Aoshi pushed himself off the old wooden chair with care, every joint screaming, every bruise sharpening its voice. His balance wavered, and he caught himself against the desk, pressing his weight onto its rough edge. The wood bit into his palm, steadying him just enough so he wouldn't collapse face-first onto the cold cement floor.
The workshop smelled as it always did—sweat, smoke, rust, and blood—but now his own blood thickened the air, sharp and metallic, clinging to the back of his throat with each breath. His undergarments stuck to him, stiffened by dried stains that had turned into a brown crust. He didn't notice the darker blotch smeared across the back from the chair. That was the least of his worries.
He lowered himself carefully onto one knee. The movement dragged a fresh ache through his ribs, sharp and deep, but he endured it, jaw clenched, breath measured. His hand reached for the black trousers he had worn earlier—the ones torn and soaked during the beating. They lay crumpled near the desk like discarded skin. He dragged them closer, shoved them under the desk with a kind of finality, as if discarding them could bury the humiliation that came with them.
With slow, deliberate motions, Aoshi crawled toward the bed. The mattress sagged in the middle like it had long ago surrendered to time, the fabric fraying in places where springs pressed faintly against the surface. He crouched beside it, leaned forward, and lifted the thin, worn mattress. The hidden compartment beneath revealed itself—a secret cache left behind by Jonas, the blacksmith who had once occupied this shell of a body.
Aoshi slid out a battered cardboard box. The thing was so worn its edges had softened, its surface blotched with watermarks and dust. He set it on the wooden floor and lifted the lid.
Inside lay clothes. Not the clothes of nobles or merchants, but relics of a man who lived on the city's forgotten margins. A gray newsboy cap with a crease that refused to smooth out. A thin cream-colored shirt with faint stains around the sleeves. A brown waistcoat, frayed at its edges. Black trousers rubbed shiny from long years of wear. And a heavy brown overcoat, the kind made to last decades, though this one carried the dullness of overuse, its lining worn thin.
Piece by piece, he dressed himself. The shirt pulled tight over his shoulders, chafing faintly against the bruises on his arms. The trousers clung stiffly, the fabric rough against the welts on his thighs. He tugged the waistcoat into place, its buttons scratched and loose. Finally, he slid the overcoat across his shoulders, buttoning it slowly. The garment was heavy, its weight grounding him, burying the broken debtor he had been hours earlier. By the time the coat hung from him, Aoshi looked less like a man beaten half to death and more like a shadow that could slip unseen through the city's smoke-choked streets.
He pushed the box back into the compartment beneath the bed, but his hand didn't withdraw. Reaching deeper, his fingers brushed glass. He pulled out a jar filled with black, tarnished coins. They clinked softly inside, their dull shine glinting faintly in the lamplight. He set it on the floor and reached again, retrieving a small cloth pouch with a drawstring—the kind a man carried close to his chest.
Twisting the jar open, he studied its contents. Each coin bore the face of some old ruler, edges dulled from passing hand to hand. His mind, sharpened by the blacksmith's memories, calculated their worth. Each coin: a quarter of a GY. Not worthless, but pitiful compared to the mountain of debt crushing this body.
He dug his hand into the jar, cold metal shifting through his fingers. He scooped out a modest sum, enough to buy what he needed without drawing eyes. Dropping the coins into the pouch, he pulled the string tight, tied it off, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his overcoat. He pressed his palm against it once, twice, ensuring it sat firm against his chest.
Rising was slower this time. His legs shook but steadied as he inhaled deeply, exhaled slow. He slipped his feet into cracked leather shoes waiting by the door. The soles creaked, faint against the silence of the workshop. He straightened, ignoring the screaming in his ribs, and placed one hand on the door's warped wooden handle.
He paused.
The room behind him lay in silence, its shadows stretched long by the flicker of the single oil lamp. The anvil waited in the center like a silent sentinel. The forge sat cold in its corner, ash whispering faintly in the stale air. His designs—the sketches and lists—rested hidden beneath the desk plank, fragile ink carrying the weight of something deadly.
For now, they would remain untouched. He had neither the strength nor the materials needed to properly begin. But he had time, and the city would provide.
His hand tightened on the handle. The wood groaned faintly under his grip. He opened the door, letting in the muffled sound of the city—the distant clash of voices, the rattle of wheels over cobbled streets, the faint cry of something not quite human carried in from the fog.
Jonas pulled the crude wooden door shut behind him. The latch clicked faintly, muffled by the brick wall that greeted him almost immediately. Just a dead wall of rough brick, stained by rain, grime, and soot. A fitting welcome for the kind of place he lived in—a back alley of a forgotten block.
He exhaled slowly, letting his palm rest against the rough frame for a heartbeat before pushing himself forward. His ribs groaned at the effort, the reminder of the heavy fists he had recieved still sharp and unkind.
The alley stretched in both directions. To the left, a man swayed drunkenly, his hand pressed against the wall as he relieved himself without shame. The stench reached even from here, sour and heavy. Past the drunk the passage opened onto one of the main road: bustle of people beginning a shift. Bakers pushed carts toward markets, roustabouts dragged crates, and men in factory caps threaded through the throng, wiping soot from their sleeves. The scene at the alley's mouth matched the city's mood—work over fortune, industry over leisure.
