A week has passed and today, Mrs. Xiong took us to a blacksmith she knew to make our weapons. She said she was going to pay for both of us.
The forge was located in one of Vale's industrial districts, tucked between larger manufacturing facilities that produced everything from Dust refinery equipment to airship components. The building itself looked ancient compared to its neighbors—red brick worn smooth by decades of soot and heat, with a chimney that billowed steady smoke into the morning sky.
"Ironwood Forge," Tukson read the sign aloud, her ears perking with interest. "That's kind of on the nose, isn't it?"
"The owner isn't known for subtlety," Mrs. Xiong said with a fond smile. "But what he lacks in creativity, he makes up for in skill. He's been crafting Huntsmen weapons for thirty years."
The interior was exactly what I'd expected—oppressively hot, filled with the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal, and lined with weapons in various stages of completion. Swords, axes, gauntlets, even what looked like a mechanical umbrella hung from wall mounts or rested on work benches. The air tasted of coal smoke and hot steel.
A massive figure emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a leather apron that had seen better days. He was built like the weapons he forged—broad, solid, and utterly practical. His arms were covered in old burn scars that had faded to pale lines against dark skin.
"Xiao!" His voice boomed across the forge, and he broke into a wide grin. "Been too long! And you brought the kids." His eyes landed on Tukson, and his expression softened. "Look at you, little Tukson. Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my knee. Now you're almost as tall as your mother."
Tukson's face flushed, but she managed a small smile.
"Hi, Mr. Steele."
"And who's this?" The blacksmith's attention shifted to me, his gaze sharp and assessing in a way that made me instinctively straighten.
"This is Chara," Mrs. Xiong said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "He's been staying with us for about a year now. Both of them are enrolling at Signal Academy next semester."
"Signal, eh?" Mr. Steele crossed his arms, studying us both with the same intensity he'd probably use to examine a flawed piece of metalwork. "That means you need weapons. Real ones, not training sticks." He gestured toward his workshop. "Come on back. Let's see what you've got in mind."
We followed him deeper into the forge, past the main workspace to a smaller room lined with design tables and reference materials. Blueprints covered the walls—some faded and yellowed with age, others crisp and new.
"So," Mr. Steele said, pulling out a large sheet of blank paper and setting it on the main table. "Tell me what you're thinking. And don't give me vague descriptions—I need specifics. Weight distribution, transformation mechanisms, Dust integration, all of it."
I pulled out my notebook, opening to the refined sketch of my variable configuration blade. "A segmented combat knife that transforms into a shortsword. The blade separates into individual segments connected by high-tensile wire, allowing for both ranged attacks and grappling applications. Each segment houses a Dust charge for propulsion when ejected."
Mr. Steele took the notebook, his eyes scanning the design with growing interest. "Hmm. Ambitious for a first weapon. This wire mechanism—you'd need something incredibly strong but flexible. And the Dust integration would have to be precise. One misfire and you could lose a finger." He looked up at me. "What made you think of something like this?"
"Versatility," I said simply. "I need something that can adapt to different combat ranges and situations."
"And the fact that it's designed to look like a kitchen knife in its base form?" He'd noticed that detail I'd tried to downplay in the sketch.
"Familiarity," I admitted. "I've spent the last year working in a bakery. Knives feel... natural."
Mr. Steele grunted, a sound that might have been approval. "At least you're honest about it. Too many kids come in here wanting flashy weapons that look impressive but don't match how they actually fight." He set my notebook aside and turned to Tukson. "What about you? What's your design?"
Tukson glanced at me briefly before pulling out her own sketches—rougher than mine, but clearly influenced by our training sessions and the tonfa design I'd suggested. "Dual weapons. Tonfa-style for close combat, but with Dust propulsion systems for enhanced mobility. They need to be light enough for my speed but sturdy enough for blocking."
"And the transformation?" Mr. Steele asked.
