The sun beat down relentlessly as I leaned on my elbow, staring at the crowd passing through the Oshibana train hub. A constant stream of people bustled back and forth, hurrying to catch trains or grab last-minute snacks from nearby stalls. My stall, on the other hand, sat ignored. Not a single soul even slowed down to look at the large collection of items hanging from hooks, bedazzling the table, and packed onto beautifully placed shelves.

I sighed, rubbing my temple with one hand. "Maybe I overdid it," I muttered, glancing at the mess I'd created. You see, to the untrained eye, it probably looked like I was selling cursed artifacts or magical junk. In reality, it was a mix of handy tools, trinkets, and a few experiments that hadn't worked as intended but were cool or pretty enough to sell anyways.

There were hanging lanterns I'd made for energy efficiency swaying in the breeze. A small mechanical bird hopped on the edge of the table—a project I'd had finished not long ago. There were insta-repair kits for mending clothes, charms for tired travelers to give them energy, and even a self-heating mug that I decided was too good to sell an hour into the morning that sat half-full with my third cup of coffee.

At first I thought people would see the variety and think 'what a great and amazing selection' but at this point I'm pretty sure they must think I'm running a scam booth…

I leaned back on the stool, adjusting my green jacket and rolling my shoulders. "Alright, plan B," I muttered, pulling out my sketchpad and pencil. If selling wasn't happening, I might as well get some work done. My wrist implant was functional, sure, but it was basic. Too basic. I wanted all my personal stuff to be the best I could create and nothing less.

Originally I had designed it to store items in a neat little spatial pocket and nothing more. If I was going to live in this world, I needed upgrades.

I started sketching: an interface for sorting items more efficiently, a built-in notepad for jotting down ideas on the fly, maybe even a calendar system… though I'd need to look at an actual calendar for this world before that.

A corkboard was the most appealing—some way to organize thoughts and link ideas together, like those crime boards you see in detective shows. I jotted it down, then frowned. Remembering why I hadn't upgraded it earlier.

You see, since this little creation of mine was based solely from my imagination of the how it looked in the game, I made one teensy tiny error. There was no way for me to crack it open or plug it into anything.

There's also the fact that I have no clue if it works based on magic or tech. I'm running under the assumption it's tech-based due to it being based on a game where the implant is tech. However, since I didn't—and still don't—have a full understanding of how my magic utilizes my knowledge to create technology-based items, it might not even have a proper OS I can interact with.

I chewed on the end of my pencil, trying to think through the problem. "Alright, so… if it's tech, I could maybe build an external interface? No, wait, that assumes I can pair it with something." I scribbled out the idea and jotted down another: "If it's magic, maybe I can reprogram it by carving runes directly onto the surface? But if that doesn't work, I might end up frying the whole thing."

I shook my head, tapping my pencil against the table as I brainstormed more ideas. "What if I create a secondary device—a sort of 'control hub'—and link it to the implant remotely?" That thought held some weight. I scribbled it down and started sketching a rough design. "I'd need a way to test for compatibility, though…"

The longer I stared at the page, the more convoluted my ideas became. Every potential solution spiraled into a web of hurdles. It was quite literally like trying to troubleshoot a machine without knowing what it was.

I dropped my pencil onto the table and rubbed my eyes. "Ugh, this is pointless." Resting my chin in my palm, I muttered, "Maybe if I—"

Before I could finish my thought, the sound of footsteps stopped in front of my table. I glanced up to see a small, round old man—shorter than even the counter—peering at my stall. He wore a bright orange coat that was just as loud as the striped jester hat perched on his head, both looking slightly out of place in the middle of a bustling train hub. His white mustache twitched with every subtle movement, and his sharp eyes were practically gleaming as they scanned my wares.

The way he carried himself… it was odd. He looked harmless enough, like someone's mischievous grandfather, but there was something about him that felt powerful.

And something about him felt familiar, but I couldn't say what.

