Chapter 4 - He who regrets making the tool

Despite her needing to put in about five times the usual effort in the last battle, Celesta settled on one cup of find Pu-erh tea and a long night’s rest. When she woke, she struggled between her options of another cup of Pu-erh or a modest tea bag. On one hand, she exerted herself greatly but, in the end, the result was still one battalion of cowardly Defenders. When she fought last at the Eastern Front and aided the aftermath of the Northern Front, she still considered that worthy of one cup of Pu-erh. As such, it felt disingenuous to her to have a second cup.

Instead, she considered the possibilities of scheduling some days of rest. After mixed-class Stéle, there was usually a larger time lag before the next wave, but that was only a conjecture but the so-called scholars. There was no reasoning behind it. For as far as Celesta was concerned, it could just be coincidences. She would hate the idea of scheduling days off only to have to work. It would be better to not give oneself such hope in the first place.

“But maybe just one day…”

That thought alone didn’t live long. There was no sudden knocking on the door, no sudden mission, or catastrophic event. After tending to her garden, Cestela tried listening to her many records, tried swapping teas, and even attempted to pick up knitting which, despite her expertise, was difficult for her. And so…

“Screw it.”

She gave up. After all, Cestela Vielle was a workaholic.

Cestela never liked The Core. Nearly most of the other passengers of the steam train marveled at the man-made hole as it was treated as a tourist destination for those not living in the Central District.

-“Whoa! Mommy, look how big it is!” “I heard they found another vein.” “Wished I had a job there.”

Cestela wished she didn’t have a job there. She didn’t hate The Core because of its popularity and she was trying to maintain a hipster title. Cestela hated it for two reasons. The first, while she wasn’t part of the mining department working directly in The Core, she was reluctantly considered a Defender and headquarters was positioned on the north-western edge of The Core. Just as everyone hates their job (Cestela’s opinion), she hates the place she works which includes The Core which solely served, to her, as a reminder that she was almost at work.

The second reason stemmed from Cestela’s grim uneasiness of the large mining shaft. The starting level was wide enough that it would be difficult to make out people on the other side. As maintenance workers, miners, and other arduous hard laborers made their way down, the levels’ width shrinks slowly. The overall appearance is reminiscent of a god drilling a giant hole in the ground. As Cestela rode the train as it curves around the edge of the ground level, she looked down. That’s where her unease sets in.

The bottom of The Core wasn’t visible. Or maybe it was. The distant light looked dim in the limits of the human eye and it was difficult to tell if you were looking at the bottom floor or not. Cestela wasn’t necessarily afraid of heights. Fear wasn’t the emotion she felt. Instead, there was a small part in her head or, perhaps, her heart that wanted to dive into the abyss. If anything, she was unsettled by the existence of such an idea. She feared herself.

-“Next stop: Dernier Headquarters. Dernier Headquarters. Doors will open on the right. Please watch your step.”

Cestela sighed. At the very least, she wasn’t here to visit the General or anyone else in the Defender Department. Instead, she turned right coming out of the train station towards the series of building nested more true north of The Core: The Weapons Department.

“Good morning… ma’am,” greeted the corporeal sitting at the entrance. Despite her not looking too busy prior to Cestela’s arrival, the corporeal seemed suddenly invested in whatever paperwork they had on their desk.

“Is Smither Acier in?”

“Y-yes, ma’am. He’s in his workshop as always. I’ll send a runner to see if he’s free.”

“No, no. He’s free.”

Cestela continued in the long series of connected sweltering warehouses. The smell of pure heat and metal dust singed her nose and, for a moment, Cestela realized it was a mistake to visit the Weapons Department wearing her white coat. She only wore her black coat when she expected to be in combat as it was much easier to clean and didn’t give much thought today about her attire. The surrounding carbon dust, rust, and flying sparks made her worried.

Acier’s workshop was, to Cestela’s dismay, the furthest from the entrance. He would always say it was the privilege of the gifted as if it was an award for being the best smith in the department. But Cestela was convinced it was because he was lazy. The struggle walking in the heat probably reduced the numbers of request he received. If only Cestela had a trialing journey to her greenhouse, maybe the General would leave her alone. But only Acier was willing to work with the Puppeteer of the Battlefield. To be more precise, he was the only one who could.

“…”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“…”

Bang! Bang!

“…”

Bang!...

“Luc-“

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Lucian!”

The banging stopped. A darker-skinned gentleman removed his safety goggles from his eyes revealing a pair of green eyes surrounded by a shadowing of black dust. His face was scarred but not from battle as he was never one to fight. Cestela knew they were a college of personal endeavors from his tutelage that started even from before the two met in school.

“Stela... I wished it wasn’t you.”

“That afraid of me?”

“Not of.”

Cestela didn’t catch his meaning but didn’t care to ask for clarification. “Figured I needed some tune up after the circus in the North.” She placed her two contraptions that she wore in combat. The main base was an elaborate network of interconnected spools that were fitted for her forearms. From them, stemmed five channels that help guide threads to whichever finger the Puppeteer assign reducing the amount of focus she needs when casting her strings.

Lucian Acier, the sole blacksmith capable of working on the intricate weapon, pulled out a telescopic monocle from his leather apron and focused his left eye on the fine details. “…one, two,… three… Three. You almost burned right through three hardened alloy rings. Stop treating my hardware like disposable junk.”

“Ha. My whole job is operating that junk. What does that make me?” Cestela paused for a while, but Lucian continued to examine the spools in silence. “I didn’t want to channel that much mana through them.”

“Are the Stéle getting stronger?”

“Stronger? Not that I could tell. I think the Defenders are becoming stupider.”

“Stupider, huh?” Lucian continued his clinical examination. “Don’t you mean weaker? You almost burned through two spools.” Slowly, the blacksmith set the devices on the workbench and removed his monocle. “How… how many did you need to heal Stela?”

“Hm? Heal? Only one… no, two.”

Lucian smiled weakly. “That’s good.”

There was an unspoken agreement between the two. The agreement was made once a secret was passed from one to the other. It was one of the many conversation held between the two as they grew up together. One hadn’t considered it a secret, but a passing thought – boring and ordinary. The other – a complete redefinition. Now, that conversation remains in silence with neither of the two willing to speak: one was indifferent; one, afraid.

Lucian continued, “Sounds like they’re getting stronger then.”

“…” Cestela wanted to rebuke that statement but she remembered when Solyon was able to take down a snake-class Stéle in one attack. Outside of General Pauma and herself, she did not know of anyone else capable of such a feat. Even for her, she had to admit defeat. “Yeah, maybe a little bit… What?”

“What?”

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Can a guy not be happy?”

“It’s disturbing so at least wait for me to leave.”

“Hahaha. Three days. Maybe two if no one interrupts me.”

“That should be fine. Unless that pesky general bothers me.”

“That would be unfortunate.”

“Headquarter gets their tool when they want it.”

“But headquarter can kiss a Stéle if they think there’s anyone who can fix this tool faster than me, if at all.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean your handiwork.”

Lucian looked confusingly over his shoulder at Cestela. Seeing his confusion, she pointed at herself.