army. Even within this embryonic stage, the possibilities seemed endless before him. Whether it was his true Path calling out to him or his experiences that were shaping him, Otis sensed a distance between himself and the creators of the automaton that had come for him. Even if, one day, he could create such a thing he didn't feel that sense of desire anymore. He wanted more.

Between his hands, the warping metal had long since succumbed to Otis' use of Manipulation. The earliest sections of the piece left a warm shining silver, whereas the stages still under construction maintained a faint red hue glow, though it lacked the same heat normal forging would generate. This had been one of the many developments that Otis had noticed, as his abilities progressed. It wasn't much and it was difficult to tell when such a faint hue began, but it had developed at some unknown point.

This creation had become more than the broken and disused metal it once was. As Otis worked, the more tightly woven netted structure showed off defined calves and powerful legs, adorned with thick chunks of armour. The body had begun to weave an imposing figure. Whilst it resembled a human figure, it was clear that there would be additional body armour atop the defined musculature of the body itself. At the point Otis had begun to carve, condense, and shape the torso, the soreness that had been possible to ignore surged forth, storming to the forefront of his focused mind. His back, arms, forearms, chest, and legs, even down to his toes, a radiation of discomfort bore down. The glowing metal, infused with mana, ceased moulding. Otis grunted, choking on the sudden discomfort. The young mage struggled to reclaim his earlier focus and it was with great difficulty that he had managed to maintain his cast of Manipulation, having to work on an already mana-tainted piece would be far more difficult. The seconds passed but no progress was made. Instead, the pain only began to mount.

Whatever was happening, Otis knew it would knock him on his arse. Something was wrong and painfully so... yet flashes of possible realities refused to leave his mind. What would he become? What did he stand for?

Aware of the ensuing predicament Otis would be facing, his newfound friends winced. The memory of that first fundamental understanding that they had become something other remained engrained in their minds. The late bloomer before them was sure to have a worse time of it than they had experienced... a fate all of them had hated. When the sculpture in his hands pulsed with renewed vigour, none of them had expected it. Deep lines of strained muscle etched themselves into the sculpture, just as subtle lines of definition marred Otis as he braced against the pain. The armour that took shape over the figure was pocked with small dents and scratches. Evidently, the sculpture resembled a battle-hardened figure, none too subtly matching Otis' current mindset.

A thick sweat quickly broke out as Otis battled to complete his work. His muscles began to tense and cramp, as though he were open to a barrage of mental attacks again. Still, he kept his breathing measured; laboured and heavy but controlled and unhurried.

By the time Otis managed to form arms for the figure, his ragged clothes were soaked through with sweat. Looking over his efforts, his campmates were dumbfounded. Albeit faced at a younger age, they couldn't imagine withstanding the physical adaptations his body was going through all at once. In fact, having am adult body likely made the process far worse compared to the plasticity found in their undeveloped prepubescent forms. Maintiaining even a semblance of control over their powers hadn't been possible and yet Otis struggled onwards.

As each second passed, the defined armour-plated arms came into being, as Otis struggled evermore. Physically shaking, he grit his teeth. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his red face, as he willed the process to come to an end.

Fittingly it was the head that came last. Comparatively small, the task felt briefly insurmountable to Otis' recoiling mind. Although the netted weave of the statue left many gaps the figure had an expression of determined anguish etched into it a fierce grimace. As soon as the mana-infused hue within the metal faded, Otis collapsed gasping.

"AH! Oh f-fuck! What have I... done?"