Three days came and went.
Johnny stood once again before the door of the "KAZAN" workshop in the grimy corner of Wall Market. This time, there was no rhythmic clanging of a hammer. There was only silence, punctuated by the faint hiss of cooling steam—the residue of intense labor.
Johnny pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, Master Izo was slumped in a rickety wooden chair, drawing deeply on his pipe. The old face looked utterly exhausted. His eye bags were pitch black, and his hands trembled slightly—evidence that he had poured his entire body and soul into the last 72 hours without rest.
Seeing Johnny enter, Izo didn't offer a greeting. He simply exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air, then jerked his chin toward the main workbench in the center of the room.
There, lying prone, was something covered by a thick, oily tarp.
The object was long. Incredibly long. It exceeded even Johnny's height.
"I burned through two tons of Coke—high-grade coal—and mixed 20% pure Mithril ore into high-carbon steel," Izo's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against stone. "I folded the steel thousands of times until I felt like my shoulders were going to tear off."
Izo fixed Johnny with a sharp glare.
"Open it. And don't you dare be disappointed."
Johnny walked closer. His heart beat steadily, but a burning anticipation filled his chest—like the feeling of reuniting with a long-lost friend. He gripped the edge of the tarp with his right hand and yanked it open.
SWISH.
Metal dust danced in the air. And there it was.
It wasn't a sword.
The object was a terrifying slab of pitch-black iron.
The total length was 200 cm. The blade was as wide as an adult man's chest. The thickness at the spine reached three inches. There was no fancy crossguard, no gold inlay. Just a long iron tang wrapped in rough monster leather for grip, and a counterweight—a solid iron ball—at the pommel.
The surface didn't shine like a knight's mirror-polished blade. It was matte black, rough, and light-absorbing, as if the iron itself possessed its own gravity.
At the base of the blade, near the hilt, were six precise circular holes. Materia Circuits. Crafted immaculately by Izo's expert hands, connected deep within the sword's core.
To a layman, this was a construction beam with a handle. To Johnny... this was a Work of Art.
"It's too big to be called a sword. Too thick, too heavy, and too rough. It's more like a raw slab of iron."
Johnny extended his right hand. The calluses on his palm seemed to throb, welcoming the sword's hilt.
Izo watched skeptically. "It weighs 100 kilograms. Even a 1st Class SOLDIER injected with Mako would need two hands and a solid stance to lif—"
Izo's words died in his throat.
Johnny gripped the hilt. The dense muscles in his right arm tensed, veins bulging like steel cables beneath his skin. Johnny's feet planted firmly onto the workshop floor.
SCRAAAP...
The tip of the sword lifted from the table, scratching the wooden surface.
No shouting. No exaggerated stance.
Johnny lifted the colossal sword with just one hand. He spun it once in the air—creating a terrifying WHOOSH that cleaved the stagnant air of the room—then held the blade horizontally, perfectly stable.
"Perfect," Johnny murmured. His eyes shone as he looked down the sharp edge. "The balance is perfect."
Izo's jaw dropped. His pipe clattered to the floor.
A fourteen-year-old kid. 185 cm tall. Lifting 100 kg with one hand at the end of a lever, as if it were a wooden stick. What kind of physics was this?
"You... What kind of monster are you?" Izo whispered, amazed. "Are you a secret SOLDIER in disguise?"
"No. Just a customer," Johnny replied flatly.
Johnny lowered the sword, setting it back onto the table with a heavy THUD.
He ran his hand over the base of the blade. There, Izo had made six precise holes.
Linked Materia Slots.
"I prepared six slots, Linked Pairs," Izo said, picking up his pipe with a trembling hand. "The Mithril inside will channel magic energy throughout the entire blade. If you slot a Fire Materia, that sword becomes a giant iron that burns enemies to a crisp."
Johnny reached into his belt pouch.
He pulled out the pale purple crystal orb given by Aerith. Cover Materia. Then the green orb, Cure Materia. And the glowing red orb, Chocobo & Moogle.
Slowly, Johnny pressed the purple crystal into the first slot.
CLICK.
A satisfying mechanical sound echoed as the Materia locked in. For a split second, thin lines of purple energy raced along the black blade, then dimmed, fusing with the steel, Continued With Other Materia.
Guts' weapon of slaughter was now united with Aerith's protection. Three slots filled, three still empty (plus two slots on his Bangle).
"Im Ready" Johnny said, sheathing the giant sword onto his back. He didn't use a standard scabbard; Izo had fashioned a special magnetic clasp and a chain that wrapped around Johnny's chest.
The 100 kg weight pressed down on his shoulders. But to Johnny, this weight felt right. It was the weight of his sins, and the weight of his promise.
"Its name?" Izo asked as Johnny placed the remaining payment on the table.
Johnny thought for a moment. He would name this sword after the legendary blade, Godot. Even though he hadn't killed a Dragon in this world yet (only flying lizards), the name was a prayer.
"Dragon Slayer," Johnny answered.
Puck shivered inside the pocket at the sound of the name. "So nostalgic, Boss..."
Izo snorted with laughter. "An arrogant name. But it fits. Get out of here, Kid. And don't die. It would be a waste of the sword if its master died a stupid death."
Johnny nodded respectfully, then turned to leave.
With a height of 185 cm and a sword measuring 200 cm on his back (the pommel towering over his head, the tip almost scraping the ground), Johnny's silhouette looked terrifying under the streetlights of Wall Market.
