In the commercial district of Colony 9, the first strike of Xord's hammer signalled the start of a new day—but for once, the coals in his forge remained cool. Xord's Smithy would be closed until further notice. The job he had been assigned would take him far away from home, on the brink of enemy territory.

Sword Valley formed a bridge between Bionis and Mechonis, making it the Homs' last line of defence. Tensions were on the rise at the border, and an all-out attack seemed imminent. If the Homs failed to rout the enemy, the Mechon would be free to cross over and take occupation of Bionis.

It took considerable effort to fell even a single Mechon. Neither bullet nor blade could penetrate their diamond-like armour. The gears and networks of wires that lay underneath were far more delicate, but those parts could only be reached if a Mechon was toppled and made prone. Given the size and strength of some units, this was not an easy task.

However, like a diamond, a Mechon's armour could be damaged by weapons made of the same material. This kind of metal was not found on Bionis, meaning it could only be obtained from the bodies of slain Mechon. Consequently, it was impossible to produce anti-Mechon weapons en masse. Blacksmiths from across Bionis were recruited to aid in the war effort.

Xord had experience crafting anti-Mechon weapons and was generally knowledgeable about different Mechon models. Being both a blacksmith and a mechanic, he had a talent for fixing machines. He had once turned a deactivated Mechon drone into a remote control toy—a toy that caused a small panic and was promptly shot down by the Defence Force.

Since it would be impractical to ship materials and finished products back and forth between Colony 9 and the battlefield, Xord was asked to set up shop in Sword Valley. He had been hesitant to make the move, but the pay was too good to turn down. The Defence Force had loaned him a vehicle and expected him to arrive as soon as possible.

Xord walked out of his garage—his smithy—with a box of tools in his arms. He shoved it into the trunk of the vehicle and turned around. Standing on the front porch was his daughter, a young woman by the name of Désirée.

"It's so quiet this morning. I almost didn't wake up on time," she said. "Oh, that's right. You're leaving soon."

"Yes. I'm packing my things now." Xord had been told that a forge, an anvil, and other equipment would be provided on-site, but he had a strong preference for his own tools. He'd been using the same hammer, tongs, and gloves for nearly twenty years—almost as long as Désirée had been alive.

"Can I help you pack? I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Xord, who was well into his fifties, had been working as a blacksmith since he was a young man. As a result, he had a bad shoulder, his knees hurt, his eardrums were damaged, and his lungs were full of smoke. While his arms were muscular, the rest of his body wasn't in the best shape—he had a prominent gut, which no doubt contributed to his knee pain. Even though his body was giving out on him, he didn't plan on retiring any time soon. Xord saw himself dying with his hammer in hand.

He smiled. It was a basic gesture, but he couldn't help but feel delighted. His daughter was such a considerate young woman. "Thank you, dear," he said.

Xord had a somewhat distant relationship with his daughter. When Désirée was a small child, Xord would often play with her or take her to the shops before work—but as the years went by, they stopped spending time together. Xord worked all day and came home exhausted, which left them little time for bonding. They would exchange a few words over supper, but they never had much to talk about.

"How're you doing?"

"Good."

"What've you been up to?"

"Oh, I don't know."

As Xord barely knew the person Désirée had become, he still found himself thinking of her as his little girl. He held that image close to his heart and dedicated himself to supporting her through his work. Désirée was content with her dependence on him. She had never put any thought into a career, or even a job. Xord was happy to continue providing for her. After all, Désirée was his little girl.

"It's so heavy!" cried Désirée, carrying Xord's hammer in both hands. "And you swing this thing over your head all day long?"

"Careful. You don't want to drop it on your foot."

Désirée gently placed the hammer in the box. With a laugh, she said, "Dad, I'm the one who's supposed to be keeping you from getting hurt."

Something about those words made Xord feel a tinge of sadness. He had always been her protector, but now, she was growing up and he was growing old. He wasn't ready for that stage of parenthood. He wasn't ready to become a frail old man with atrophied muscles and weak bones: someone who needed to be taken care of by somebody else. Xord, as much as he wanted to deny it, knew there would be a day when he'd have to put his hammer down for the last time—and that day would be sooner rather than later.

"Is something wrong?"

Xord shook his head. "No, no. Was just thinking."

Désirée looked somewhat uncomfortable as well, but like her father, she kept her thoughts to herself. She peered into one of the boxes Xord had already packed into the vehicle. "What is… Oh, bloody hell! You kept this piece of junk after all these years?" She reached in and pulled out a vaguely animal-shaped clay figurine that had been broken and glued back together. "Why on Bionis are you bringing this thing with you?"

"I—" Xord's face was red. "It reminds me of you?"

Laughing, Désirée said, "Are you saying I'm rubbish?"

"No, of course not! It's just… it's the only sculpture you ever gave me."

"I gave it to you so you could put it in the bin," Désirée said, still giggling. "Now I feel bad about never making anything for you. I just didn't think you'd want it."

"Why would you think that? I love everything you make!" Xord exclaimed. "You're so talented with clay."

With a sigh, Désirée slipped the figurine back into the box. When they had finished packing, she asked, "Dad, are you sure you'll be safe out there?"

