A week grinds past Elias Thorne, each sunrise another tally mark in his grim march against a future he alone foresees. His focus remains absolute, a razor's edge honed between channeling volatile Aetherium and the relentless physical regimen he imposes on himself. Occasionally, he pulls Kael and Silas from their drilling of the Cogwheel Cavalry to inspect the mercenaries, a silent assessment of their burgeoning discipline. He watches for any flicker of weakness, any doubt that might compromise his desperate plan. The weight of his temporal echoes presses, a constant, chilling reminder of Veridia's fragile peace. Then, the first vital cogs arrive. A shipment of rich, Crimsonflank meat, harvested from the wild, Aether-infused plains beyond the city walls by Roric's expedition. Alongside it,crates of raw Aether-forged alloys and complex arcane schematics, painstakingly sourced from Seraphina’s hidden workshops deep within the shimmering Crystal Veins. The bounty flows into the fortified south manor, now Elias’s de facto base in the sprawling Steelspire District, fueling both his burgeoning force and his industrial designs. With the materials secured, Elias summons Gurn. The metallic tang of rendered fat and ozone from a nearby Aetherium conduit hangs heavy in Gurn’s workshop, a cacophony of hammering steel and grinding gears muted only by the thick, smoke-stained walls. Gurn, a grizzled foreman with hands like industrial presses and eyes accustomed to the intricate dance of clockwork, squints at the blueprint spread across his workbench. His brow, furrowed with decades of Veridian engineering, deepens into a canyon of skepticism. “I’ve tried to render it as precisely as my… limited expertise allows,” Elias states, his voice clipped, devoid of the usual pleasantries. He isn't a professional fabricator, yet his knowledge of these weapons, born from a future he relives, allows him to sketch designs far beyond the present-day’s grasp. To Gurn, however, these are rough, almost childish scrawls, defying the established laws of mechanics. “A modular feed mechanism that stores bolts at the rear and loads them automatically?” Gurn traces a thick finger over the diagram. “And the draw-string… triple-layered to fire three consecutive shots?” His gaze snaps between the audacious schematics and Elias's unyielding face, disbelief a tangible thing in the cluttered workshop. “Even if I could fashion such a structure, the string wouldn’t withstand the stresses of rapid-firing. Are you proposing a weapon meant for a single, desperate use before it shatters?” He jabs a finger at another section. “And this… this cumbersome housing unit right behind it? It would be unwieldy, awkward for the wielder. Who the hell concocted this… *absurdity*?” Elias allows a faint, almost imperceptible cough to escape. “Ahem. On second thought, the concept is quite… ingenious.” *This ‘absurdity’ will one day shatter the Directorate's false peace, Gurn. It will become a terror, a tool of subjugation. It’s a tragedy I must twist, a future I will not allow to unfold as it did.* The thought burns, a silent rage in Elias’s chest, stoked by the vivid, agonizing details of his temporal echoes. He knows the flaws Gurn identifies are real, current limitations, but he also knows the solutions. “Reduce the size of the bolts, thereby decreasing the overall cartridge dimensions,” Elias instructs, his voice firm, projecting an authority that belies his age. “Yes, it is, in a way, meant to be used once. But the cartridge itself will be modular, designed for rapid replacement after each volley.” He pauses, searching for a familiar term from his memories. “Let’s simply call it a ‘magazine’ for convenience.” The simplicity of the solution, a mere shift in perspective rather than an advanced technological leap, visibly shakes Gurn. His eyes, usually fixed on the tangible, widen with a dawning comprehension that borders on awe. “Impossible! I’ve heard whispers of a new Aether-powered loading mechanism, a ‘ratchet-foot’ system capable of four or five bolts per minute, but this… this is far superior! Unprecedented!” In Veridia, a crossbow is a hunter’s tool, a single-shot device that even a master marksman struggles to reload and fire twice in a minute. The weapon Elias describes, with its promise of repeated, devastating volleys, transcends current understanding. It feels like an artifact, imbued with lost arcane magic, not mere engineering. “You assert that you can craft such a thing, even with a single magazine module?” Gurn asks, his voice barely a whisper. “It *will* function. You simply need to build it.” Elias’s promise is absolute, backed by the undeniable weight of his future knowledge. His conviction leaves no room for further argument. To Gurn, Elias's words carry the undeniable ring of proven experience, not merely theoretical conjecture. “Hmm. To add only one magazine to such a revolutionary weapon, and the components require only a mainspring and specialized binding resins for the draw-string… I feel a surge of inspiration, a challenge worthy of my craft. Very well, scion. I will construct it.” The pride in Gurn’s voice is palpable. “When do you estimate completion?” Elias presses, ever conscious of the ticking clock of his foreseen future. Gurn throws his hands up in exasperation. “You ask me to invent the impossible, a weapon unheard of, and then demand a deadline?” “It remains a creation of human ingenuity, Gurn.” “...Excuse me? That’s preposterous! Who, where?!” The foreman's voice rises, indignation bubbling. “That knowledge is not for your ears. If you believe it impossible, then resign from the task.” Elias’s tone is flat, unwavering. “Hmph. Truly, now.” Gurn’s dwarven pride, a legendary thing amongst Veridia’s engineers, bristles under Elias’s deliberate provocation. “Alright, fine. One month. Within that time, I will deliver you something far superior to these… crude sketches.” Only then does a faint, almost imperceptible smile touch Elias’s lips. The repeating crossbow, a weapon dismissed in Veridia's past conflicts for its slow reload, had become a devastating instrument in the hands of the Iron Dominion, ten years from now. It was one of the two pillars of their early imperial invasions, a weapon capable of halting even Aetherium-clad Wardens without relying on mages, given the right strategic deployment. By the twilight years of the war, most city-states had reverse-engineered and adopted similar designs, making the initial version, while still costly, a common sight among the lower-tier mercenaries. *With just my Cogwheel Cavalry, armed with these, I could deliver a critical blow to House Bellwether in the coming territorial disputes.