Carmen bent down, her face only an inch from the surface of the metal, as she inspected the engraving. Courtesy of Precise Eye, she saw every imperfection as if she was looking at it under a microscope. Unfortunately, she couldn’t use it while actually engraving. She had neither the extra ethera to power it nor the ability to split her focus so cleanly.

But she was working on the latter.

Over the past few months, she’d spent a few hours out of each day working on the cultivation of her mind, and she’d made incredible progress so far. Soon, she expected to make the leap to the first level of cultivation – Opal – which would allow her to partition her thoughts.

The problem was that it was an arduous process, at least insofar as she could follow the method she’d found in the guide she had purchased. Absorbing that much ethera was grueling, painful work, but she’d so far remained diligent in the endeavor. However, Carmen was often jealous of her brother-in-law, who seemed to take cultivation for granted. He’d been forced to cultivate his mind extremely early on, and he’d not slowed down since. If anyone on Earth was going to reach the upper echelons of cultivation, it was him.

Too bad she couldn’t use his methods, which were either suicidally dangerous or dependent on his grove and nature attunement. Perhaps Miguel could take some of those advantages for himself, though.

If he ever returned.

Her focus wavered, and the skill with it. She let out a sigh, straightening to her full, if unimpressive, height. Her back cracked with the motion, telling her she’d been at it for far too long. Setting her engraving tools aside, she forced herself to turn away from her project and head to the clean water barrel. Once there, she took a moment to splash her face, washing hours of sweat and grime away. Not all, but some.

She barely noticed, though. Instead, she stood there, her hands on the edge of the barrel, and stared into the water. Her thoughts lingered on her son. Miguel had been gone for so long that her faith that he would return had begun to waver. He hadn’t even sent any messages. Not since he’d informed her that he was going on a training expedition into troll-controlled territory.

Carmen had never seen one of the creatures, but the second she’d learned the nature of the enemy, she’d embarked on a few days of research meant to cure her ignorance. She’d even hired the services of Ironshore’s only Librarian, and she’d come away with a guide that told her in no uncertain terms that Miguel was in incredible danger.

Trolls were an elder race that had fallen from grace. War and internal conflicts had slowly robbed them of their sapience, and currently, they only existed as wild, solitary threats. Even then, those much-diminished creatures were regarded as incredibly dangerous to the point where the mere sighting of one was enough to prompt an immediate response by the most powerful people in the area.

But the ones in the Hollow Depths were different. More intelligent. Better organized and equipped with real armor and weapons. If a single wild troll was a significant threat, then the ones associated with the Primal Realm were a world-ending danger that could very well spell humanity’s doom.

And Miguel was right there in the middle of it.

Carmen knew her son was strong. He was dedicated to all manner of improvement, including obsessing over his skill with weapons and survival strategies. She couldn’t blame him, either. After everything that boy had been through since the apocalypse, it would have been stranger if he hadn’t become a fighter. She was also well aware that a Primal Realm – especially one with as numerous of enemies as the one in the Hollow Depths – represented opportunity as well as danger.

Everyone needed levels, after all, and for a fighter, the only way to get them was to kill. Most ended up in towers or hunting powerful beasts, but even Ironshore’s people had embarked on a quest to take advantage of the Chimeric Forge that Elijah had conquered more than half a year before.

Carmen knew all of this, and yet, she still worried for her son’s well-being. Hopefully, Elijah would soon complete his tasks and follow through with his promise to hunt Miguel down. Otherwise, Carmen might end up going herself.

And she wasn’t ready for that.

She was no stranger to combat, having fought more battles than many full-fledged fighters. Yet, she didn’t revel in it – not like some. Certainly, she didn’t hate the feeling of overpowering an enemy. There was an exultation that came with overcoming a powerful foe that was absolutely undeniable. It was just part of the human condition, and one to which Carmen was not immune.

Still, she didn’t seek conflict, preferring instead to take out her frustrations on any stubborn hunk of metal she could find.

In any case, her avoidance of battle meant that as she’d focused on her various other projects – like the one sitting on the anvil across the room or the Forge of Creation – she’d let the quality of her personal armaments fall by the wayside. Now, it was no better than what she was building for Ironshore’s nascent army.

