A chill wind whips through the training yard, carrying the metallic tang of sweat and the subtle, cloying scent of Aetherium fumes from the distant industrial spires. Elias Thorne stands amidst the Veridian Guard Cohort, their resentful gazes like physical jabs against his skin. He ignores them, his focus absolute, drawn inward to the throbbing, luminous core nestled deep within his chest—his Aetherium core. Since the disastrous incident, the vivid temporal echo of Veridia’s impending collapse a constant, agonizing loop in his mind, sleep has become a luxury he cannot afford. Meditation, a rigorous channeling of raw Aetherium, has replaced it. It’s more than just training; it’s a desperate attempt to outrun a future he remembers with terrifying clarity. He’d surpassed the meager capabilities of a common Aethermancer long ago, yet the core, now, pulses with an unprecedented intensity. During moments of extreme exertion, like the brutal drills of the morning, it flares, rapidly expelling and reabsorbing energy, its glow brighter, its hum louder than in any structured meditation. Physically, a dull ache throbs in his bones, a testament to the strain, but a grim satisfaction spreads across Elias’s face. The core develops, visibly, in real-time, each thrum a promise of raw, unstable power. He turns to Commander Valerius, his voice steady, laced with a practiced sincerity that borders on reverence. “Guardsmen who maintain such rigorous training can only be formidable. My admiration is truly boundless.” His words, though outwardly complimentary, are a tactical strike, a blunt instrument that shatters any avenue of retort from Valerius and his guardsmen. A strangled, awkward laugh escapes Valerius. “Ha, haha, of course, Lord Thorne. Ah, thank you for your recognition.” The guardsmen behind him visibly flinch, their expressions curdling, as if they’ve swallowed a mouthful of bile. Elias can practically hear their silent thoughts, a cacophony of frustration and suspicion. *Damn this infuriating fool…* *Ugh, that spiteful nobleman. What fresh hell is he planning for us?* *Why, by the Brass Gods, is he even here?* *Please, just vanish! Disappear back to your gilded cage!* Elias feels their resentment, a tangible wave of animosity, and notes its unexpected depth. His calculated compliments, meant to disarm, have only sharpened their ire. Good. Let them simmer. Their discomfort is a small price for his continued presence. — The second training evolution of the day begins: scaling the treacherous, moss-slicked walls of the old refinery’s exterior. The jagged, rusted framework, once a testament to Veridia’s industrial might, now serves as a grim obstacle course. Half the cohort collapses, muscles screaming, lungs burning, unable to reach the upper platforms. Commander Valerius, a dark cloud gathering on his brow, calls an early halt to the day’s training. Disappointment hangs heavy in the Aether-charged air. As the exhausted guardsmen sprawl across the grime-streaked concrete, emitting pained, silent groans, Elias approaches Valerius. He pats the commander’s shoulder with a show of genuine regret, though his eyes hold a detached, analytical gleam. “I will be anticipating more, Commander. Much more.” Though meant as a commendation, Valerius’s expression only sinks further, etched with a deepening gloom that Elias observes with clinical precision. — It isn’t until the sky over Veridia bleeds into hues of orange and violet, the gaslamps flaring to life across the sprawling metropolis, that Elias returns to the Thorne estate wing. Instead of heading to his private chambers, he veers towards the private access point leading to the Sky-Strider Bluffs, a jagged spine of rock bordering the city. The raw Aetherium surging through his core has rapidly mended the physical fatigue, but the mental exhaustion, the relentless replay of future tragedies, is a different beast entirely. Yet, tonight, an unusual clarity, a potent alertness, hums beneath his skin. *This must also be because of…* Elias allows a faint, almost imperceptible smile to touch his lips, sensing the Aetherium core within him boasting its undeniable presence. He scales the lower bluffs with effortless grace, his boots finding purchase on crumbling rock and hardy scrub. He reaches a secluded ridgeline, a quiet perch overlooking the sprawling, glowing city, and, drawing a deep breath, he channels his strength, pushing it to its absolute peak. A faint, volatile golden light, the raw energy of Aetherium, begins to shroud the polished steel of his longsword. He watches it, a grim satisfaction settling over him, then swings the blade in a slow, deliberate arc. Though the swing is light, almost casual, the blade cleaves through the very air itself, not with a whisper, but with a visceral *thump*, creating a powerful shockwave that ripples outwards, disturbing loose scree from the cliff face. A mere 1-star Aetherium core, yet it demonstrates strength nearing that of an intermediate Aethermancer. He’s nearing the threshold where he can infuse objects with channeled power, a feat considered intermediate-level