Money changes the weight of a man's step.
Ren walked down the muddy thoroughfare of Sector 4, the heavy coin pouch jingling softly against his hip. He didn't slouch. He didn't hug the walls. He walked down the center of the street, the Pneumatic Spike resting casually on his shoulder.
Eyes followed him. The Slums had a hive mind; news of the "One-Shot Kid" who pasted a gang leader against a wall had traveled faster than a virus.
Beggars pulled their legs in as he passed. Pickpockets looked at the heavy steel piston on his shoulder and decided to find easier marks.
Ren ignored them. He was focused on the sign ahead: SCRAP & IRON.
He pushed the heavy metal door open. The bell above it chimed, a dull, cracked sound.
The heat hit him first. It was a dry, searing wall of air that smelled of coal dust and flux.
Sara was at the anvil. She was hammering a glowing red bar of steel, sparks showering her leather apron. Her mechanical eye whirred, tracking the hammer blows with mathematical precision.
She didn't look up. "Shop's closed. I'm busy."
Ren walked to the counter. He reached into his pouch and dropped a handful of copper coins onto the metal surface. They clattered loudly.
"I'm not here to sell," Ren said. "I'm here to rent."
Sara stopped hammering. She plunged the glowing steel into a bucket of oil with a violent hiss of steam. She turned, wiping soot from her forehead with a rag the size of a towel.
Her good eye narrowed. Her mechanical eye zoomed in.
"You," she grunted. "The rat with the Wolf coat. I heard you died."
"I got better," Ren said.
He lifted the Pneumatic Spike off his shoulder and set it heavily on the counter. The metal groaned under the weight.
Sara stared at it. She was an artificer; she knew weapons. She knew swords, axes, and spears.
She stared at the hydraulic cylinder, the rusted baton handle fused to the base, and the dagger welded to the piston rod. It was ugly. It was asymmetrical. It looked like a car crash welded into a shape.
"What," Sara asked slowly, "is that?"
"Percussive directional force applicator," Ren said. "Or a hole-puncher. Take your pick."
Sara reached out. Her massive hand traced the weld marks where Ren had used his Edit ability. She frowned. There were no welding seams. The metals flowed into each other like melted wax.
"No heat marks," she murmured. "No solder. How did you bond high-carbon steel to cheap baton plastic? That's chemically impossible."
"I have a unique Class," Ren lied smoothly.
He tapped the counter. "I need a workspace. I need a vice, a drill press, and access to your scrap pile. And I need privacy."
Sara looked up from the weapon. She looked at the coins. Then she looked at Ren's eyes.
She saw the same thing Ren saw in the mirror: the cold, calculating look of someone who understood how things broke.
"Ten coppers an hour," Sara said. "And you don't touch my furnace. You blow it up, I throw you in it."
"Five coppers," Ren countered. "And I'll fix the ventilation system you've been ignoring."
Sara paused. She glanced at the ceiling, where the vent was indeed wheezing and rattling.
"Deal," she grunted. "Bench in the back. Don't bleed on my tools."
Ren moved to the back of the shop. It was a chaotic mess of gears, springs, and metal plates, but to Ren, it was paradise.
He set up his station. He placed the [Logic Drive] on the table. The Cube hummed, sensing the proximity of so much raw material.
[Logic Drive Status] [Battery: 64%] [Current Blueprint: Surveillance Roach (Active)] [New Blueprint: Exo-Frame (Arm)]
Ren needed armor. His body was weak, strength 0.6. If he got hit, he died. He couldn't increase his biological stats quickly, so he had to cheat.
He needed an exoskeleton. Just an arm to start. Something to help him swing the heavy Spike without dislocating his shoulder.
Ren went to the scrap pile. He started digging.
He found a rusted motorcycle shock absorber. He found a bundle of steel cables. He found a stripped servo-motor from a broken mining droid.
He worked for three hours.
He didn't use his Edit ability for everything, he couldn't afford the Corruption cost. He used his hands. He stripped wires, greased gears, and bent metal plates using the heavy vice.
He only used Edit for the impossible parts, fusing connections and rewriting the rust out of critical joints.
[Corruption: 1.5% -> 2.1%]
"Almost there," Ren whispered.
He held up the frame. It looked like the skeleton of an arm made of polished steel and black tubing.
He stripped off his coat and rolled up his right sleeve. His arm was thin, pale, and bruised.
He slid his arm into the metal frame. He tightened the leather straps.
The fit was perfect. The metal hugged his skin.
He picked up a wire connected to the servo-motor. He needed to interface it with his nervous system. Usually, this required surgery.
Ren picked up the [Logic Drive].
"Bridge connection," he commanded.
He pressed the wire to the Cube, and the Cube to his shoulder.
A spark of blue light jumped.
Ren gritted his teeth as a phantom itch crawled under his skin. The Cube was acting as the translator, turning his brain's "move" signals into electrical impulses for the servo.
Whirrr.
Ren twitched his fingers. The steel fingers of the glove snapped together with a mechanical click.
He made a fist. The servo whined, locking the grip with enough force to crush a walnut.
[Item: Scavenger Exo-Arm (Right)] [Effect: Strength +1.5 (Right Arm Only)] [Fuel: Logic Drive Link]
Ren exhaled, wiping sweat from his eyes. He grabbed a heavy iron wrench from the table. Before, it would have felt heavy. Now, it felt like a feather.
"Hey, kid."
Ren spun around, the servo whining as he raised his arm.
Sara was standing five feet away, holding two mugs of something steaming. She was staring at his arm.
"That's military tech," she said, her voice low. "Servo-assisted framing. Where did a sewer rat learn to build that?"
Ren didn't lower his arm. "I read a lot of manuals."
Sara snorted. She walked over and set a mug down on his bench. It smelled like tea, but stronger. Like tar and caffeine.
"Drink. You look like you're about to pass out."
She leaned against a support beam, sipping her own mug. "You're lucky you're inside today. Word is, the Gate in Sector 3 is flaring."
Ren paused, the mug halfway to his mouth. "Gate?"
"Dungeon Gate," Sara said, eyeing him. "You really don't know anything, do you? The fissures in reality. Monsters come out. Hunters go in. If you're lucky, you get Cores. If you're unlucky, the Gate breaks and the monsters eat the neighborhood."
She gestured to his arm. "With that toy, you might survive a goblin. Maybe."
Ren looked at his metal hand.
Dungeon Gate. Cores.
The crocodile had a Tier 1 Core. A Dungeon would be full of them. It was a battery store waiting to be raided.
"Where is Sector 3?" Ren asked.
Sara laughed, a dry, barking sound. "Don't get ideas, suicidal boy. The Guilds control the Gates. You go near one without a license, they'll kill you before the monsters do."
She pointed a calloused finger at him. "But... if you can build that," she nodded at the Exo-Arm, "maybe you don't need to fight. You could sell. I know people who would pay gold for an arm that makes them strong."
Ren took a sip of the bitter tea. It burned, but it woke him up.
"I'm not selling," Ren said. He flexed his mechanical fingers, the metal singing softly. "I'm investing."
He looked at Sara.
"Do you have any reinforced glass? And a high-capacity capacitor?"
Sara sighed, shaking her head. "You're going to blow up my shop, aren't you?"
"Probably," Ren admitted. "But I'll pay for the damages."