Veins pulsed across his body. Otis was tense and in pain. He hadn’t known how long it would take but eventually, it felt like he had the strength to summon his Path. Without anyone to set him straight, Otis has dubbed the conjured circle in his palm "The Path". It felt akin to what the instruction pamphlet had mentioned, albeit a bit on the nose.

[MP: 1/5]

Gazing in the sparking circle it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. Lessons in not heeding the warning signs of low mana were harsh but effective. Not even having the mana reserves to summon an intrinsic part of himself, it was likely the equivalent of running to the point you pass out and perhaps just as exhausting.

Given the first few failed attempts at summoning the path, it didn’t take much mana but he had to have something. To tick from a ‘0’ to a ‘1’ it had taken about five minutes so it wasn’t incurable but it certainly wasn’t optimal. It was better to learn these lessons now than under threat. Otis didn’t imagine the tentacle monster he’d seen earlier would have been very empathetic in an unpulverised state of existence.

Still, within his lap sat a single creation. A blacksmith made of a web of metal netting stood poised, a hammer at the apex of its arc. Constructed using a netting-like structure, the holes had been a way of saving on materials but Otis ended up liking the look too; almost abstract in its morphology. It wasn’t much and it certainly wasn’t large, given it only stood at three inches. Otis had tried to incorporate other metals but fusing different components had been far harder than manipulating a single entity.

In hindsight, Otis knew he should have forged a small weapon for himself but following a strand of intuition had brought him here. He hadn’t ever been one for art, not least sculpting. It had just happened.

Rising to his feet, Otis felt the blood rush to his head and his vision go dark. Running low on mana, he was physically and mentally exhausted. Numbly navigating his way between bench and scrap, Otis made his way out of the smithy. He didn’t bother with avoiding displeased grunts. He didn’t try to hide his actions, to appease anyone else. He was tired, too distracted to care to notice. Stumbling out of the smithy, Otis wondered if everyone had mana. Maybe only some people could expel or control it. People could push themselves to incredible limits, some even dropped dead when they overexerted themselves.

‘Introducing other metals was difficult but was this because of the substance or the increased mass of the metal? In order to utilise [Manipulate] did the whole metal piece need to be filled with mana?’ questions came without pause. ‘Were there more mana-receptive metals or different methods of manipulating something? If he compressed an item with mana would it be stronger or did the concentration of mana itself indicate a given strength? Did mana even have a physical property? What about…’

Even as he wound his way back through the labyrinth of The Veil, he wasn’t distracted from his thoughts. Undisturbed, he had made his way back to his bed, slumping back. Without the strength to resist, sleep claimed Otis’ mind.

—————————————

[POV: Blacksmith]

When the newly awakened boy, Otis, appeared at the entrance to the smithy, the room fell silent. He hadn’t appeared to be anything otherworldly. His physique was wirey, his hair unkempt, and his clothes were marred with soot. Although he didn’t fit the traditional look of a blacksmith his attire had the ashen marks we all bore. Considering the expectations we had of the boy it was an appropriate look.

Although the new mage was dwarfed by even the newest of our profession, his presence caused a tension to spread throughout the room. Despite our considerable difference in stature, I found myself baring down on my hammer with a white knuckle force. There was no doubt in my mind that I would have to redo my current work; distracted as I was, I could feel the imperfections within the metal already.

It was clear, the new mage had been dismissed by the other professions. For all his weariness, the boy stepped on eggshells around us all. He didn’t intrude, he didn’t ask any questions nor look at us too much. Still, he seemed drawn to materials throughout the workshop. Those of us who had the heart grunted at the boy. It wasn’t to scare him but to forge him. Without adversity to craft his spirit there was every likelihood he would fall to the threats unknown to him. Just looking at the boy it was enough to tell he wasn’t embraced by the world he had come from. Although there was a time and a place for sudden change, our desire to welcome him was like a furnace. Whilst he might become stronger more rapidly this strength would be brittle. Coddling the boy would not do.

After acquiring a collection of odds and ends Otis appeared to be satisfied. He had holed himself up in a largely disused section of the smithy, the small nook obscuring his form.

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I looked about the smithy and it was clear that everyone felt the same apprehension. What would the boy be able to do? Would he even be able to take his first fledgling steps on the path of the forge, of the mechanical?

Everyone stared expectantly towards the small nook. We were not disappointed. It began as a minuscule flicker across our senses. The boy was out of sight but we could all feel his mana. It was inefficient and obvious to our tuned senses but nonetheless impressive. It had taken moments for this newly awakened mage to sense the right path. Awakened at birth it would usually take around ten years before we had the insight to sense and wield mana in this way. Given Otis’ older starting point, he was far more able to understand his own body and how he could mimic processes but lacked any knowledge or insights that we had growing up with mama-wielders all around us.