"Excuse me, young man," he said, his voice light and easy, "You've got a fascinating little stall here. Mind if I take a better look?"

I sat up straighter, fighting the urge to puff out my chest. "Sure," I said, as a small smile grew on my face in pride. "Feel free."

He took his time, his gaze flicking over the energy charms, the repair kits, and the mechanical bird that chirped softly as he passed. For a moment, I thought he'd just move along like everyone else, but then his eyes locked onto something tucked toward the back of the booth.

"And what's this here?" he asked, pointing at the prototype energy core I'd been working on. It wasn't really supposed to be on display—it was more of an accidental centerpiece, shoved to the side when I'd run out of room on the table, after a customer asked to see everything I had.

To anyone else, it probably looked like a mess of polished metal and runes, with a few wires sticking out in places where they definitely shouldn't. But to me, it was my newest work in progress. My chaotic, half-functional, probably-going-to-explode the first time I use it baby.

"Oh, that," I said, scratching the back of my head. "That's just a prototype."

The old man's mustache twitched upward like he was fighting a grin. "A prototype, hmm? And what exactly does it do?"

I hesitated, my fingers brushing the edge of the table as I tried to decide how much to say. "It's, meant to be a portable energy source. It stores ethernano—magical energy, if you didn't know—and releases it on demand, at an adjustable rate. At least, that's what its going to do. It's not finished yet."

His sharp eyes narrowed slightly, not in disapproval but in the way someone leans into a good story. "Portable ethernano storage that's not a lacrima? Ambitious. And you built this yourself?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing at the core like it might decide to explode right then and there. "It's still a work in progress. The runes are kind of… temperamental, and I haven't run any real tests yet, as I'm still learning about runic paths and arrays."

The old man's gaze lingered on the glowing core, his expression thoughtful. "Portable ethernano storage, you said? A bold idea. But I'm curious—what inspired you to build something like this in the first place? It's not exactly the kind of project one stumbles into."

I leaned back on my stool, glancing at the core. "It's a bit of a long story," I said, scratching the back of my head. "Let's just say I built something a while ago—something I thought was a great idea at the time—but it turned out to have one massive problem."

Makarov's mustache twitched upward, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "And what problem was that?"

"It was an energy hog," I admitted with a wry laugh. "It drained a decently sized lacrima in one use. Completely. And when your power supply costs more to replace than the device itself, well…" I gestured toward the core. "That's why I started working on this. The idea is that it could store enough ethernano to power all kinds of things, without needing to refill constantly."

"Ah, I see," he said, nodding slowly. "A solution born from necessity. A common spark for innovation."

"Yeah, you could say that," I said, tapping the core lightly with the back of my knuckle. "It's still a work in progress, though. The runes aren't stable yet, and the output tends to get a little… erratic."

Makarov raised a bushy eyebrow. "Erratic, you say? Have you tested it?"

"Not exactly," I admitted, glancing down at the faint blue glow of the core. "I mean, I've done small-scale tests to see if it holds a charge, but I haven't pushed it to full capacity yet. If it overloads… well, let's just say I'd rather not have to rebuild my table. Or the stall. Or half the train hub."

The old man chuckled, his mustache twitching with amusement. "A wise decision. There's no shame in caution, lad. A creator who rushes into the unknown without thinking of the consequences doesn't last long."

"Thanks," I said, slouching slightly. "It's kind of hard not to get impatient, though. Every time I look at it, I think, 'Just one test. What's the worst that could happen?' But then I remember the last time I thought that, and, well…" I trailed off, waving vaguely at nothing in particular.

Makarov chuckled again, his eyes twinkling with understanding. "A lesson learned, then. And a valuable one at that. But tell me, lad, what keeps you going? It's clear you've put a lot of time and effort into this. What's the drive behind it?"