She knew she needed to change that, and soon. The world was a dangerous place, and it wasn’t a question of if a fight was coming. Rather, it was when. And she needed to be ready.

First, though, she wanted to complete her current project. So, she turned her attention back to the weapon on her anvil. The blade was naked and well-formed. She hadn’t even built the hilt. Instead, she found herself fussing over the engravings – a common occurrence since she’d begun the project.

The fact was that, with the relatively low-quality materials she’d been using, any mistake she made was magnified. Each flaw meant more when the grade wasn’t propped up by powerful materials. That had forced her to reevaluate many of her techniques. She’d needed to slow down and truly focus on the little things. Otherwise, the product wouldn’t meet the standards she’d promised to Essex.

And that just wasn’t going to happen.

It had taken her weeks to establish the prototype. Weeks more to take the forge time down to a minimum. Then, for months, she’d made one piece after another. Spears. Swords. Armor. Shields. Hundreds of sets, all virtually identical.

None of the pieces were individually strong. Carmen had known that would be the case from the very beginning. However, she’d also known that there was power in unity. Not only did each set come with bonus attributes and traits, but there was also the defining power that bound each set together and created a whole that she hoped would justify the project’s existence.

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And she’d made four hundred-and-ninety-nine sets.

The last piece to complete the entire order was sitting on the anvil, waiting for the final flourish. Just one tiny engraving – an eighth of an inch – and the blade would be complete. Once she’d attached the handle, which was made of grove wood wrapped in leather she’d sourced from the Hunter’s Guild, the whole project would be finished. After that, she only needed to take it to Essex so he could inspect the final result.

So, why couldn’t she just make that final engraving?

It should have been easy, but every instinct in her mind screamed at her to go back to the beginning and start over. She’d learned so much. She had gained levels. A new skill or two as well. She could do better.

And that was the problem.

It was always the same. It was the nature of constant progression. Every time she finished a project and gained more insight or levels, she saw all the ways she could improve. It had happened with almost every piece she’d ever made, including the very Forge of Creation that played host to her smithy.

It had a name, too. Craft-lock. And it was a common affliction among low-level Tradesmen. As they grew in power, progression tended to slow, and often, those same perfectionist crafters would settle in. Presumably, they would also learn patience after dealing with the dangers of craft-lock for so long.

Carmen wasn’t certain she’d ever leave it behind.

Sure, she was proud of her work. She was one of – if not the – most accomplished artisans in the world. Few could rival her achievements. And still, she knew beyond a shadow of any doubt that she could do better.

With a force of will, she shoved those thoughts away. Once again, she wished she could emulate her brother-in-law and lock all those negative feelings in their own partition within her mind. But she wasn’t there yet, so she had no choice but to do things the old-fashioned way – by bulling through her misgivings and finishing the damned job.

With etermination etched on her face and sweat glistening on her powerful arms, she returned to the anvil, grabbed her engraving tool, and attacked the final eighth of an inch with characteristic precision.

The second the line stretched between two others, connecting the final glyph to the rest of the engraved symbols that ran along the length of the blade, the enchantment was complete. She felt the ethera flowing through them, the current subtle yet strong.

Carmen let out a deep breath, then meticulously attached the pre-shaped handle, slipping it over the blade’s hidden tang. It fit snugly, and she used Emberweld, which was the evolution of the more generic Bond, to fuse the two disparate materials together.

After giving the shortsword a few test swings, just to ensure that the fusion was flawless, she was pleased to see that the handle didn’t move at all. As for the balance, it was all but ideal. Frustratingly, absolute perfection remained just out of reach. She ignored the burr in her mind that came from that acknowledgement, focusing instead on wrapping the handle.

Many Blacksmiths would have shortchanged that process, but Carmen knew precisely how important every tiny detail was. A single flaw in the grip might mean a soldier would lose his grip on his all-important weapon. And a disarmed fighter was usually a dead fighter.

So, she wrapped the supple leather around the handle, gradually using Emberweld to attach it, leaving the tiniest gaps between the strips. Once it was done, she retrieved a spool of celestial gold wire – made from the scraps leftover from when she’d created Sadie’s armor and sword – then meticulously filled the gaps. To solder it in place, she used a tightly controlled flare of Fingers of Flame. The fire that bloomed at her fingertips was just hot enough to make the wire slightly more malleable. When it settled into place, wrapping between the strips of leather, she once again used Emberweld to fuse everything.

