The forge stank of burnt oil and cold metal.
Leonel sat hunched over the battered workbench, the old oil lantern guttering weakly against the damp. Ink stained his fingertips, thick black smudges where the quill had bled from hours of pressure.
The schematic sprawled before him—a map of old memory stitched to new necessity.
He sketched the outline first: a gauntlet reinforced with mana-conductive alloys, the palm embedded with a shock rune, pressure glyphs along the knuckles to concentrate the force of a blow. No battery, no tech cells here—only what this world could offer. Mana instead of electricity. Will instead of wire.
Sweat beaded at his brow despite the chill sinking into the stone floor. Every stroke had to be precise. One mistake, and it would backfire — at best burning out his mana channels, at worst snapping his arm at the wrist.
He didn't look up when the door creaked open.
Old Man Haldrik, the estate's forge master, shuffled in, carrying a heavy leather bundle wrapped tight with soot-stained cords.
"You're lucky I still remember how to make proper joint fittings," Haldrik muttered, voice rasping like a grindstone. "Had to raid half the storeroom to find materials that'd hold mana flow without cracking."
Leonel pushed back from the table and rose, wiping his ink-smeared hands on a rag.
The forgemaster dropped the bundle with a heavy thud. Leonel crouched immediately, peeling back the layers.
The Runeframe Gauntlet gleamed up at him — a brutal thing, not pretty, but solid. The alloys caught the lantern light with a muted sheen, the frame segmented carefully along the knuckles, the wrist braced with overlapping bands.
Leonel ran his fingers over the seams, testing for faults. The metal was rough, barely finished, but he could work with that.
"Thank you," he said, low and sincere.
Haldrik grunted, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. "What you're planning... I don't want to know."
Leonel only nodded. There was no room for explanations anymore.
The forgemaster left without waiting for a reply, boots echoing against the hollow walls.
Leonel returned to the workbench, cradling the gauntlet like a living thing.
He took out the runing tools — a thin chisel, a steadying clamp, a vial of binding ink prepared the night before.
The first rune—Mana Flow Regulation—needed to be drawn just inside the wrist, guiding mana through without burning out the conduits.
He steadied his breathing, let his hand fall into rhythm.
One line.
Another.
Each curve exact, each seal point deliberate.
An hour slipped by, then two, until the runes burned faint silver under the lantern glow, stabilized and complete.
He slid the gauntlet onto his arm, flexing the fingers. The fit was snug, the weight balanced, a slight pull against his muscles as if the metal itself hungered for action.
Leonel closed his eyes, pushing mana slowly down his arm, testing the flow.
The runes flickered faintly, then steadied, humming against his skin.
Good.
Not perfect.
But good enough.
He peeled the gauntlet off carefully, wrapping it in a cloth, and left the forge without ceremony.
Morning came wrapped in dull gray clouds.
Leonel crossed the yard behind the barracks, his boots kicking up loose gravel as he approached the training field where the house soldiers drilled.
The clanging of practice swords, the bark of commands, the laughter of men who thought themselves untouchable filled the air.
Captain Jorrin, the head of the Varnhart house guard, spotted him first. His brows lifted in mild surprise before dipping into something closer to scorn.
"Young Master," Jorrin said, stepping forward, arms folded over his broad chest. "Come to watch real men train?"
Snickers rippled through the ranks behind him.
Leonel met the captain's gaze levelly. "No," he said. "I'm here to request a spar."
Jorrin's mouth twitched. Not a smile—something crueler.
"Word's already reached us," the captain said, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear. "About your little duel. Callen Drex's son. Brave words for a drunkard's heir."
Murmurs of amusement bubbled up from the soldiers.
Leonel stood unmoving, the wrapped gauntlet slung over his shoulder like a weight he refused to set down.
Jorrin tilted his head mockingly. "Fine. You want a bout? I'll humor you."
He barked an order, and a low-ranking soldier—barely more than a boy, lean and fresh-faced—stepped forward, thudding his practice sword against his palm.
Leonel didn't argue.
He unwrapped the gauntlet, sliding it onto his hand with slow, deliberate movements, watching the soldiers' faces shift from amusement to curiosity.
The boy lunged first, swinging hard and wild.
Leonel ducked under the blow, his body moving by instinct, not training. He surged upward, planting his weight behind his shoulder, and drove the reinforced knuckles of the gauntlet into the boy's gut.
The impact rang like a struck anvil.
The boy folded instantly, collapsing onto the dirt, gasping and retching.
Silence snapped across the yard.
Leonel flexed his fingers once, feeling the slight give of the pressure glyphs rebalancing.
Jorrin's smile slipped, narrowing into something uglier.
"You got lucky," one of the sergeants muttered from the sideline.
Jorrin's voice cut through. "Enough playing. Roderick. Step up."
A mountain of a man stripped off his training vest and lumbered forward, sword slung easily over one shoulder.
Leonel adjusted his stance, planting his feet in the gravel.
Roderick didn't hesitate.
The sword arced toward him, a high, brutal slash meant to end the match immediately.
Leonel twisted aside, the blade whistling past his ear, and snapped his left hand out—bare-fisted—catching Roderick's wrist just enough to jolt his balance.
The gauntleted fist followed.
One, two, three strikes — tight, quick, boxing-style jabs that hammered into Roderick's ribs, shoulder, and jaw in rapid succession.
The metal amplified the force, the shock runes flaring faintly with each impact.
Roderick grunted, staggering back two steps, then roared, swinging wildly.
Leonel ducked the blade again, sliding in close, and drove the gauntlet straight into Roderick's solar plexus.
The larger man folded like a felled tree, crumpling into the dust.
A stunned hush fell across the courtyard.
Leonel stood over him, breathing hard but steady, the gauntlet humming faintly against his skin.
Captain Jorrin's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he barked out, "Dismissed!"
The soldiers scattered, some casting backward glances, some whispering already.
Leonel ignored them.
The gauntlet slid from his hand with a soft scrape as he tucked it back into the cloth wrap, cradling it like a loaded weapon.
Not perfect.
The mana flow strained under heavy output. The runes near the wrist needed reinforcement. The shock glyph on the knuckles bled energy too fast after the third strike.
But it worked.
Tomorrow would demand better.
Leonel tucked the gauntlet under his arm and strode back toward the estate's side halls without waiting for permission or escort.
The gravel crunched under his boots, each step measuring time he couldn't afford to waste.
The gauntlet gleamed dully under the flickering lantern back in the forge later that night, a rough promise stitched from desperation and fire.
Three nights down.
Tomorrow, the fourth, would bear the real weight.