I paused, tapping my pencil against the edge of the table as I thought about the question. "I guess… I just like figuring things out," I said finally. "Taking an idea in my head and turning it into something real—it's frustrating as hell sometimes, but it's also kind of addictive. And yeah, a lot of it doesn't work out, but when it does? It's worth it."

Makarov nodded, his expression softening. "A fair answer. It's a rare gift to find joy in the process, not just the result. But don't forget, lad: even the most brilliant creation is meaningless without purpose. Keep that in mind, and you'll go far."

The faint sound of a train whistle cut through the hub, and Makarov glanced toward the station with a sigh. "Ah, that'll be my ride. A shame—I'd have liked to chat a little longer."

Makarov lingered for a moment, his gaze returning to the glowing core on my table before shifting back to me. "You know," he said, his tone casual but carrying a spark of interest, "if you're ever looking to put that talent of yours to use for a wizard guild—or even take on some freelance work as an artificer—you should head to Magnolia. Ask for Fairy Tail."

I froze, the pencil I'd been tapping against the table slipping from my fingers. "Fairy Tail?" I echoed, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. The name hit me like a brick to the chest, a wave of familiarity washing over me, the fact this world is the 'fairy tail' world. Images flickered in my mind—flashes of battles, laughter, destruction… a guild that while technically good had a terrifying amount of destruction on their tab.

I blinked hard, pulling myself back to the present. "Wait," I said slowly, my eyes narrowing as I looked at the old man more closely. The orange coat, the hat, the way he carried himself with a kind of easy confidence that seemed at odds with his size. "You're not… you are their guild master, aren't you?"

Makarov chuckled, his mustache twitching as his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Guilty as charged," he said, spreading his hands in mock surrender. "Makarov Dreyar, at your service."

I stared at him, my thoughts scrambling to catch up. "Huh," I muttered, leaning back on my stool. "That… actually makes sense. I mean, not like it's every day the master of one of the most famous wizard guilds stops by a random market stall."

"Famous, are we?" Makarov said, stroking his mustache as if he hadn't heard that a thousand times before. "Well, I suppose we've earned a bit of a reputation."

"Reputation is one word for it," I muttered under my breath, flashes of exaggerated destruction and chaos flickering in my mind. The image of a fire-breathing pink-haired man leveling entire buildings came to mind, though I couldn't quite pin down why.

Makarov tilted his head slightly, clearly picking up on my tone. "Ah, so you've heard the stories, have you? I won't deny we've had our… lively moments. But Fairy Tail isn't just a guild, lad. It's a family. And families tend to be a bit rough around the edges."

I raised an eyebrow, skeptical but not willing to outright argue. "Right. And where would I fit into that 'family,' exactly?"

"Fair question," he said, his tone light. "We've been looking for a skilled artificer—someone with your talent—for a while now. Plenty of opportunities to put your creations to use, and a good deal of freedom to pursue your own projects. You might even find a few people willing to test out your more 'ambitious' ideas."

I frowned, glancing down at the core on the table. "Sounds like a lot of work," I muttered.

"It is," he admitted, his mustache twitching with what might've been amusement. "But it's rewarding work. And you'd never lack for inspiration, I can promise you that."

I glanced back up at him, the gears turning in my head. "Let me guess," I said slowly. "There's a reason you're having trouble finding someone for the job, isn't there?"

Makarov grinned, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Ah, well… let's just say the work comes with a certain… level of excitement. But for someone like you? I'd wager you'd find it more stimulating than anything else."

I snorted, shaking my head. "Right. Excitement. Sounds more like a polite way of saying chaos."

He laughed heartily, the sound almost infectious. "You're sharp, lad. I like that. But think about it—if you ever find yourself looking for a challenge, or simply a place to belong, Fairy Tail's doors are always open."

The faint whistle of a train echoed again, louder this time, and Makarov sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag. "That's my ride. A shame—I'd have liked to see where your journey takes you."

