Time in the Molten Iron Mountain Range felt both exceptionally long and exceptionally rushed.
Day after day, the wind and sand of the wasteland battered the walls of Forged Fire Fortress, while deep within Zone 18, a steel behemoth madly consumed and processed a sea of resources.
Amidst the roar that continued day and night, shipment after shipment of metal ingots were brought in, exchanged for various magical materials, and fed into assembly lines. There, under the work of runic equipment, they were transformed into parts for the Golem Legion.
Allen barely slept or rested.
The corners of his workshop were piled high with empty Energy Potion vials.
When he got tired, he would down a bottle. When he felt sleepy, he would lean against the control console for a brief nap.
His Spiritual Power was pushed to its absolute limit through countless instances of extremely delicate Rune carving, only to become more refined and condensed with each recovery.