Flickers of mana became more focused and more consistent. It was quickly apparent that Otis was infusing his materials with mana. With bated breath we watched the boy experiment with his newfound skills. We weren't able to see him, tucked away as he was, but we had become so susceptible to changes in mana the nook may well have been a glass box. Minutes ticked by till soon tens of minutes passed. It was unheard of for someone so new to any mana-rich profession to persevere for so long.

By the time Otis came to a stop, there wasn’t a blacksmith standing that didn’t have a sheen of sweat across their brow. We could work for days on end now, but only after decades of hard work. Having the mental focus and endurance to will mana to manipulate the world around you was exhausting. Other professions might be able to use mana internally but crafting was not one of them.

If you worked within yourself all the necessary pathways existed. As with an organ transplant, it helped if you reduced any foreign components. Using mana outside of your body required you to force mana to your will. In terms of difficulty, it was like dragging cinder blocks across the ground instead of using a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow was no doubt tiring but it was certainly more efficient than using sheer force.

Some of us had wanted to turn back to our own work after the mana signature faded to nothing but it had been too difficult to forget the showcase of unyielding determination that we had all witnessed. Some of the younger apprentices whispered off to the side, making bets on what had been created. The workshop had not been so still in a long time.

When the boy emerged from his little nook, he looked empty. He clearly hadn’t known the dangers of running out of mana. In combat, such a thing was a death sentence. Rest would do him well here but, certainly, he would not forget the experience.

Clasped between two fingers, he held a small figurine. An intricate webbing mapped out the figure of a blacksmith, hammer raised to strike an invisible anvil.

The particular disused section of the workshop he had taken up residence had been where my own master had crafted, for the last three hundred years. I had often looked towards this section of the smithy, in amazement. My master had crafted pieces of brutal intention so very beautifully. The peachfuzz on my younger face was now bushy, burnt, and thick but I looked on with the same eyes. Watching a gifted craftsman was enchanting. Although I was now [level 23], I could now appreciate the boy’s movements even better than I had my master’s.

He had not rushed something flashy, large, or typical. How the boy had chosen such a design, I did not know. The intricacy made his efforts all the more shocking. How he had finished such a piece without running out of mana sooner was a mystery.

The blacksmiths stood in silence. As had been ordered, no one supported the newfound talent. He would not need it. What they had just witnessed... it was astounding.

Within the smithy, there was one unified emotion, one cohesive thought.

Respect.

—————————————

“Hello, you there little earthling?”

“Oh... hi Tiera," Otis groaned.

Forcing himself awake, Otis tried to smile but the migraine he had felt like lightning shooting through his skull.

“Haha, you idiot,” Tiera smiled, knowingly. “Out of mana already?”

Drying up on mana wasn’t something that was all too commonplace but it happened occasionally. Figuring out your limits and trying to surpass them was a big part of training in any field but the symptoms of running dry were all too obvious to any seasoned mage.

“That obvious?” Otis grimaced.

Less than a day into this new reality and it felt like he was making silly mistakes. It may not have been out of the ordinary but it felt embarrassing enough to be caught passed out as he was.

“I brought you something, a welcome gift of sorts,” Tiera continued. “Look I know it’s been a sketchy start, to say the least, and it took some rough negotiating tactics but I figured a memento was called for.”

With an expression as close to nervous, as Otis had seen on the veteran fighter, Tiera held out a hunk of bronzed metal.

“You fought for everything you were worth and it paid off. You’re meant to be here, Otis, even if you’re toughing it out at the moment. I don’t know what you might want to do with it but I thought you’d want it if nothing else.”

Dents were stippled across its surface, in an isolated area; a tight mosaic of malformation. It was the gauntlet of the automaton. Wiped clean of his blood and bisected from the greater whole it looked just as imposing.

Taking it in his hands, Otis bulked at the weight. Turning it over in his hands, the gauntlet had been gutted. It was just the top layer of the bracer and the back of the hand and fingers but it had still been so heavy. Whatever it had been made of was immensely dense.

“…mana compressed metal,” Otis whispered to himself.

Tiera raised an eyebrow. The smithy had reported in, as she had instructed. A barrage of complimentary information had surprised her but awakened mages were often a wildcard. If Otis could be a rising star within the smithy guild it would be a huge boost to morale, let alone the practical implications of a wholly boosted sector.

Otis ran his fingers over the indented metal, struggling to hold back his emotion. This is why he survived. He hadn’t just been lucky.