"I'm not going there to fight. I'll be fine," Xord replied. "The smithy's gonna be the safest place in Sword Valley. I'll be surrounded by weapons! If one of those Mechon tries to get me, I'll give 'em a good whack with my hammer."

Désirée gave him an uneasy smile. "Well… just be careful, okay?"

"The same goes for you. I don't want you getting into any trouble while I'm not here."

She rolled her eyes.

There was one last thing Xord needed to do before he left. "C'mere," he said, beckoning Désirée forward. The girl walked into his outstretched arms and he hugged her, his beard brushing against her forehead. "I love you."

Xord had gone nose-blind to the stench of smoke that clung to his clothes; evidently, Désirée had not. She reeled back when he let her go, but still managed to smile. "I love you, Dad. Stay safe."

...

Xord kept those words in a mental locket that he brought with him to Sword Valley. His work station was a steel-framed shelter that was almost the same size as his garage, but with much less clutter. Inside was a hearth, an anvil with a log base, a metal chair, and a single shelving unit. He had also been provided with a bedroll and some rather questionable rations, much to his dismay. Xord might not have been a soldier, but he still had to live in a war zone.

Several days went by without much conflict. Unable to sleep comfortably on the ground, Xord chewed on coffee grounds to get him through the day. He was given a couple of broken Mechon units to work with; it was unclear how recently they had been dispatched. He was free to craft whatever he chose as long as he was efficient with his time. The weapons he produced were not particularly impressive to look at, but they would get the job done.

In a few days' time, the situation escalated. The Mechon stormed Sword Valley.

A small truck came to a stop in front of the smithy, a broken Mechon in tow. "We got an M63!" the driver exclaimed. He and another soldier got out, lifted up the Mechon, and threw it on the ground with a crash. The truck took off just as abruptly as it had arrived.

Knowing that the smithy was so close to the battlegrounds made Xord anxious, but he did his best to focus on his task. The Mechon was too heavy for him to bring inside; he would have to go out and work quickly to gather its parts. He got out his old anti-Mechon saw, removed the M63's distal appendages—which were already passable as blunt weapons—and set them aside. He saw no need to modify them. The big sheets of casing that remained would be awkward to work with, but Xord couldn't let anything go to waste. He began carving off the M63's patella, which took the form of a large spike. It would make an excellent spearhead. All Xord needed was a shaft.

He examined the Mechon's remains. Its upper arm was rod-shaped, but it wasn't long enough to make an effective weapon. He would have to draw it out. After severing the appendage, Xord grabbed it with his tongs and put it in the forge. He became aware of the sounds of combat as he waited for it to heat up: the clashing of metal, ricocheting bullets, and cries of war and agony. If his damaged eardrums could hear those things, they must have been happening very close by. Xord knew the thin walls of his pop-up smithy wouldn't keep him safe. He hoped the Mechon would overlook the shack, but it would be hard for him to avoid their detection once he started pounding on the anvil.

Xord took a deep breath. The metal had turned white hot. It was time for him to get to work.

He reluctantly retrieved the rod and set it on the base of the anvil's horn; then, he raised his hammer. The first strike rang through the air like a bell, causing him to flinch. He mouthed a silent prayer as he rotated the rod and dealt another blow. His heart was racing. He was practically begging to be attacked.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Normally, the harsh noise was a rhythm for Xord's daydreams—but now, each individual strike demanded his attention. He could no longer hear the sounds coming from outside, which only made him more afraid. He wouldn't be able to tell if they were getting louder, and coming closer.

After a few more rotations, Xord had to put his hammer down. His body was tense, amplifying the pain in his shoulder.

He returned the rod to the forge. He then pulled out a canteen and splashed some water onto his brow. The shack was full of smoke, but Xord didn't dare to step outside for some fresh air. He sat down in his chair and held his shoulder, wishing he had some ice. Xord was tempted to stay there for a while, but he knew he wouldn't be able to relax. His ears were ringing and he still couldn't hear the sounds coming from outside. For a moment, he pretended that whatever was out there had gone away.

That moment was precisely what the Mechon M72 lurking nearby needed.

It burst into the shack. Xord tumbled out of his chair, narrowly avoiding its snapping claws. He landed hard on his shoulder, and even though he was full of adrenaline, it did little to numb the pain. With tears welling in his eyes, Xord dragged himself over to the pile of Mechon limbs and picked one up with his left hand. He rolled onto his back and pointed it at the M72.

"Get away from me!" he pleaded. "Don't hurt me! I'm a civilian!"

The M72 ripped the weapon away so fiercely that it dislocated Xord's arm. It grabbed his torso with inhuman strength, cracking his ribs and squeezing the air out of his lungs. Xord coughed up blood as it raised him toward the ceiling.

"I don't want to die," he wheezed. Visions of Désirée flashed through his head. "I can't die. Please… mercy…"

There was no reasoning with a machine.

The M72 slammed Xord into the forge face-first. He screamed until his lips melted, melding with the molten rod. The Mechon dropped him and he slumped to the ground, his face unrecognisable. He lay there, suffocating, until the M72 closed its claws around his legs and dragged him out of the shack, carting him off like one of the scrapped Mechon that had been delivered to the smithy.

He, too, would be made into a weapon.