Chapter 726
Julia leaned back, still frowning, but the expression had changed. Less disbelief. More reluctant commitment.
“I can make it,” she said. “But it’ll take time.”
“How long?”
She glanced at the samples she’d brought, then back at the schematics.
“Longer than you want,” she said bluntly. “Because these designs are… strange. And because pushing conductivity means trial and error. Treatments. Weave density. Layering. If you want it ‘as conductive as possible,’ you’re asking me to walk right up to the edge where it becomes fragile.”
Ludger nodded. “Then don’t cross the edge. But get close.”
Julia held the packet a moment longer, as if feeling the weight of what she was agreeing to.
“This is for infiltration,” she said, not a question.
Ludger didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Julia’s eyes hardened with understanding.
“…Alright,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Then she paused, and her gaze sharpened as she added, “But I’m changing things.”
Ludger’s eyes narrowed back. “Explain.”
Julia tapped a seam line, then a rune channel, then the chest panel.
“I can improve this,” she said. “If you’ll actually let me. Linne and Dalan were thinking like crafters building a tool. I’m going to think like a manufacturer building something made for you.”
Ludger felt something settle into place in his chest, quiet satisfaction.
“Appreciated,” he said.
She left, and the warded door clicked shut again. Ludger exhaled slowly, staring at the table where the schematics had been. Another piece in place. Another weapon being forged, quietly, patiently, while the Empire played its games aboveground.
Ludger left the meeting with Julia and went straight to Raukor’s workshop.
The smell hit him before the door even opened, hot metal, oil, stone dust, and that faint bite of ozone that always lingered when runes were being tested. The place was alive with quiet violence. Hammers on anvils. Tongs clinking. A low, steady hum from a heat-rune set into the forge’s belly.
Raukor was bent over a workbench, hands stained dark, eyes narrowed at some small component that looked like it wanted to explode out of spite. He didn’t look up when Ludger entered, but he definitely noticed.
“Vice Guildmaster,” Raukor said, voice flat. “If you’re here to ask me whether the marbles are evil, my answer is still not sure.”
“I’m not,” Ludger said.
That made Raukor glance up, brow rising. Ludger stepped closer, hands behind his back, posture calm. “I want you to make me new weapons.”
Raukor’s eyes flicked over him. “New weapons.”
“Yes.”
Raukor leaned back on his stool, expression turning suspicious. “Why? You’re allergic to carrying things. You punch problems. You kick problems. Sometimes you throw problems into the ocean.”
He waved a hand toward a rack in the corner. “And if you must carry something sharp, those silver swords you already have are a good option.”
Ludger didn’t argue. Raukor wasn’t wrong.
Most people expected him to fight with his fists or feet, Overdrive bursts, Rage Flow, wind-accelerated strikes. If they’d seen him with blades, they’d seen him with those silver swords. Clean, proven, familiar.
Which was exactly the issue.
“I want weapons no one would think I’m using,” Ludger said.
Raukor went still. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just… attentive in a way he hadn’t been a moment ago. His fingers stopped moving. His eyes sharpened like he’d been handed a riddle and decided it mattered.
“That,” Raukor said slowly, “is the first interesting thing you’ve said in a while.”
Ludger’s expression stayed flat, but his voice carried intent.
“People plan around patterns,” he said. “They plan around what they know. I’m tired of being predictable.”
Raukor’s mouth twitched, halfway to a grin. “So you want something hidden.”
“Not just hidden,” Ludger corrected. “Unthinkable.”
Raukor set the little component down carefully, as if any sudden movement would scare away the idea forming in his head.
“…Alright,” he said, leaning forward. “Now you have my attention.”
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He gestured to the workbench. “Tell me what kind of unthinkable we’re talking about.”
“I don’t have an idea,” Ludger said.
Raukor blinked. “You came to me asking for new weapons, and you don’t have an idea?”
Ludger shrugged like it was obvious. “I can master most fighting styles in no time. I don’t need a specific weapon to win. I need something that changes how people predict me.”
Raukor stared at him for a heartbeat longer, then snorted.
“How come you don't sound full of yourself while bragging about that?”
Ludger’s shoulders rose and fell again. Raukor’s mouth twitched, amused despite himself. He leaned back on his stool, thinking, gaze sliding to the racks of half-finished projects along the wall.
“If this is about the marbles,” Raukor said slowly, “and you want to keep your identity hidden while staying as stealthy as possible… then you should start with range.”
Ludger didn’t answer immediately. That was enough of an answer.
Raukor continued, warming up as the idea took shape. “A long-ranged weapon gives you distance. Distance gives you options. Options keep you alive when things get weird.”
Ludger’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to use magic so people can track back to me.”
Raukor lifted a hand. “Then don’t use spells.”
