The week passed like wind over stone—slow, steady, and full of silent change.
Calen settled into life at the tavern. He swept floors, washed dishes, cleaned out the hearth, and scrubbed rat blood from the cellar walls. It was quiet work, repetitive and grounding. His hands worked, but his mind never stopped.
He listened to conversations. Logged names, threats, rumors.
Marionette Court.
Crimson Veil.
Crimson Pact.
Too many enemies. Too many unknowns.
~~~
[HUD Log – Strategic Note]
Probability of survival in future encounters without proper armament: 32%
Initiate: Project Æther Gauntlet
~~~
With the scrap he'd salvaged, his spare energy cell, and a tight pouch of copper coins earned from tavern work, Calen began the first phase.
Each night, he sat cross-legged on the floor of the attic, surrounded by gears, wires, and a tattered blueprint flickering in his HUD. The Æther Gauntlet would be more than a weapon—it would be an extension of his will. A modular device, powered by Star Stream, able to adapt to evolving combat needs.
The first function: a focused-energy cannon.
Precision. Pressure. Power.
~~~
By day, he worked.
By night, he built.
And on the days he needed to test himself he did mercenary work. But let's rewind on that...
~~~
It was about ten days after the rat cellar incident.
The mercenary guild's local outpost was tucked into a back alley near the slums, marked only by a faded insignia painted on warped wood.
Calen stepped inside, face hidden beneath a black hood and white mask. No expression, no name. Just a question.
"Name?" the clerk asked, barely glancing up.
He paused. Then said, flatly:
"D.E.L.T.A."
"Tier?"
"Flicker." For now.
The clerk scanned him with a rusty appraisal device, then nodded.
"You're cleared for Tier 1 field quests. Extermination, escort, courier runs. No refunds if you die."
"Understood."
He was handed a small copper token engraved with a flame, his mercenary license.
And from that day on, the name D.E.L.T.A. began appearing on low-tier bounty reports and cleanup missions. Always masked. Always efficient. No survivors when it mattered.
~~~
And then...
Back at the Phoenix Flame Tavern, Calen began forming quiet connections.
The barkeep, Brunna, treated him less like a machine, more like a strange younger brother. Gruff and sarcastic, but kind underneath.
"Do you ever eat anything?" she asked one night, slamming a bowl of stew in front of him.
He stared at it.
"…Food is relevant?"
"No shit, genius. Eat it before it goes cold."
And over time, regulars began to take notice.
~~~
Calen was working with the gears of a broken clock that Brunna asked him to fix.
"Oi, metalhead," said a toothy man with a crooked smile. "That broom you swing in the cellar—ever try it on a real blade?"
"I'm working, Darius."
~~~
A kind-eyed woman named Salir came by every once in a while and shared old stories of her travels through the east, describing giant sandworms and blade monks who could split stone.
"I met a mutant once," she whispered over her third mug of cider. "He had a Dominion skill. Could freeze time inside a ten-foot radius."
Calen just nodded.
[Dominion Skill – Time Distortion: Confirmed]
[Power System Theory: Updated]
~~~
A burly ex-soldier called Orek taught him a few street brawling tricks.
"Headbutt first, ask questions later," he said with a grin. "But don't tell Brunna I said that."
"Noted."
~~~
And so a month has passed...
Exactly thirty days after the project began, the Æther Gauntlet powered on.
The device clicked into place over Calen's forearm, sleek, black-metal plating fused with interlocking gearwork. A faint blue pulse throbbed along its side. The cannon module hummed softly, waiting for a target.
He flexed. It responded.
Beautiful.
Weapon complete.
~~~
He packed his things that morning.
Just the essentials: food rations, spare parts, a few books on Star Stream theory, and his gauntlet.
As he stepped into the tavern one last time, the air shifted.
Brunna was waiting behind the counter, arms crossed.
"You're finally leaving?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"You going to that academy?"
He nodded. "There is something I need to do there."
She stared for a moment, then slid a wrapped bundle across the counter.
"Dried meat. Water purifiers. And some soap. You reek after you work."
"…Thank you."
The regulars stood nearby, gathered like a strange, dysfunctional family.
Orek offered a firm handshake.
"Try not to die, yeah?"
Salir waved a scarf at him.
"Don't trust anyone in the Empire. Especially if they smile too much."
And the toothy man winked.
"Punch one noble for me."
Calen took it all in. The warmth. The noise. The feeling.
He paused at the door.
"…Goodbye."
Brunna rolled her eyes. "Just go, metalhead. And if you ever pass this way again—there'll be stew."
He turned.
Nodded.
And walked out into the world.