The faucet in the corner of the workshop dripped rhythmically. One of the pipes had split again causing a pressure leak. Fóntas didn't care.
She sat in silence, trying to patch up a cracked handle with melted plastic strips and too much hope.
Every click of metal to metal echoed like a heartbeat. Her gloves were stained with rust, oil, blood. She hadn't eaten all day.
Not that it mattered. The hunger was old. Familiar.
What wasn't familiar was the strange tingling in her palm.
She tugged off one glove, blinking down at her skin. Faint red threads like hair-thin wires ran beneath the surface of her hand, just under the veins. They shimmered, barely visible.
Fóntas stared.
"Am I… sick?"
Then came the knock.
Not the loud kind. The kind that's polite and cruel at once.
She opened the door slowly. A man in a tailored coat stood there, smiling with teeth too white to be honest. Behind him two armed awakeners.
"Miss Fóntas Nemes?" he asked, voice smooth. "You've missed your payments. The collector's time is now."
"I told the other guy I'm paying next cycle."
He sighed. "You said that three cycles ago."
Her eyes flicked to the weapons. Not for defense. Not yet.
Just awareness.
"Can I sell something? I have—"
One of the awakeners stepped forward and struck her across the jaw. Not too hard.
Just enough to remind her: words don't work here.
Fóntas stumbled back, fell onto her pile of scrap.
The collector walked inside, picked up a curved piece of metal. Turned it over in his hand.
"What is this? A failed knife?"
"No," she muttered. "A rib-slicer."
"Cute."
He dropped it.
It bounced uselessly.
The second awakener moved toward her. "Maybe we take your tools. Maybe we take your hands. Then you'll pay attention."
Her fingers brushed the cog from before. Still warm.
Still humming.
And then everything stopped.
The sound drained from the room.
A pressure built in her chest, like her ribs were suddenly too small for her heart.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The world turned dark.
No, not dark...deep.
Like the world had cracked open and was showing her something buried beneath it all.
Designation recognized:
Singular class manifesting
...based on mental resilience, creative application, and suppressed emotion.
Class granted:
Weaponizer.
The cog in her hand pulsed. Her glove ignited in a soft red glow. The object in her hand began to shimmer melt and reshape.
The awakener lunged
She swung the cog.
It screamed through the air like a sawblade and cut his cheek.
Blood. Real blood.
The room froze.
"What the hell—" the other one shouted.
Fóntas stood, now holding a jagged spinning weapon of gears and bone. It hissed in her hand like it was alive.
Her voice was hollow. "I told you not to come back."
She swung again.
This time, it shattered the man's arm guard. The awakened aura around him meant to protect cracked like glass.
He shrieked and dropped to the floor, screaming.
The collector scrambled back. "That's not possible! You're… you were just a civilian!"
She stepped forward. "Not anymore."
The first awakener was bleeding from the cheek and shaking in disbelief. "What kind of weapon is that?"
Fóntas narrowed her eyes. "Mine."
As they fled, she fell to her knees.
Panting. Shaking. Laughing without joy.
It wasn't over.
But it had started.
The world had changed.
And Fóntas, worthless, bruised, discarded Fóntas had just forged the impossible:
A weapon that could hurt gods.