Ludger’s gaze sharpened. “Meaning?”
Raukor tapped his temple. “Spells have signatures. Patterns. Personal quirks. Even when you try to be clean, your mana has habits. Anyone decent can notice those habits if they’re close enough and given enough time.”
He reached under the bench and pulled out a small strip of rune-metal, etched with a simple circuit. He flicked it, and it glowed faintly.
“But a magic-fueled weapon?” Raukor continued. “That’s different. The weapon does the work. Your mana is just fuel. Like pouring oil into a lamp.”
Ludger watched the strip, eyes calculating.
Raukor’s grin spread, sharp as a chisel.
“Picture this,” he said. “A bow. Not a normal bow, one built with a rune. You don’t cast. You don’t throw out your wind or earth the way you usually do.”
He held up the strip again, then pointed it at the air like it was already a blueprint.
“You draw. You release. The bow’s runes convert your mana into a pre-set effect.”
Ludger’s eyes narrowed further. “Arrows leave evidence.”
Raukor’s grin widened. “Not if you don’t use arrows.”
Ludger went still. Raukor leaned forward, voice dropping slightly, like he was sharing a secret he’d been waiting to say aloud.
“An ice bow,” Raukor said. “It forms a bolt at the string the moment you draw, condensed, stable, temporary. On impact, it detonates into a freezing field.”
He spread his hands. “No arrowhead. No shaft. Nothing to recover. The bolt sublimates after release, or after impact. And the freeze effect? It can lock someone down instantly without killing them.”
Ludger’s expression didn’t change, but his attention was absolute. Raukor nodded as if he’d just confirmed his own suspicion.
“Freeze is clean,” Raukor said. “It disables. It doesn’t splash blood everywhere. And it makes people panic, because they can’t fight if they can’t move.”
He tapped the rune strip again.
“And most importantly,” Raukor finished, “it won’t look like you.”
Ludger stared at the strip, then at Raukor. A long-ranged weapon. Magic-fueled, not spell-cast. No physical evidence. No obvious signature. It was the kind of solution that didn’t just help him fight. It helped him vanish.
“…How long?” Ludger asked.
Raukor’s grin turned predatory.
“Long enough that you’ll hate me,” he said. “But short enough that you’ll pay me.”
Ludger didn’t bite on the bow idea immediately. He let it sit in the air between them for a moment, weighing it. Range was good. Disabling was good. No evidence was very good.
But bows had baggage. Stance. Draw length. Two hands. Obvious silhouette. You couldn’t fire one without looking like you were firing one. And Ludger wasn’t trying to look like anything at all.
He leaned forward, elbows on the edge of Raukor’s workbench, and spoke with the same tone he used when he’d already made the decision and was simply informing reality.
“I want a one-handed crossbow.”
Raukor blinked. “A… one-handed crossbow.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t say it like a request. He said it like a specification.
“One that looks like it doesn’t exist from a distance,” Ludger continued. “Something compact. Minimal profile. No long limbs sticking out. No obvious stock. If someone sees me raise my arm, I want them to think I’m firing a spell.”
Raukor’s eyes narrowed, interest sharpening again. “So you want misdirection.”
“I want plausible deniability,” Ludger corrected.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded sheet, rough sketches, not pretty, but functional. Notes in the margins. Measurements. A few runic symbols scribbled beside key joints with arrows pointing at them.
“I’ll engrave the runes,” Ludger said, sliding the sheet across the table. “You forge the parts.”
Raukor glanced down, then up. “You’re splitting the work.”
“It’s faster,” Ludger said. “And I don’t want anyone else touching the rune design.”
Raukor grunted, which in his language meant fair. Ludger tapped the paper with a fingertip.
“It needs to be usable with a single hand,” he added. “Draw, arm, fire, all with one arm.”
Raukor stared at the sketch for a long second, then exhaled. A sigh heavy enough to be considered a weapon.
“The idea is very interesting,” he admitted. “But you’re making my job harder.”
Ludger didn’t apologize. He’d stopped apologizing for wanting impossible things a long time ago.
Raukor’s gaze flicked up. “One-handed crossbow means the loading mechanism has to do the work your second arm normally does. That means springs, levers, gears, rune-assisted tension… or all of the above.”
“Use all of the above,” Ludger said.
Raukor’s expression twitched.
Then he asked the obvious question, the one that didn’t come from a crafter but from a man who understood Ludger’s brain was always planning two moves ahead.
“What are you planning to use your other hand for?”
Ludger’s lips curved faintly. A smirk, small and sharp, like the edge of a knife catching light.
“For another crossbow,” he said.
Raukor froze. Then his eyes narrowed, half amused, half offended.
“…Another.”
“Different functionality,” Ludger added calmly, like this was normal conversation and not an escalation into madness. “I just need to think of what first.”