People who saw him pass reflexively stepped aside. No drunk thug dared to tease or extort him. The aura Johnny projected was that of an apex predator.
"Puck," Johnny whispered.
"Yeah, Boss? Wow, the view from up here is really high!" Puck was sitting casually on the pommel of Johnny's sword, enjoying the night breeze.
"Tournament is tomorrow. We're going back to Sector 7 now. I need to sleep with this 'new friend' beside my bed."
"You're weird, Boss. Really weird," Puck chuckled. "Sleeping hugging a piece of iron."
However, before Johnny could fully leave the Wall Market district, his steps faltered.
In a dark alleyway near a clothing boutique, he heard a commotion. Not the usual drunken brawl. There was a note of panic.
"Let me go! Help! Someone!" A woman's voice.
"Shut up, Bitch! Don Corneo needs new entertainment tonight! You're pretty, he'll like you!"
Three large men were forcibly dragging a young woman. They wore the tacky uniforms of Corneo's lackeys.
Johnny turned his head. His cold eyes took in the scene.
Usually, a wise man in the Slums would just keep walking. Picking a fight with Don Corneo's men the day before a tournament in his own arena was suicide.
But Johnny's hand moved on its own, finding the hilt of his new sword.
"Ah... that's right," Johnny thought, remembering Aerith's smile on the bridge. "A shield doesn't choose who it protects."
Johnny didn't run. He didn't shout a heroic "Stop!". He simply stepped into the narrow alley.
His footsteps were heavy. THUD... THUD... THUD...
The sound of army boots crushing dirty puddles echoed off the alley walls, breaking the thugs' laughter.
"Huh? Who's that?" One of the thugs holding the woman's arm turned, annoyed.
At the mouth of the alley stood a silhouette blocking the streetlight. The figure was massive, with broad shoulders supporting a giant rectangular slab on his back. The hilt of the object towered over his head like a walking tombstone.
"Hey, Kid! Move it! You're blocking the way!" the second thug barked, trying to intimidate him. "This is Corneo family business!"
Johnny didn't answer. He kept walking closer. Slow. Steady. Like a tank with no brakes.
The distance was now only five meters.
The woman looked at Johnny with eyes full of hope and fear. She didn't know if this was a savior or another monster, something even worse.
"Are you deaf?!" The third thug, the biggest one, pulled out a switchblade. "I said leave or I'll rip your stomach in two!"
Johnny stopped.
Slowly, Johnny's right hand moved up behind his shoulder.
His thick fingers gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of the Dragon Slayer.
CLICK.
The sound of metal clicking softly echoed as Johnny loosened the magnetic clasp on his chest. Just one inch. He didn't draw the sword fully. He only revealed a glimpse of the pitch-black metal behind his shoulder.
Then, Johnny lifted his face slightly, letting the dim light illuminate his eyes.
And in that second, the three thugs forgot how to breathe.
Those eyes.
They weren't the eyes of an angry human. They were the eyes of a beast looking at its meal. Empty. Dark. And hungry.
In Johnny's pupils, the thugs seemed to see a terrifying illusion: A mountain of piled corpses, a sea of blood, and a giant black hound with glowing red eyes grinning at them.
Killing Intent.
The air in the alley suddenly felt cold and heavy, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out. The thugs' knees trembled involuntarily.
Johnny opened his mouth. His voice was low, vibrating from deep within his chest, like the growl of a tiger.
"Run..."
One word.
"...Or die."
The thug holding the knife shook violently. His hand was slick with cold sweat.
CLANG. The knife hit the asphalt.
His legs turned to jelly. His primal instinct screamed one word: APEX PREDATOR. RUN. NOW.
"D-Damn it! H-He's crazy! His eyes are crazy!"
"Run! Let's get out of here!"
The three Corneo lackeys—usually so tough—released the woman, turned, and scrambled away. They crashed into trash cans, tripped over their own feet, and vanished into the darkness of the night like rats spotting a cat. They didn't even dare to look back.
Johnny remained standing still, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
He exhaled a long breath, and the terrifying aura slowly receded, locking back away inside his soul.
Johnny turned to the woman who was still sitting trembling on the ground, her clothes slightly torn.
"Go home," Johnny said flatly. He didn't offer a hand to help her up (he didn't want to seem too friendly, and besides, his hands were rough). "Take the main road where it's bright. Don't take rat alleys again."
The woman nodded quickly, tears still flowing from shock.
"T-Thank you... Mr... Mr. Giant."
The woman got up on shaky legs and ran toward the main road, away from the alley.
Johnny adjusted the sword back into the locked position. CLICK.
"Mr. Giant, eh?" Puck chuckled from the jacket pocket. "Better than 'Mr. Bum' or 'Mr. Criminal'."
"Let's go home, Puck," Johnny mumbled, ignoring the tease. "Tomorrow is the big day."
Johnny returned to Sector 7 on his bike without further incident.
In his cramped room behind the workshop, Johnny placed the Dragon Slayer beside his bed. The sword stood upright, black and silent, like a faithful sentinel.
Johnny lay on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, his left hand behind his head.
Tomorrow was the Rookie Crusher Tournament at Corneo Colosseum.
This wasn't just about money. This was a debut. This was the moment Johnny would show the Midgar underground that a new power was rising.
A power that didn't come from Mako injection, not from SOLDIER training, but from the iron will of an ordinary human who refused to die—and the bond of the Lifestream.
Johnny touched his chest. His heart beat calmly.
"Watch me tomorrow, Aerith," he thought before his eyes closed. "I won't lose."