"Wait," I said, standing as he turned to leave. "If you're really Fairy Tail's master… why are you here?"

Makarov turned back, his expression softer now, but his sharp eyes still twinkled with that same mischievous light. "Because talent like yours shouldn't go unnoticed," he said, his voice steady but warm. "This world needs creators—people who don't just accept what is, but imagine what could be. Even the brightest flames need a spark to truly ignite."

He paused, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That's part of why we chose the name Fairy Tail, you know. To remind ourselves to always chase the unknown, to wonder if fairies have tails and what mysteries still wait to be discovered. It's about living with curiosity and courage. That's the spirit we carry—and one you seem to share."

He paused, his smile curling into a grin. "That, and my train got delayed on the way to a guild leader meeting. Your little stall looked more interesting than staring at an empty platform."

I blinked, caught between being flattered and mildly offended. "Little stall?" I repeated, my voice somewhere between a mutter and a grumble.

He chuckled, the sound hearty and full of mischief. "Take it as a compliment, lad. After all, it caught my attention, didn't it?" He adjusted the strap of his bag as the train whistle echoed again, this time more insistent. "And for the record, it didn't disappoint."

With that, he gave me a final nod and turned away, his orange coat and striped hat bobbing through the crowd until he disappeared from sight.

I sat back down, staring at the faintly glowing core on my table. The old man's words lingered in my mind, their weight pressing down on me in a way I wasn't used to.

I leaned forward, picking up my pencil again and sketching the lines of a new idea. The core still had a long way to go, but for the first time in a while it almost felt like Hugh was guiding my hand.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of heat, shuffling footsteps, and the low hum of the bustling train hub. For the most part, things stayed quiet—just the occasional glance or curious wanderer stopping by. But as the afternoon sun began to dip, I finally got a few bites.

A woman with a small boy stopped by, the child tugging insistently at her hand as his wide eyes locked onto the mechanical bird. He didn't say a word, just pointed at it, his expression caught somewhere between awe and delight.

"It hops," I explained, picking it up and giving the crank a gentle turn to wind it. The bird clicked softly before springing to life, hopping along the edge of the table, and fluttering its little metal wings. The boy gasped, his face lighting up in a way that made the whole day almost worth it.

"Is it sturdy?" the woman asked, her tone skeptical but not unkind. "You know how kids are…"

"It's tougher than it looks," I assured her, hiding my wince. "It's made to handle a little roughhousing. Within reason of course."

That seemed to convince her. She handed over a small pouch of jewels and scooped up the bird, which chirped one last time before settling into her bag. The boy beamed at me, whispering a quiet "thank you" before they disappeared into the crowd.

Later, a pair of weary-looking travelers stopped by, their steps heavy and their faces drawn. They didn't say much, just eyed the energy charms hanging on the rack with an exhausted sort of hope.

"Good for about a day's boost," I said, motioning to the charms. "Nothing extreme—just enough to keep you on your feet."

They exchanged a glance before one of them nodded. "We'll take two."

It wasn't a big sale, but it was something. By the time I closed up for the day, I'd sold a handful of trinkets and even a couple of lanterns, though the core remained untouched at the back of the table. That was fine, I still had a few ideas to work out for my storage implant and I wanted to get that figured out before I got started on the core, I'm wanting to get that ready for my next iteration of my teleporter.

Packing up the stall was its own kind of ritual—tucking away the remaining stock, folding the cloth covering the table, making sure everything was secure. By the time I hefted the pack onto my shoulder (I wasn't going to try and advertise my storage implant where just anyone could see) and made my way toward the inn I was renting at, the sun was already dipping low, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets.

The inn wasn't anything fancy—just a small, two-story building tucked into a quieter corner of the hub. The sign above the door swung lazily in the evening breeze, the paint to faded to read.

I stepped inside, the scent of warm bread and faintly burnt wood filling the air. The innkeeper, a gruff but kind older man named Brody, nodded at me as I passed.