manipulation. The faint energy flow now coursing into the sword suggests it’s only a matter of time before he naturally reaches that level of mastery. The evolved Aetherium power exhilarating. Its amplified strength, the overflowing, unnatural healing properties, surpass any simple Aether manipulation he had mastered in his *previous life*, before the temporal echo had ripped through his understanding of reality. He feels a surge of confidence; even a low-tier guardsman, backed by this nascent power, could face down a lone group of city thugs without issue. *If I am this powerful now, once I reach 2-stars…* He might even reach the power level of a superior Aethermancer, like his father, Lord Alderan Thorne. The mere thought of that domination, that absolute control, makes his hands tremble with a barely contained excitement, a silent rage fueling his ambition. If he can advance just one more step, before the inevitable Sector Conflict erupts, his own martial power could become a critical variable. A powerful variable, perhaps as decisive as a squadron of Aether-Riders. After swinging his sword fiercely for what feels like an age, the golden glow around the blade flickering with each impact, Elias finally descends from the bluffs as the Veridian night deepens, the city’s myriad lights a distant, shimmering tapestry. — From that day on, Elias’s routine solidifies into an almost relentless rhythm. He diligently participates in the guardsmen’s brutal training, pushing himself beyond their limits. In the evenings, despite the lingering mental fatigue from his temporal echoes, he devotes himself tirelessly to solitary practice on the bluffs, honing his Aetherium manipulation. Every few days, he checks on the progress of Grizzel, the dwarf artisan, and the training situation of the mercenary troop under Captain Roric. Casually observing Kael’s swordsmanship drills and Silas’s condition become secondary, almost subconscious, tasks, data points in his relentless calculations. Though content with his personal progress, that doesn’t mean other matters are free from conflict. Quite the opposite. “Is *this* the pinnacle of your craft? Is this truly your best effort, Grizzel? Then forget this entire endeavor! Would you rather just forge decorative hinges for nobles?!” Thrown crossbow frames and cartridge casings clatter against the thick stone wall of Grizzel’s chaotic workshop, sending up clouds of metallic dust. Watching them roll across the floor, the dwarf artisan’s face trembles with a potent, brewing rage, his bushy red beard bristling. “M-Master Elias! This crossbow, it boasts a rate of fire and range that cannot be compared to standard designs…” Grizzel sputters, his deep voice cracking. “Where is the *rapid fire* I specifically commissioned? Only this meager output? And the cartridge system? Who asked for an integrated, single-shot model?” Elias’s voice is sharp, cutting, leaving no room for argument. “Oh, I apologize. My words were too harsh.” Elias intones, his voice suddenly calm, almost regretful. “That’s right! Even if you’re the master, you can’t simply insult an artisan’s pride…” Grizzel begins, encouraged by the shift in tone. “If this is truly your best effort, then so be it. *Sigh*. To think I expended so much valuable Aetherium and resources just for *this*…” Elias’s lament, delivered with dramatic gravitas, is clearly intended for Grizzel’s ears, designed to wound deeper than any direct insult. Grizzel’s face crumples like discarded parchment. The raw, artistic pride of a dwarf, trampled under Elias’s strategic disapproval. “Grrr… Give me one week. I will remake it. I will return within a week.” Eventually, the dwarf smashes his own creation onto his workbench, a furious snarl escaping his lips, and storms out of Elias’s temporary quarters, muttering curses in a guttural, dwarven dialect. After the heavy oak door slams shut, Elias wears a satisfied, almost triumphant smile. “A bit more pressure, and something truly incredible will emerge. Dwarves are, without a doubt, remarkable creatures.” *** Two weeks later. Hundreds of mercenary outriders, mounted on sturdy Veridian steeds, thunder across the sprawling training grounds just beyond the city’s outer district. In the hands of each rider, a compact, dark metal crossbow, sleek and utilitarian, gleams under the midday sun. The riders aim in unison, their movements synchronized, a practiced fluidity belying their relatively short training time. With a series of sharp, metallic *thwips*, a volley of bolts launches. They tear through the air, carving arcs towards a pack of lurking Chitin-Scuttlers — low-tier monstrosities resembling oversized, armored hyenas — that swarm across the field. The bolts pierce the chitinous hides, embedding themselves so deeply that hardly a single scuttler makes it through the initial onslaught. As half of the presumably hundred-strong scuttler pack perishes in that single, devastating volley, the remaining beasts charge furiously, their mandibles clicking, their multi-faceted eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Yet, despite the close