In the towers high above the bustling streets of Orario.
Freya sat alone upon her throne of pale stone and velvet dusk, the room dim save for the golden fire flickering in the hearth. Her hair, unbound, spilled across her shoulders like strands of moonlight. Her eyes were focused on two objects.
First, the Prototype Adaptive Monomolecular Short Sword. Its 60 cm blade was forged to a single-atom edge that shimmered faintly in the firelight.
Fractal circuitry patterns lay etched into the alloy's micro-lattice, visible only when the metal vibrated with energy. Micro-servo nodes nestled along the spine kept the blade unnervingly stable and quick, compensating for a fighter's slightest imbalance without any neural interface. The hilt was wrapped in crimson-dyed polymer sinew for grip, delivering perfect balance in every swing.
Beside it lay the Compact Mag-Pistol, with The trigger mechanism was entirely mechanical—no linked circuitry to mind—when held, the pistol hummed with restrained power, its complex dampening coils promising minimal recoil.
Freya reached out to the pistol, testing it in her palm. Smooth. Cold. But not lifeless.
She let her eyes fall half-lidded. The world dimmed.
Not the weapon. Not the steel or the design. But him.
Freya had seen many in her time. Heroes born under stars of fire and prophecy. Tyrants shaped by grief. Lovers blinded by yearning. But this one—this soul—was wrong.
Not flawed. Not twisted.
It wasn't like mortals. It wasn't even like the souls of the gods. It didn't burn or shimmer or ache like theirs. It hummed. Quiet, like static through crystal. A storm caged inside glass. Not erratic, not lost—contained. Waiting.
Its shape was jagged and shifting, as though layered in masks. Some pieces screamed of war, others whispered of machines. Not the magic of world, but of logic of the iron and dead stars .
She drew in a breath, unblinking.
"No soul born of Gekai would be ," she whispered.
There was discipline in him—a sharpened will, But at a deeper level, there was something darker. A purpose that did not originate from this world.
She tilted the pistol again, catching its glint.
She turned her gaze back to the short sword—Freya extended a hand and tapped one gloved finger against the blade's flat.
"Take both of them," she said at last, her voice drifting toward the tall figure waiting at the edge of the room. "Test it."
Ottarl stepped forward, bowing his head, though his eyes lingered on the strange weapons with muted suspicion. " do I have to check there limit "
"just get the general understanding," Freya said. Her smile was unreadable.
Freya put the pistol on the table,be careful not to damage the pistol.
"This isn't just craftsmanship," she said softly, as if speaking to the silence. "This is a story frozen in steel."
She wasn't smiling now.
And now she understood, "You didn't want to play hero," she murmured, speaking now not to the weapon, but to the phantom echo of the soul she touched. "coming
here with something buried beneath."
Her smile returned, thin and sharp.
"And you think the gods won't notice."
Behind her, the fire cracked. The shadows on the walls did not dance—they stood still, like they too were watching.
Freya closed her hand around the weapon, feeling the chill of the unknown settle in her bones.
Ottarl waited silently, the sword held reverently at his side. He knew better than to interrupt when she spoke —when her voice dropped and her gaze turned toward the far horizon.
Freya stepped forward, resting the mag-pistol carefully back on the stone pedestal between them. It didn't belong to her—not yet.
"I can't let him stay alone," she said, eyes never leaving the glinting steel. "He wasn't made to sell weapons like trinkets in a market. I want to see the miracle—not the scraps he he is selling."
Then, quietly—more to herself than to Ottarl—
Back at the shop, the mood was anything but tranquil.
The display rack was missing two items, and the workshop's shutters still hummed faintly from the departure of the armored adventurer who had just left—carrying weapons worth nearly thirty million valis.
Luthar sat behind the counter, his expression unreadable, his attention absorbed by a floating dataslate. The servo-skull beside him clinked softly as it processed receipts and updated inventory.
Naaza stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the aftermath of the transaction. Thirty million valis. The sum was staggering,she couldn't shake the weight of what was happening.
"Did you see him?" Elna whispered, her voice almost in awe. "The tall one—he barely said anything, but when he swing the sword, Just one time And then he said, 'Acceptable. Better than expected'."
Naaza's gaze flickered to the empty rack and back to the dataslate in Luthar's hands, frustration building in her chest. The shop had barely been open long enough to establish a reputation, and now? Now Luthar had already sold thirty million in equipment.
She glanced at the empty display rack, then back at him, her voice sharp. "Do you even realize what you've done? You're not just selling gear—you're stirring up a storm you can't control."
Her fists clenched. " the gods, the adventurers—they'll all come for you. Not just for your weapons. For everything."
She crossed her arms, glaring. "You don't have God's protection and still
You're throwing fuel on a fire and acting like it won't burn you. Freya's and other gods have probably already watching."
Naaza exhaled sharply, clearly rattled. "You're moving too fast. You're becoming a target—and you don't even see it."
Luthar's brow arched. "Jealous?"
She scoffed, deflating. "No, why would I be jealous?"
"Because I am making money and you are not," Luthar said
Naaza's tail lashed behind her, betraying her growing agitation. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling to find the right words.
"I—I just... it's not like I care about the money," she stammered, her voice rising in pitch. "It's just that... well, you can't just go around selling weapons like that without thinking about the consequences!"
She threw her hands up in exasperation. "You think you're the only one who can make a profit? I'm also selling potions, you know!"
Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a resounding thud.