CHAPTER 4: A Hand of Fire and Iron

AEON

“Roblard! Where are you?” Artou’s voice boomed as we stood before the creaky, dilapidated house on the village's outskirts.

The so-called genius we were here to meet wasn’t the most conventional, to say the least. Roblard was a Green, a race known for their peculiar intelligence, and his reputation as a brilliant inventor was matched only by his equally warped personality.

As if on cue, the floor creaked beneath us. A green liquid seeped through the cracks, pooling before morphing into a small humanoid figure.

“Ta-da! I present to you my latest creation, the Xhil89!” Roblard exclaimed, arms raised theatrically. His outfit, caked in grime and cluttered with tools, complemented his eccentric aura. A wrench hung loosely from his belt, swaying as he proudly held up a strange contraption.

Artou groaned. “No, for the millionth time, I’m not interested in your junk.” He swatted the invention aside like a piece of trash.

“Your loss,” Roblard muttered, pouting. Then his eyes shifted to me. “And who’s this? Your little pet? Doesn’t look like he’ll last a day without a helping hand!”

“This is Aeon,” Artou said sharply. “He needs a prosthetic arm. Combat-ready, preferably.”

Roblard’s face lit up. “Now that’s interesting!” He immediately started inspecting me, his movements quick and mechanical. He measured my shoulder and remaining arm with a precision that bordered on unsettling.

Without another word, he melted back into the cracks, disappearing to what I could only assume was a hidden lab below.

“Let’s go,” Artou said, beckoning me to follow. “I’ve got something to show you while he works.”

We walked through the village and entered one of the adventurer guild’s buildings. Inside, it was bustling—a chaotic mix of laughter, shouting, and the clinking of mugs. Warriors of every race filled the room, their weapons stacked casually against walls.

But the moment Artou stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations stopped, heads turned, and tension filled the air.

A massive Majin with bulging muscles stepped forward. “Didn’t I tell you last time? If I saw you here again, I’d toss you in the dungeon myself.”

Unfazed, Artou sauntered to the bar and sat down. The bartender—a gruff-looking Halfling—looked ready to smash a bottle over his head.

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“Relax,” Artou said, flashing a grin. “I need a favor.”

The bartender’s scowl deepened. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here, let alone asking for a favor.”

“We were pals once, weren’t we? Remember all those adventures?” Artou leaned in, placing a hand on the bartender’s shoulder.

“You’ve got two options,” the bartender growled. “Either I have everyone here cut you down, or—depending on what you’re asking—I’ll consider not letting them.”

The room buzzed with unease. Weapons were drawn, and chairs scraped back as adventurers rose to their feet.

Artou sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll take the hard way.”

A Halfling with snake-like eyes lunged at him first, dagger aimed for his throat. Artou ducked, sweeping the Halfling’s legs out from under him and kicking him into the ceiling with a sickening thud.

The room erupted.

Weapons were raised, but Artou pulled a sleek, black firearm from his jacket. He fired a single shot, grazing the snake-man’s cheek and leaving a burning streak.

“Next time, I won’t miss,” Artou growled, stepping onto a table. His jovial demeanor was gone, replaced by something cold and commanding.

The crowd hesitated, tension thick in the air.

“Get down, you clown,” the bartender barked, shoving Artou off the table.

Artou fell face-first onto the floor, but he only laughed, blood dripping from his nose. “So, can I use the vision orb?”

The bartender sighed. “Fine. But if I see you again after this, you’re dead.”

The vision orb was a shimmering crystal in a dimly lit backroom.

“Put your hands on it,” Artou instructed. “It reveals your magic type—enhancing, elemental, or destructive. If it doesn’t react, well…” He trailed off.

I hesitated before placing my hands on the orb. It remained unchanged, its surface dull and lifeless.

“This isn’t possible,” Artou said, panic creeping into his voice. “Every living being has magic—even humans.”

We tried again. Nothing.

Artou’s frustration boiled over. “What about your fire resistance? Your strength? You must be an enhancer—or maybe a fire elemental.”

I wanted to tell him about the dream, about the dragon god, but something held me back.

After several more failed attempts, I let out a hollow laugh. “Maybe I just don’t have magic.”

“No,” Artou muttered, grabbing my shoulders. “I won’t accept that.”

He looked at me, desperation in his eyes, before lowering his gaze. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Let’s go see Roblard.”

Back at Roblard’s lab, the inventor emerged from the floor with a flourish.

“Behold! The Burner!” He held up a sleek, mechanical arm. “It’s powered by the finest fire core I have. With your fire resistance, it’ll be perfect.”

The arm was a marvel of engineering, with intricate gears and an engine-like device embedded in the elbow. Roblard explained its functions in painstaking detail, but I barely listened.

Attaching it wasn’t pleasant. Metal claws embedded themselves into my shoulder, and the pain was excruciating. But when it was done, the arm moved as naturally as my own. A punch caused heat to radiate from the metal, enough to scorch whatever I hit.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Roblard beamed.

Artou’s expression darkened. “How much did this cost?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Roblard said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve already worked out a payment plan. Just take care of the guild inspector who keeps harassing me, and we’re even.”

Before Artou could protest, the lab door slammed open.

The Majin from the marketplace stood there, his black horns gleaming in the dim light.

“Well, well, Roblard,” he sneered. “Where’s that fire core I requested?”