Round Four: The Stone of the Future

The room was pitch black, until Moriel snapped her fingers, and several magic lamps lit up.
It was a small room, but every arrangement and decoration seemed aimed at making it appear even narrower and smaller. Huge black curtains hung everywhere, and between their gaps stood a low table with a black crystal stone on it. 47 seemed to have some memory of this scene but couldn’t recall where he had seen it before.
Moriel climbed up to the second floor using a ladder that was barely visible. 47 wanted to follow, but he couldn’t find the ladder, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to climb it—suddenly, a joint in his shoulder snapped, forcing him to use one of his fingers as a peg to prevent his arm from falling to the ground.
The corrosive effect of the Acid Snake Lizard’s acid was unusually strong and persistent, regardless of whether it touched copper, iron, or lead. Even fire could only delay the corrosion—many joints in his arms and body were poorly connected due to the corrosion, and if repairs weren’t done, 47 might truly turn into a pile of scrap metal.
Squeaking noises came from upstairs, but 47 ignored them. He searched around for something that could serve as a screw, but found nothing but black fabric.
“What are you rummaging through?” Moriel had come down from upstairs at some point. She wore a black robe that was much tighter than her original red mage robe. The hood, usually used to cover her face, was pulled back, revealing her fine, short hair standing upright. Pale blue patterns spread across her face before seemingly disappearing at her hairline and reappearing behind her neck.
But 47 paid no attention to these changes in her red-robed mage attire. He was starting to worry about his own survival. Although he could quickly find replacements in the mage tower, he was still very unfamiliar with this town.
47 wasn’t afraid; he just didn’t want to miss the interesting things that were about to happen. He had been bored for far too long.
“I need to go out, or I might never be able to leave again!” 47 waved his missing-fingered hand at Moriel, making his request.
“A construct cannot wander the streets alone!” Moriel sat behind the low table, opening a secret compartment in the darkness to search for or organize something.
“If I break down, you won’t have a construct left—after all, you can’t create one yourself.”
“A construct cannot make demands on its master!”
47 stopped talking. He sat among the black curtains, as if back on the open terrace of the mage tower, except there were no pterodactyls or other large flying creatures around. 47 remembered a scene from an animation: a dark, hidden room, a glowing crystal ball, and a girl telling another boy about things that would happen in the future.
“Take it!” Moriel handed him a cloth bag, which made a jingling sound as it moved through the air.

Forty-seven spent dozens of hours in the neighboring blacksmith shop, using up all the gold coins in the bag Moriel had given him. He cleaned and replaced many parts, and with the help of the old blacksmith, adjusted his body structure. Although he still looked dull and heavily rusted, Forty-seven felt quite satisfied with himself. He exchanged the few remaining silver coins for a finely crafted two-handed sword—nothing more than an ordinary sword to him. Walking back and forth on the streets before dawn, leaving behind dinosaur-like footprints, he was fairly pleased with himself.

This will have to do for now. After all, it’s unlikely he can arm himself to the level of a mobile fortress in this primitive place.

This guy gets messier the more he tries to fix himself. But at least he still has some semblance of appearance, Moriel thought as she stood at the door.

Moriel wasn’t idle either. She carefully hid all the pages of her spellbooks, checked several hidden magical symbols in the room for signs of damage, and took out some simple magical potions from the boxes containing spell traps, placing them on the low table—preparing to reopen her shop.

“Alright! Stop wandering around,” Moriel said, throwing a pile of strange grayish-black leather at Forty-seven. “Wrap yourself up. This gray leech leather is waterproof. I have a feeling it’ll rain today.”

“And,” she added before turning back inside, “starting today, stop fiddling with your body in such a narcissistic way. You’re good enough as you are! If you keep remodeling yourself after every battle, I’d rather sink you forever in the swamp mud!”

Forty-seven bent his arm and felt the leather tightly wrap around it, like a layer of skin covered with sensors. For some reason, everything attached to his body seemed to naturally become part of it, without the need for complex central circuits or sensing devices. Forty-seven vaguely felt it might be thanks to the Embers.

Perhaps this is the mystery of this world. Forty-seven swiftly drew his giant sword and swung several wide arcs with just his wrist. Maybe he should thank that old blacksmith. Although the blacksmith strongly advised that Forty-seven’s chest be sealed with iron plates and lead, Forty-seven stubbornly insisted on a complex gear mechanism and double-layered ribs made of curved iron bars—and asked the blacksmith to continue crafting them according to this design. The blacksmith angrily scolded him for overcomplicating things, saying that most constructs didn’t even have fingers, so Forty-seven would be much more vulnerable. Moreover, ordinary steel couldn’t match Forty-seven’s requirements in terms of toughness and hardness, let alone being made into detachable, transformable parts. He finally concluded that if Forty-seven charged in like a regular golem for close combat, he’d either quickly dismantle others or be quickly dismantled himself.