And then it was done.

She didn’t need to check the completion notice to know that it was a peak Complex-Grade item. Not quite sophisticated, but that was as anticipated. Aside from the celestial gold and the grove wood, the materials were nothing special. But that was the point. It needed to be cheap and use resources they had at hand. The difference was in the design and care with which it had been constructed.

After examining the weapon, she headed to the other side of the smithy and placed the item next to the other pieces of its set inside a crate. Then, she sealed it, marking the final set complete.

That’s when the depression hit.

It always happened the same way. Once a project was finished, she sank into directionless despair until she started a new project. The gap between was one of the biggest motivators to keep working.

It had also prompted quite a few drunken nights and bad decisions, though she chose not to think about those. The past was the past, and she couldn’t change some of the things she’d done.

Or the women she’d emotionally damaged through her ill-considered choices.

That was one of the reasons she’d chosen to abstain from inebriants and relationships of late. Nothing good came from either, in her experience. Not since Alyssa. She’d never been self-destructive back then.

With a sigh, she headed into the bathroom of her office and stripped off her grimy clothes before stepping into the shower. She stayed there for a long time, her mind wandering across every mistake she’d ever made. Those stray thoughts were coupled with worry for her son. For Elijah. For the strays he tended to pick up. Even Sadie, who seemed far more responsible than anyone else Elijah had gathered into his orbit.

And she worried about Ironshore too. Earth in general as well. The Primal Realms weren’t going anywhere after all, and unless something changed, there was a real risk that their planet would be excised and cast out into the void to be preyed upon by the Voxx and whatever else lived in that realm between universes.

As she stood beneath that scalding water, her head dipped, and her shoulders sagged. The weight of it all was unbearable. So, one by one, she discarded those worries, tossing them aside without mercy. They would never truly be gone, but the visualization helped her deal with things.

Instead, she focused on what she could change. And that meant delivering the sets of gear to Essex.

So, after a while, when she felt a tiny bit lighter, she exited the shower, dressed, and gathered one of the five-hundred crates stacked on that side of the smithy. A moment later, she was trekking through the Forge of Creation and into the street, where she was slightly surprised to find that it was no later than mid-morning.

How long had she been down in that smithy this time? Days at the very least, only broken up by visits from Elijah and his wild friend. Even Carissa had stayed away, probably too wrapped up in her developing relationship with Kurik.

Good for her.

She shook her head, and with the crate on her shoulder, she began the short journey across town to Essex’ office, which was located within the city’s arena-slash-practice facility. Once she got there, she hoped she’d encounter Colt, but the Samurai was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps if she went into the training grounds themselves, she’d find him.

That would make plenty of sense.

But she wanted to complete her task first, so she ignored that notion and, after only a few minutes of following the twists and turns of the facility’s hallways, found herself in front of Essex’s door. A quick knock later, and she was inside.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” the dignified older man asked. He looked healthier than the last time she’d seen him. Levels and cultivation did the body good, it seemed.

Carmen answered by setting the crate down on his desk. “I’ve finished.”

“One set already?”

“Five hundred sets. The rest are in my smithy. I’m not carrying them all over here, though. There are Porters for that,” she revealed, already cracking open the crate. Inside was a spear, a shield, a sword, and a set of armor. To her eye, they were all connected by a singular glyph that marked them as a whole. There was another symbol that would only activate when more than five sets were in the same general vicinity.

She explained everything to Essex, letting him inspect each piece as she described their traits. Finally, she asked, “Have you been training everyone properly?”

Essex nodded. “Drilling every single day for the past few months,” he stated. “They’re not experts in every weapon or the appropriate tactics, and we needed to adjust some things from the historical norms, but we’re getting there. Together, we should be able to field a fighting force that’s much stronger than the sum of its parts.”

“Should.”

Again, he nodded. “We won’t know for sure until we get them all outfitted,” he said. “Until then, all of this is theoretical. If it doesn’t work…”

“It’ll work.”

“I hope you’re right,” the older man said. “Because if not, we just wasted six months when we could ill afford to waste a single day.”