"They extend into short staves for reach, and collapse completely for storage." She pointed to specific parts of her sketch. "The Dust chambers here and here—I want to be able to trigger them mid-movement for burst acceleration or direction changes."
The blacksmith studied her design, nodding slowly. "You've thought about this. That's good." He looked between us. "Both of these are complex builds. Not impossible, but they'll take time and they won't be cheap."
"Money isn't an issue," Mrs. Xiong said firmly. "These are investments in their future. In their safety."
Mr. Steele's expression softened slightly as he looked at her. "You're sure about this, Xiao? Both of them, following the same path that—" He caught himself, glancing at Tukson.
"I'm sure," Mrs. Xiong said quietly. "I'd rather they be properly equipped than try to make do with scraps."
A heavy silence fell over the workshop. I could see Tukson's ears flatten slightly, and I realized this conversation was dancing around the topic of her father—the Huntsman who hadn't come home.
"Right then," Mr. Steele said, clearing his throat and returning his attention to our designs. "Let's talk materials and timeline. For the knife—" he tapped my notebook, "—I'm thinking high-carbon steel for the blade segments, with a tungsten core for the wire. The transformation mechanism will be the tricky part. You'll need a locking system that's both secure and quick-release."
He pulled out a pencil and began sketching modifications directly onto a fresh sheet of paper. "We can use a magnetic locking system here, powered by a small Dust battery in the handle. When you trigger the release, the segments separate in sequence. The wire feeds from a spool mechanism here—" he drew quickly, his hands moving with practiced confidence, "—and each segment has a small thruster port for the Dust charges."
I watched, fascinated, as my rough concept transformed into something that could actually be built. He added details I hadn't considered—a safety mechanism to prevent accidental deployment, a grip texture that would work with both knife and sword configurations, a chamber system that could hold multiple types of Dust for different tactical applications.
"For the base form," he continued, "we keep it simple. Looks like a large combat knife, nothing fancy. But the handle needs to be weighted properly to balance the extended form." He sketched out the proportions. "About fourteen inches total in knife form, extends to roughly twenty-eight inches as a shortsword. The segments lock together here, here, and here."
"What about the wire?" I asked. "If it gets cut or tangled—"
"You're carrying a secondary spool in the pommel," he said immediately. "Emergency replacement takes about thirty seconds if you practice the motion. And we use a wire that's designed to cut, not be cut. Same stuff they use for high-grade industrial cutting tools."
He set down the pencil and looked at me seriously. "This weapon is going to require maintenance. Regular cleaning, Dust charge replacement, wire inspection. You'll need to treat it like the precision instrument it is. Can you commit to that?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
"Good." He turned to Tukson's design. "Now for yours..."
He went through a similar process, refining her tonfa design with the same methodical expertise. He suggested improvements to the Dust chamber placement, showed her how the extension mechanism could be streamlined, added shock-absorbing materials to the striking surfaces.
"The propulsion system is interesting," he mused. "You're essentially turning these into miniature thrusters. We can integrate multiple Dust types—fire for raw speed, wind for precision maneuvering, ice for creating momentary platforms or obstacles."
He sketched out a rotating chamber system. "You select the Dust type here with your thumb, trigger activation with these pressure points. The recoil will be significant, so we need to reinforce the structural integrity."
Tukson was leaning over the table now, completely absorbed. "Can we add blades? Like, retractable ones for when I need cutting power instead of impact?"
Mr. Steele considered this, then nodded. "We can add bayonet-style blades that deploy from the front ends. They'll be short—maybe four inches—but sharp enough to matter." He added the modification to his sketch. "In staff form, they'll be positioned at both ends. Makes you more versatile."
"That's perfect," Tukson breathed, her eyes bright with excitement.
Mrs. Xiong had been watching quietly, but now she spoke up. "How long for both weapons?"
Mr. Steele did some mental calculations. "Given the complexity... I'd say six weeks for the first drafts. Then you'll both need to test them, get a feel for the weight and balance. There'll be adjustments—there always are with custom weapons. Figure another two weeks for refinements." He looked at us. "That puts you at about eight weeks total, which still gives you a month before Signal starts to train with the final versions."