Jonas turned instead to the right. That end of the alley was quieter, no drunks, no noise, only the pale light of the street waiting. He tugged his coat tighter, the heavy brown fabric brushing against his thighs, and began limping toward the brighter opening. Each step reminded him of the bruises pressed into his body, but he endured them in silence.
Lifting his eyes briefly, he caught the sky above. Or what passed for sky. Smoke from the city's countless factories rolled thick across the heavens, smothering daylight into a sickly blend of gray and faded blue. The air itself seemed alive with grit. Each breath dragged coal and steel down into the lungs, leaving a faint burn that refused to leave.
He reached the mouth of the alley and stepped onto the street.
The city unfurled before him.
Men and women walked in pairs and in crowds, coats sweeping across skirts, polished boots tapping steadily on the stone. The rich paraded in their finery: top hats, gloves, parasols. The poor in patched cloth, hunched but moving with the same urgency. The cobbled street rattled beneath wheels—first horse-drawn carriages, their lacquered wood polished though their wheels shrieked against the stone. Then came the wagons, wide and boxy, stuffed with crates or passengers, their wooden frames groaning as if about to splinter under the weight.
Among them rolled machines. Steam-powered carriages with angular, box-like frames, their chimneys coughing black smoke into an already poisoned sky. They growled low, pistons hissing, leaving the stench of burned oil in their wake.
Rows of iron lamp posts lined the road, narrow and tall, their heads encasing gemstones that glowed faintly. They weren't bright enough to chase the gloom entirely, but their soft white light carved patches of comfort out of the haze. Even in daylight, the lamps remained lit.
The buildings pressed tight against either side of the street, walls climbing two, three, four stories high. Slanted roofs with crooked chimneys spat out fresh smoke. Windows glimmered orange with faint firelight inside, glass frosted or opaque, the silhouettes of lives blurred behind them.
Some shops had their doors wide open, spilling their scents and colors into the street. A perfume store gleamed like a jewel, its shelves lined with delicate glass bottles of pink and violet, light catching on their polished edges. Across from it, a candy store displayed glass jars filled with striped sweets, their bright colors almost mocking against the gray city. Other storefronts carried bolts of fabric, stacked books, metal trinkets, or steaming food that carried spice and grease into the fog.
The smells mixed in the air: sugar, cinnamon, smoke, and iron. Together, they formed something both alive and unsettling, a city breathing through its chimneys and whispering through its crowds.
Jonas slowed his pace just enough to take it in. The blacksmith's memories had painted fragments of this city—faces, markets, the feel of hunger gnawing while others ate well—but experiencing it now was different. It carried weight. Sound. Scent. The noise of wheels on stone, of voices clashing in a dozen tones, of coins jingling, of bargains struck and lost. For just a heartbeat, he allowed himself to notice it fully, to anchor himself in the living machine of this place.
Then his hand brushed against the hidden pouch beneath his coat, the faint weight of coins pressing back against his chest. The reminder was enough. He pushed forward.
He walked with a slight limp, careful not to draw too much attention, keeping to the side of the street where the flow of bodies was thinner. His eyes scanned the storefronts quickly, not for perfumes or sweets but for iron, for mechanics, for shops that trafficked in the kind of small but vital things no one cared about—springs, screws, gears.
The blacksmith's memories guided him faintly, pulling threads of recognition from the haze. He knew such places existed. Small repair shops tucked between merchants, warehouses that sold to craftsmen, stalls that traded in leftovers from the factories. To most, they were nothing. To him, they would be everything.
Aoshi's mind ticked over the requirements once more. Screws. Springs. Pins. Nothing beyond the ordinary, nothing that would draw suspicion. He had no intention of stumbling into a weaponsmith and raising questions that would put eyes on him. He would build slowly, quietly, a single piece at a time.
A group of young men passed him, their boots polished, their jackets sharp. Their laughter echoed as one shoved another into the side of a carriage, drawing curses from the driver. Jonas kept his eyes lowered and continued on, his hand brushing again against the coat's inner pocket, reassured by the faint weight of the pouch.
A woman selling roasted meat leaned against a cart nearby, the steam from her brazier curling into the air. She called out to a passerby, her voice strong, carrying over the din. For a moment, the smell pulled at him, warm and rich compared to the stale cold air of the workshop. He moved past it without stopping. Every coin he had was already claimed by necessity.
He crossed the street where the crowd thinned, his eyes searching. A flicker of recognition touched him as he spotted a narrow shop squeezed between a tailor and a bookseller. The windows were fogged with grime, and inside, faint metal shapes hung along the walls. Springs. Gears. Nails. The kind of place most would ignore. The kind of place he needed.
Jonas's stride slowed as he approached, his breath measured, his ribs aching with each step.
The city roared around him—carriages clattering, machines hissing, vendors shouting—but his mind narrowed to a single thought.
Springs. Screws. The first steps toward fire.