"Good day, Leon?" he asked, wiping his hands on a stained apron.

"Not bad," I replied, offering a small smile. "Sold a few things."

"Good to hear," he said, his voice gruff but genuine. "Supper's still out, if you're hungry."

"Thanks," I said, though I wasn't feeling particularly hungry. My mind was still buzzing with the day's events—with Makarov's words and the faint but insistent tug of an idea just out of reach.

I climbed the creaky wooden stairs to my room, the sound of footsteps and muffled conversation fading as I reached the door. Inside, the space was small but serviceable—a single bed, a small desk, and a window that overlooked the busy streets below. My pack hit the floor with a dull thud, and I flopped onto the bed, staring up at the wooden beams above.

Fairy Tail…

I mean, I was already considering going there at some point, at the very least I wanted to look at the place that the story was based upon. Despite the fact I remembered next to nothing about it, it would at least serve as a refresher on who was who, and maybe let me know if I was near any of the events I could remember… like that castle mech… such a strange but cool idea.

I want to make one at some point…

The name still felt heavy in my mind, not just because of Makarov's words but because of what little I could remember from the show. The guild wasn't just famous—it was infamous. Flashes of chaos and destruction played out in my head: buildings reduced to rubble, streets torn to shreds, entire landscapes unrecognizable after they'd been through. The kind of destruction that made you wonder if the people causing it knew what restraint even meant.

There was the fire-breathing pink-haired guy… Natsu, I think? He could probably level a town if he sneezed. Then there was the armored redhead who I can't remember much about other then the fact the rest of them were scared of her, the ice wizard who—I think, and I might be wrong—was allergic to shirts, and that flying blue cat. I vaguely recalled him saying "Aye, sir!" a lot, but it was hard to connect the dots between the fuzzy memories.

And those were just the ones I could remember. Who knew what the rest of them were like?

I sighed, staring up at the wooden beams above. Makarov had made it sound like a place for growth, a place where my work could mean something, but the way he phrased it… plenty of opportunities to put your creations to use. Freedom to pursue your own projects. It all sounded good until I thought about why they needed an artificer so badly.

"Because they keep breaking everything," I muttered, rubbing a hand down my face. He might not have meant to say it outright, but the message was clear enough: Fairy Tail needed someone to clean up their messes.

I imagined myself running around trying to fix things while Natsu turned a bakery into a crater, or while that redhead—Erza? I think her name was—accidentally sliced through a bridge with one of her swords. Yeah, no thanks. I already had enough headaches trying to make sure my own projects didn't blow up in my face. I didn't need the added pressure of repairing half a town every week.

But then again…

I sat up, resting my elbows on my knees as I thought it over. The work would definitely be challenging, and if I was being honest, part of me liked the idea of working on a larger scale. Sure, it'd be a pain dealing with all the destruction, but it could also be an opportunity to push my limits, to see what I could really do.

And there was something about Makarov's words that stuck with me—about creators being people who imagine what could be, not just what is. Fairy Tail might be a chaotic whirlwind of troublemakers, but they were troublemakers who cared. They weren't out to destroy; they wanted to protect people, to make a difference. If I joined them, maybe I could finally create all the things I had wanted to before I died…

Still, it was a lot to think about. Makarov had left the door open, but walking through it was another matter entirely. Was it worth throwing myself into the chaos, just to see if I could rise up? Or was I better off staying in the background, working at my own pace and keeping the destruction to a minimum?

I flopped back onto the bed, the springs creaking under me as I stared at the ceiling again. "Guess I'll sleep on it," I muttered, though I had a feeling this question wasn't going to leave me alone anytime soon.

The next day found me deep in the woods outside Oshibana, where the bustle of the train hub was replaced by birdsong and the occasional rustle of leaves. While I normally would've been at my stall selling my creations like I had the past week, because my dumb ass got distracted by meeting Makarov, I completely blanked and forgot to register for another week for the stall.