Of course, it’s me who’ll dismantle others, Forty-seven thought. I’m fully armed after all. What was that old blacksmith’s name again? Oh, it seems to be Marcus. That one-handed old guy is experienced. Though a bit boastful, it’s clear many of his words have been underestimated and ignored. I should talk to him more when I have time—maybe right now?

Old blacksmith Marcus was wiping a large shield. Though he was a blacksmith, he looked more like a scrap collector. Adventurers would sell what they found in the swamps to him, then take some of his goods, and after a while, other adventurers might sell those items back to him, taking more in return—probably things left behind by the previous adventurers…

“Everyone says an ancient kingdom lies submerged in the Great Wetlands, but I think that’s nonsense!” The burly Marcus held the shield with the tongs replacing his left hand, then swung a hammer to flatten some dents. He coughed, spitting out black phlegm that left a sticky residue on his messy beard.

Forty-seven stepped back, worried that the next coughing fit might spray phlegm onto the hem of his clothes.

“Skin from a gray leech?” Marcus narrowed his eyes and examined it. “It seems that little girl next door still has something decent… Hey! Put down that chain, you thief!”

“I’m an construct, Mr. Marcus. So I can’t steal… Just as the tongs on your left arm can’t steal.” Forty-seven reluctantly untied the chain from his waist, suddenly realizing he seemed to be missing a meteor hammer as well.

“Forget it! I can see at a glance that there’s more evil in your head than in that little girl’s!”

Marcus limped over and hung the shield on the wall. “Are you really just a construct? I still don’t believe it… But you’re not like the automata I’ve encountered before either…”

He seemed lost in memories. “To be honest, I guarantee no one in Rain City except me has ever seen an automaton! Those fools just run in droves into the mud… Why am I telling you this? Get out! If you have no money, don’t come in! Spending so much time on you has already been a loss for me!”

Morrill also felt she had lost out. Her face was as cold as water as she stared at the burly thief leader sitting in front of her.

Half-elf Castor lazily scratched his chin, where a long scar ran from the corner of his mouth down into his collar. His skin was pale, his face thin, and his yellow-brown hair was loose to cover the right ear that had been cut in half by a blade.

People in Rain City called him One-Ear—but aside from a few top bosses, no one dared mention it in his face.

“Oh, oh. Lovely Morrill, you really put me in a dilemma.” Castor’s lips were thin, and his tone was cold. “It was I who vouched for you so you could find a proper group of adventurers to accompany you around the Great Swamp… And you’ve been gone for such a long time, such a long time.”

He spread his arms exaggeratedly. “By the time we started mourning for you, you came back… Only you came back. Oh, you came back without even seeing me. After thinking all day, I decided to bother you. Now what do you want me to do? How am I supposed to explain this to others? Even the fact that poor Lance lost his life—I can’t believe it. I knew him; he was a smart, clever guy. I really appreciated him…”

“Hmph.” Moriel curled her lips. “Should I praise your patience or tolerance? You can now appreciate those who are more worthy of your admiration. I hired them to protect me, not act as their nannies! You can now proudly tell others that the people I recommended are the best, and they fulfilled their duties with their lives!”
“Ha, Moriel.” Castor leaned forward, resting his hands on the table edge.
“Come on. Let’s be direct. I heard you reaped quite a bounty this time, even getting that construct—something really valuable. Admit it, this trip wasn’t as simple as just looking for some magical items as you claimed! Since you’ve made such a hefty profit at others’ expense, it’s only fair that I demand a higher share, right?”
“I didn’t sign any agreement about sharing loot! I’ve already paid you for your services as an intermediary—no extra silver coin will come your way! If you’re interested, go and demand it from those fools in the Great Swamp!”
“Moriel, don’t forget who helped you settle here in the first place! Now that you’ve benefited, you want to get rid of me?” Castor glared at her. “Who knows if they weren’t killed by you in the back? Fine, I won’t pursue that. One thing—whatever else you’ve got, I won’t ask about it, but that construct is ours to share. I have full rights to use it just like you! How about that? Isn’t that a fair request?”
“Stop dreaming!” Moriel stood up abruptly. “Have you gone mad staying in this dump? Why isn’t your wife also considered ours to share?” Realizing her words might not have been appropriate, she paused for a moment. “I spent almost all my savings from these past years on this expedition, taking real risks. And you? You just talked your way into it, recruiting a bunch of clueless idiots. Now that the organization they belong to hasn’t given me any trouble, you, as an intermediary, want to reap the benefits? And—”
Moriel unconsciously touched her shoulder. “And that Lance you placed there—let me tell you, I curse his bones and soul to rot in the mud forever! Now get out. There’s more than just your guild in Rain City!”
“Bitch!” Castor also stood up, his eyes blazing with anger, hand on his waist—
There was a thud from outside. It seemed something had fallen to the ground.