After finishing his meal and draining a final cup of much-needed water, Jake wiped his mouth and let out a slow breath. The fatigue in his limbs had dulled to something manageable, the kind that lingered after long days rather than crushing him outright. He rose from the table and made his way toward the hidden passage once more.
The cottage looked unassuming from above, almost quaint, but Jake had learned better. Beneath the creaking floorboards and warm lamplight lay the true heart of the hideout.
He descended into the underground corridors, the stone walls cool and faintly damp, veins of faint blue light running through embedded aetherium lanterns. The deeper levels buzzed with quiet industry and purpose, a place built not for comfort, but for survival.
Jake stopped in front of a thick wooden door reinforced with iron bands. An anvil had been carefully carved into its surface, worn smooth by years of hands brushing past it.
He knocked twice.
"Come on in," a young voice called out.
Jake pushed the door open, and the scent hit him immediately. Hot metal, oiled wood, and the sharp tang of aether residue hung thick in the air. The workshop was larger than it had any right to be, supported by stone pillars and crisscrossed with hanging tools, molds, and half-finished projects. Racks of weapons lined the walls, each one unique, some clearly experimental.
At the center stood Tom.
The first time Jake had met him, it had shattered every expectation he'd had. He'd imagined a grizzled craftsman, maybe someone who'd worked factory floors or machine shops back on Earth.
Instead, Tom was a chubby fifteen-year-old Latino kid with soot on his cheeks, safety goggles pushed up into messy hair, and a grin that never quite left his face.
Back on Earth, Tom had been obsessed with 3D printing and digital modeling. Here, that obsession had translated into something terrifyingly effective. His gift hadn't given him raw strength or combat instincts. It had given him understanding.
Structures. Load distribution. Moving parts. Materials.
Blacksmithing was just three-dimensional printing with heat and hammer instead of filament and code.
And when Tom found something interesting, he didn't just recreate it.
He perfected it.
"I'm serious," Tom said, wiping his hands on a rag as Jake entered. "If you die out there and one of my masterpieces ends up in cultist hands, I will haunt you."
Jake snorted. "Noted."
Tom reached over to a weapon stand and lifted a metallic spear, its shaft a blend of dark alloy and polished steel, faint lines etched along its length where aetherium veins pulsed softly.
He handed it over.
Jake took it with both hands, immediately feeling the balance. Light, but sturdy. Responsive. His grip tightened instinctively, appreciation flashing across his face.
"So," Jake said, rotating it slightly, "what can it do?"
Tom grinned. "Three modes."
He tapped the spear. "First is standard spear mode. Simple, reliable, nothing fancy. You're holding that one now."
Jake nodded.
"The second one's more like an extension. See that slide near the head? Pull it down. Catch what falls."
Jake did as instructed. The slide clicked, and something dropped free into his hand, a compact handle no longer than his forearm.
"Now press the right side with your thumb."
Jake did.
With a sharp series of metallic snaps, plates unfolded outward from the handle, locking together in rapid succession. In seconds, a triangular shield formed, solid and reassuringly heavy, its surface etched with layered reinforcement lines.
Jake stared. "You're insane."
"Thank you," Tom said proudly.
"To retract it, press the button again, slot it back into the hilt, and slide the mechanism up."
Jake followed the instructions, the shield collapsing cleanly back into its compact form.
"And the third mode?" Jake asked.
Tom's grin widened. "Pull the latch at the bottom."
Jake tugged.
The spear's shaft telescoped inward with a smooth mechanical glide. From the top emerged a slender, wickedly sharp blade. A sword, forged from the same alloy, its edge shimmering faintly with aether reinforcement.
No cross guard. Not ideal.
Still magnificent.
Jake exhaled slowly. "This would sell for a fortune."
Tom shrugged. "Yours is actually pretty tame compared to what I made for the others. Especially the new beyonder."
"Ace?"
Tom nodded. "Since he's all metal, I can go wild. Modular limbs, reinforced joints, built-in tools. I've been waiting for a platform like that."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "Should I cut my arm off so you can give me an upgrade?"
Tom immediately waved him off. "Absolutely not. Attaching prosthetics to organic nervous systems is a nightmare."
He paused.
"…I make no guarantees."
Jake laughed and backed toward the door.
Outside, the corridor opened into the main passage, where Luna stood waiting, arms crossed and smirk already in place.
"Tom really didn't hold back this time," he said. "You should be excited."
"I'll take your word for it."
She brushed past him into the workshop, clearly eager for her turn.
Jake climbed back up to the first floor, the warm light of the cottage washing over him just as Lucy stepped inside.
Lucy was in her early forties, an Asian woman with a lean build and piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly even in dim light. She wore a worn leather jacket over a black tunic and fitted pants, practical and unadorned.
She was Jake's mentor.
Lucy had taught him how to wield a spear properly, drilling footwork, reach, and timing into him until it became second nature. Her gift enhanced her eyesight to an absurd degree, allowing her to track movement, read micro-expressions, and fight with terrifying precision.
"Kinda like Gojo," Jake had once joked.
She hadn't understood the reference.
"Tom probably made you something ridiculous," Jake said. "Maybe even a gun."
Lucy nodded once. "Good."
That was all she said.
Jake settled onto the couch as time passed. Luna returned soon after, nearly vibrating with excitement as she described her weapon.
"Base mode is a short sword," she said. "But with modifications, it can shift into almost anything. I just need time."
Lucas eventually returned with Ace, the living armor moving with its usual mechanical grace.
For a moment, everything felt… right.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Lucas moved to answer it.
The door opened.
And the room went silent.
An Imperial soldier stood in the doorway, clad in polished Stellan armor, the empire's sigil gleaming coldly in the lamplight.
No one moved.
The war had just come to their doorstep.