"We'll take it," Mrs. Xiong said.
"Hold on," Mr. Steele raised a hand. "I need to make sure these two understand what they're committing to. These aren't just weapons—they're going to become extensions of yourselves. You'll eat with them, sleep with them, trust your lives to them." His gaze was intense. "That means you need to name them. A weapon without a name is just a tool. A weapon with a name is a partner."
I felt something in my chest tighten. Names. I'd been avoiding thinking about what to call my weapon, afraid of what name might surface from those fragmented memories.
"I... don't have a name yet," I admitted.
"Neither do I," Tukson added quietly.
Mr. Steele nodded as if he'd expected this. "That's fine. Most people don't name their weapons until they've held them, felt their weight, seen them in action. But start thinking about it. By the time these are done, you should know what to call them."
He rolled up the modified designs carefully. "I'll start on the base components this week. You'll both need to come back for fittings—probably in two weeks for the initial test frames. And—" he fixed us both with a stern look, "—you need to be training your aura control. These weapons will respond to aura flow, especially the Dust-integrated systems. Weak aura control means weak weapon performance."
"We've been training every night," Tukson said, then immediately looked like she regretted admitting that in front of her mother.
Mrs. Xiong simply sighed. "At least you're being supervised now."
Mr. Steele's eyebrow raised. "Supervised?"
"They train together," Mrs. Xiong explained. "At the edge of the forest. Not deep enough for serious Grimm, but enough to practice safely."
"Good," the blacksmith said approvingly. "Keep that up. And add aura exercises—projection, hardening, recovery. The more refined your control, the better these weapons will serve you."
He walked us back toward the front of the forge, pulling out a data pad. "I'll need a deposit—half up front, half on delivery. And I'll want both of you to sign off on the final designs before I commit resources to the full build."
As Mrs. Xiong handled the payment details, Tukson sidled up next to me, her voice low. "Your weapon is really cool. Kind of scary, but cool."
"Yours too," I replied. "The blade addition was a good call."
"Thanks." She paused, then added even more quietly, "Do you think we're ready for this? Signal, Huntsmen training, all of it?"
I thought about the past week—the nightly training sessions, the gradual improvement in both our techniques, the way our auras had grown stronger and more responsive. I thought about the fragmented memories of seven lifetimes, the muscle memory that knew how to fight even when my mind couldn't remember learning.
"No," I said honestly. "But I don't think anyone is ever truly ready. You just... move forward anyway."
Tukson's ears twitched, and she smiled slightly. "That's surprisingly philosophical coming from someone who spends most of his time covered in flour."
"The bakery provides ample time for contemplation."
She snorted softly, then her expression grew more serious. "Hey, Chara? Thanks. For training with me. For the weapon design help. For... everything, I guess."
Before I could respond, Mrs. Xiong finished with Mr. Steele and turned back to us.
"All set. We'll come back in two weeks for the fittings." She glanced between us, something knowing in her expression. "How about we stop for lunch on the way home? There's a noodle shop nearby that Tukson used to love."
"I still love it," Tukson protested. "I just don't go out much during the day."
"Well, today you're out," Mrs. Xiong said firmly. "And we're celebrating. Both of you are one step closer to becoming real Huntsmen."
As we left the forge, stepping back out into the bright afternoon sun, I caught one last glimpse of Mr. Steele through the window. He'd already returned to his work, hammer in hand, sparks flying as he shaped raw metal into something purposeful.
In six weeks, I'd have a weapon of my own. Something designed specifically for how I fought, how I moved, how I survived.
The question was: what would I call it?
A name from a life I couldn't remember? Or something new, something that belonged to this version of myself—the one learning to be part of a family, to train alongside a friend, to maybe actually live instead of just exist?
The shattered moon hung pale in the daylight sky, barely visible but always there.
Just like the fragments of who I used to be.