So I figured I might as well make the most of my time, and finally get to working on my numerous projects.

I sat cross-legged on the grass, staring at the implant on my wrist. The faint hum of energy running through it felt almost comforting, but the thought of absorbing it back into my magic sent a shiver down my spine.

"Alright, let's think this through," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck as I glanced at my scattered notes. "Worst case, it hurts like hell. Best case… it only kind of hurts like hell."

I sighed, leaning back slightly as I tapped the implant lightly with my knuckle. "Why did I think this was a good idea again?"

Oh, right. Because the old design was clunky, outdated, and—most importantly—nearly impossible to upgrade without starting from scratch. If I wanted the new version to be better—sleeker, more efficient, with all the new features I had planned, and not a complete pain to update—then tearing the old one down was the only option.

Still, it didn't stop the anxiety creeping into the back of my mind. Absorbing the implant was straightforward, in theory, but that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt like hell. I'd never done it like this before—and the memory of the sharp pain I'd felt while creating it in the first place didn't exactly fill me with confidence.

"Come on, Leon," I muttered, rubbing my temples as I tried to psych myself up. "It's not like it's going to rip your arm off. Probably."

I glanced down at the faintly glowing implant, its black surface gleamed in the sunlight. The idea was simple enough: empty everything out, then absorb the device back into my magic before immediately re-creating it with the new features I had come up with. Simple, clean, efficient.

Except for the fact, step two had me nervous. Step one was easy, just dump everything onto the ground in a way it won't get broken. But I was worried of screwing up the recreation process in pain.

"Alright, no more stalling," I said aloud, sitting up straighter and holding out my wrist. I willed the implant to release its contents, and the air shimmered faintly in response. Slowly, the items stored inside began to spill out onto the ground.

It was chaos—glorious, ridiculous chaos. Tools clattered noisily against each other, bits of scrap metal tumbled into the grass, and a small stack of blueprints fluttered down like oversized leaves. A delicate glass lantern landed with a soft plink, and I winced, carefully scooping it up to check for damage. Thankfully, it seemed fine.

When the last item had been dumped, I sat back and surveyed the mess. It looked like a miniature junkyard had exploded around me, with every bit of scrap and trinket I'd collected over the past few months scattered haphazardly across the forest floor.

"Well," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck, "Damn… I didn't realise how much stuff I had collected already… At least it's all out now."

Now came the hard part.

I stared at the implant, its glow flickering faintly, like it was daring me to follow through. I flexed my fingers, bracing myself for what I knew was going to suck. A lot.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed my fingers to the surface of the implant. The hum of energy thrummed under my skin, sharper now, as if the device knew what was coming. I closed my eyes, focusing on the flow of magic as I willed it to dissolve.

At first, there was nothing. The implant's surface shimmered faintly, its edges starting to blur. And then—

"Ah, crap!" I hissed as a sharp, searing pain shot up my arm, like grabbing a live wire with bare hands. It wasn't unbearable, but it was pretty close, and I clenched my jaw as the implant broke apart into raw energy. The hum faded, leaving only a hollow ache and the faint pins-and-needles sensation running up my arm.

When it was done, I let out a shaky breath and shook out my hand, trying to ease the lingering discomfort. "Well, that sucked."

I flexed my fingers, the lingering ache in my arm a dull reminder of how much this process sucked. But as I stared at the blank spot on my wrist, the absence of the implant's hum felt… wrong. Like a blank canvas waiting to be filled.

"Alright," I muttered, taking a deep breath. "Time to make this worth it."

Closing my eyes, I focused on the design I'd been refining in my head for days. The new implant wasn't just an upgrade—it was a full overhaul, a leap forward in functionality. I started with the basics: a compact, polished surface etched with fine runes for durability and energy flow, I had little knowledge of them when I first made the device so this should help it work better. As well as smaller than the original as there were a few times I hit it on something and it felt like I gained a second funny bone in my wrist.