* The thought is not far-fetched, a tangible path illuminated by his temporal echoes. *No, I must not be overly optimistic.* The grim reality asserts itself. Gurn might fail. Even if he succeeds, the mercenaries might not master the weapon in time. Variables, always variables. Since the task is already entrusted to Gurn and the supplies to Roric, Elias can only wait. *So, I need to prepare another contingency plan.* A backup, in case his primary gambit falters. For that, Elias seeks out his father once more. The Thorne manor is a bastion of old money and arcane power, a stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble energy of the Steelspire District. Hadrian Thorne, Patriarch of the family, sits behind a desk of polished Obsidianwood, his face a mask of impenetrable calm. “You wish to participate in the Veridia Wardens’ training regimen, Elias?” Elias stands firm, his gaze meeting his father’s without flinching. Yet, Hadrian's response is unexpectedly sharp. “I’ve heard whispers that the abandoned south manor, your current haunt, has become a veritable hive of industry. You've renovated the living quarters, filled the storage with all manner of peculiar contraptions, and even housed those… mercenaries there. I understand you reside there now. Why not conduct your training in that… private domain?” “...It is simply that those mercenaries are, for now, of a lower tier, Father. The true might of our family, and indeed Veridia, lies with the Wardens. I wish to experience firsthand what it means to be a genuine Sentinel, to train alongside the city’s finest.” He chooses his words carefully, weaving a narrative designed to appeal to his father’s sense of duty and tradition. It feels unnatural, a bitter taste in his mouth, but necessary. “I acknowledge your latent Aetherium strength,” Hadrian concedes, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “But joining the Warden’s ranks might inconvenience the established knights. Therefore, you will receive no special treatment. Are you prepared to be treated as any raw recruit?” Elias nods, readily. A positive response, as expected. Commander Valerius, captain of the Veridia Wardens, receives the news with ill-concealed displeasure. His grizzled face, framed by streaks of gray amidst his brown hair, tightens. “Your Patriarch has been informed, Scion. However, are you certain you’ll manage without… special consideration?” Valerius is a veteran, a man of rigid protocols. *How can I not be mindful?* he thinks, his grays multiplying with each passing moment. *He is the Patriarch’s son, after all, and his recent… displays have not endeared him to the Warden ranks.* *If only he’d simply said to treat him kindly, my conscience would rest easier.* But as if reading the churning disquiet in the commander’s mind, the source of his present headache speaks, an offer that, despite itself, appeals to Valerius’s strict sense of honor. “One week. If I fall behind, even once, in the Warden’s training over that period, I will consider it a failed endeavor and withdraw on my own accord.” Valerius’s fists clench, a silent vow forming in his mind. *The intensity of the Veridia Warden’s training will triple for the next week.* A grim, determined fire ignites in his eyes. *If this is merely a performance to bolster your reputation, Scion, you will regret it.* He could almost hear the groans of his regular knights, but Valerius, caught between duty and a sense of justice, is already burning with a fierce, challenging enthusiasm. Elias, however, is not joining merely for reputation. *Either way, the true might of the family, and Veridia, lies with the Wardens. I must win their respect, whatever the cost.* In the worst-case scenario—should Gurn’s weapons not materialize, or fail to meet his exacting standards—Elias is prepared to join the Wardens and march to the frontlines himself. Even if his current, raw strength is not yet up to his father’s impossible expectations, he is confident it surpasses most of Veridia’s standing Wardens. *So now, I must build rapport, forge bonds by suffering alongside them.* This brutal regimen also serves his personal training. *I must now focus intensely on improving my martial prowess.* The Aetherium Weave, the intricate flow of raw energy through his body, can grow through meditative practices, yes. But at its core, it is rooted in physical exertion, in the crucible of battle. Formal training with the Wardens will be an invaluable crucible, shaping his body and mind, sharpening his Aetherium command. Elias hopes this bold move will become another crucial variant in his convoluted plans, a new cog in the machinery of his regret-fueled resolve. His decision, however, unleashes an unwitting tempest upon the unfortunate Veridia Wardens. “Starting today, Scion Elias Thorne will join our Warden’s training regimen.” “What… what did you say?” “Did I hear that right? The Scion… training?” In the pre-dawn chill of the parade ground, Commander Valerius’s announcement ripples through the assembled Veridia Wardens, a wave of shock and disbelief. As Hadrian Thorne had feared, the reactions are far from positive. “He defeated Kaelen and now he thinks he can mock the Wardens?” “There’s a rumor the Scion has lost his mind. Is this some kind of…” Murmurs spread like wildfire, their discontent a low, angry hum, threatening to consume the morning's discipline. Elias watches them, grimly determined. Let them doubt. Let them whisper. He will use their skepticism, their challenge, to forge himself into something unbreakable. The temporal echoes demand nothing less.

The Cogwheel's Design and a Warden's Fury