approach of the frenzied scuttlers, the cavalry does not engage in melee. Instead, they execute a precise, strategic circling maneuver, outmaneuvering the slower, more cumbersome creatures. After a while, as the monsters’ initial onslaught tires and their ranks thin, the riders realign for another volley. The result is an almost surgical annihilation. However, looking down upon this scene from a small hill overlooking the field, Elias’s expression is far from bright. He observes Captain Roric, the mercenary leader, below, his internal ledger tallying every inefficiency. “Is it still too challenging with this design? The remaining stragglers are taking far too much time to dispatch.” Elias murmurs, more to himself than to Roric, who approaches, wiping sweat from his brow. “Lord Thorne, sir. This is, truly, the practical limit of a standard crossbow design. If you desire serious combat readiness against such numbers, perhaps specialized bow-riders instead…” Roric tries to interject, clearly frustrated by Elias’s impossible expectations. “That’s enough. It’s sufficient.” Elias cuts him off, a dismissive wave of his hand. His gaze remains fixed on the scattered carcasses. “It’s fine. The movements are synchronized well enough, and the marksmanship is decent, considering the training time. Good job, Captain. And keep up the effort.” “Ah, yes. Well, it is my job, and all.” Roric mutters, a flicker of dissatisfaction crossing his face. It would be difficult for anyone, not just him, to be truly satisfied with the mercenary troupe’s performance, especially given Elias’s relentless demands. *Is this really just a sham? I’m confused by his intent, by his methods…* Roric’s curiosity, Elias knows, will require much more time and many more confounding demonstrations before it can be truly satisfied. — Days flow by once more, blending into the relentless march towards the inevitable. Then, a shouted triumph echoes through the Thorne estate wing. “Master! It’s complete! I’ve finished it!” From his corner workshop, a joyous Grizzel emerges, holding up a short, arm-length crossbow, his face beaming, as he greets Elias. “Alright, I came because I heard. Let’s verify its capabilities.” However, Elias’s expression is far from pleased. He had rushed over at the news of the crossbow’s completion, but the *size* of Grizzel’s latest creation is not what he had anticipated, the temporal echo in his mind screaming a different image. *Why is it so small?* Size always mattered for weapons, a fundamental law of ballistics and kinetic energy. The smaller the weapon, especially for projectile launchers like bows and crossbows that utilize tension, the more limited its application, typically meaning less raw power. Thus, Elias’s frown is understandable, etched with a familiar, weary disappointment. “Ha-ha! Is it the size you’re worried about, Master Elias? Don’t fret! I assure you this, by the Brass Gods, it might even perform *better* than what you initially asked for!” Grizzel senses Elias’s mood and reassures him enthusiastically, practically dragging him by the hand towards a testing ground on the bluffs. And there, on a small, secluded clearing on the Sky-Strider Bluffs, Elias watches, half-worried, half-excited by the dwarf’s boundless confidence. He soon realizes that the ‘sincere dwarf’ has crafted something truly formidable, a weapon born of desperation and genius. With a single, sharp *twang* as the string is released, *two* bolts cleave the Aether-charged air. They whistle, blurring streaks that hurtle over three hundred meters, burying themselves so deeply into the designated target dummy — a reinforced steel plate — that not even the tail fletchings of the projectiles can be seen. Elias is astounded by the sheer power, which far surpasses the effective range of a usual crossbow, typically around 150 meters at most. Moreover, within less than five seconds, the exact same scene unfolds again: another sharp *twang*, two more bolts, another devastating impact. It isn’t two separate crossbows that have fired. Grizzel, with a proud flourish, pulls a small, almost hidden trigger on the side of the crossbow’s stock. A whirring of internal gears, a soft *click*, and the mechanism automatically loads the next two bolts, all in just about five seconds. “Well, Master Elias, what do you think? It fires one less bolt than you initially requested for a single volley, but it’s easy to hold in one hand, making replacing the cartridge mechanism…” Grizzel prattles on, excitedly explaining various design points and modifications. Elias, however, isn’t hearing a single word. *Even though its range is slightly less than the Arcane Enclave’s final version I remember from the temporal echo, this design is certainly better suited for the Aether-Riders, for the skirmisher cavalry.* His internal assessment is swift, decisive. One of the crucial weapons Elias Thorne had been preparing for the coming storm, for the Sector Conflict that would shatter Veridia, is now complete. A grim satisfaction, tinged with the ever-present shadow of guilt, settles over him.

The Aether's Crucible