Next came the storage system, and this time I wasn't holding back. I pictured a clean, intuitive interface with proper sorting categories: tools, materials, projects, food, clothes, anything I could think of needing a filter for was added in. Each section would be easy to access with a simple mental command, no more hunting through the system to find what I needed. Subcategories for quick navigation, and a search function for good measure.

Then I moved on to the extras. A calendar system, something I could sync to the local time and use to keep track of dates, deadlines, and notes. A corkboard feature, where I could pin ideas and link them together visually—a way to map out plans without needing to lug around stacks of blueprints and paper. I imagined a holographic display, a subtle projection that could show others what I was working on, whether it was a design, a concept, or just a rough sketch.

My magic started to glow its notable light blue on my wrist and pulsed as the features began to take shape, the implant forming piece by piece in my mind. I kept going, adding functionality I hadn't even thought of before. A self-updating knowledge repository, something that could record and organize everything I learned—books, notes, observations—so I'd always have a reference, even if my memory failed me. A way to mentally 'open' the device to take it off for easy upgrades, no more tearing the whole thing apart just to add a new feature. And for the finishing touch, an adaptive interface that could sync to both my magic and connect to any external devices I built in the future.

The faint blue glow of my magic grew brighter, solidifying into the compact, sleek design I'd envisioned. Slowly, the pieces clicked into place—the polished surface, the intricate runes, the subtle port along one edge for external connections. The hum returned, low and steady, a comforting pulse that told me it was working.

But the process wasn't without its price.

As the implant began to take form, the familiar sharp ache started to bloom in my wrist, radiating outward in waves. I clenched my jaw, bracing myself as the magic pushed and shifted the muscle and skin, making room for the device. It wasn't as bad as the first time—thankfully, the space was already there, roughly molded by the old implant—but that didn't mean it was pleasant.

"Ah, damn it," I hissed, digging my free hand into the dirt for balance. The pain was sharp, burning like a heated knife as the runes integrated themselves into the skin. Every nerve seemed to spark at once, protesting the intrusion even as the magic worked to settle everything into place.

I kept my focus on the image in my mind, forcing myself to breathe through the pain. Smaller, sleeker. It's not as bad as last time, I reminded myself. Just finish it.

The energy pulsed one final time, then dimmed. The pain ebbed gradually, leaving a dull throb in its wake. When I opened my eyes, the new implant was there on my wrist. Darker then its previous iteration, more akin to a metallic obsidian color then the previous darkened steel.

I had also changed the glow it gave off, it was now a rather nice shade of blue similar to the one my magic gave off, and now it only glowed when in use instead of all the time.

A mental command brought the interface to life, and I watched in satisfaction as the storage system organized itself into neat, accessible categories. Tools, materials, and blueprints were all exactly where they needed to be.

"Not bad," I muttered, flexing my fingers as the implant adjusted to me. I opened the calendar system next, syncing it to the local time and date with ease. A simple mental tap brought up the corkboard, and I smiled as the faint holographic projection sprang to life, a blank canvas waiting for ideas and plans to take shape.

The holographic display flickered on next, casting a faint projection in front of me. There was a slight lag in the visuals—nothing a few tweaks wouldn't fix—but it was more than functional. I grinned, picturing the look on someone's face when I used it to explain a design instead of waving my hands around like an idiot.

With everything functioning as it should, sans the knowledge repository which I couldn't really check until I started adding books to it. I leaned back against a nearby tree, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The ache in my arm was fading, replaced by a quiet sense of accomplishment.

"Alright," I said, tapping the implant lightly with a knuckle. "Let's see what you can really do."

As the tools and materials disappeared back into the newly upgraded implant, I stood up, dusting off my pants and glancing around the clearing one last time. The woods were quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees in long, golden streaks.

I slung my pack (which was just a cover to pulls stuff from in my inventory out of) over my shoulder and started making my way back toward Oshibana. My arm still throbbed faintly from the implant's reconstruction, but the ache was almost gone.

"Not bad," I muttered to myself, flexing my fingers as I walked. The new design was working better than I'd hoped, but it wasn't just the implant that had me feeling optimistic. My mind was already spinning with ideas for what came next—chief among them, the teleportation device I'd been trying to perfect back in Hugh's workshop.

I winced at the memory. The first prototype had been ambitious, sure, but it had also been… well, unpredictable. The idea was solid—a way to create stable, short-range portals for quick travel—but the execution left a lot to be desired. The device had been so power-hungry that it drained a decently sized lacrima in a single use, which is why I could only travel a few feet when I used it, and even then, the portal it generated had been unstable.

Still, the concept had potential, and the energy core I was working on might be the key to making it viable. With enough stored ethernano, I could stabilize the portal and keep it open longer without burning through resources. The adjustable output would also help control the flow of energy, making the process smoother and less prone to, well… potential maiming… though that would be more due to the energy getting cut-off while someone walked through.

I tugged at the strap of my pack, my mind racing as I imagined the possibilities. The teleportation device had been one of my previous life's greatest concepts, and had I been given the chance to create it back then… I could only imagine what else I could've made.

Plus, the thing was very hastily made in my rush to help Hugh, and was too large for anything other then a large teleportation frame, I want to eventually make it possible to create, move, and utilise portals like no ones business on the go, be it on battle or anywhere in general.

And with the core, that might actually be possible. As my magic would let me create it small enough to use in that manner, and the core with enough power would effectively give me THE 'portal gun' from Portal… that would be such a cool thing to own…

A faint smile tugged at my lips as I imagined the look on Hugh's face if he could see me now. He'd probably laugh, shake his head, and call me a reckless idiot. But I could also hear the pride in his voice, the way he'd mutter something about "finally using my head for more then crazy ideas." Not that his were any less crazy mind you.

The thought made me pause for a moment, staring down the dirt path ahead. I missed him—more than I liked to admit. But maybe, if I could pull this off, it'd feel like I was honoring everything he'd taught me.

"I will make it happen," I muttered, setting my sights on the distant rooftops of Oshibana. The sun was sinking lower now, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets as the town came into view. I could already hear the faint hum of activity from the train hub, the chatter of travelers and the occasional whistle of departing trains.

By the time I reached the edge of town, my mind was abuzz with ideas.

The sharp boom of an explosion ripped through the air, cutting my thoughts short. I froze mid-step, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as the sound echoed across the hillside. A split second later, a gust of wind rushed past me, carrying an acrid scent of smoke and the distant cry of wind whipping through the town.

"What the hell?" I muttered, squinting toward Oshibana.

From my vantage point on the hill, the rooftops of the town sprawled out below me, their orderly rows disrupted by of wind rising from the train hub. My stomach twisted as I followed the blast of wind to its source, my eyes widening at the sight of a shimmering barrier—a wall of wind encircling the entire train station. The barrier churned and twisted like a confined tornado, the currents moving so fast they blurred into a hazy dome.

"What the actual hell?" I said again, louder this time, my voice almost drowned out by another distant boom from the direction of the station.

The train station itself was barely visible through the barrier, its outline distorted by the swirling air. Shadows moved inside, small figures darting back and forth in frantic motion. There was another muffled explosion, and this time I saw a burst of flame near the base of the barrier, the light flickering briefly before vanishing into the swirling currents.

That's the end of the chapter folks! How exciting! Hopefully you all can tell where I'm placing Leon in this storyline as of now, and what did you all think of his encounter with Makarov?

Anyways Chapter question time! What kind of device (magical or tech) would you create with the Arc of Embodiment if you had it? Personally, I'd create some sort of mind enhancing device that powered up my brain to incredible levels.