When Ripley woke up, the first thing he did was look out the window to tell the time. He saw the setting sun pierce through the clouds, its rays painting the idyllic town a shade of orange. A large sign read “Thanks for visiting Outpost!”, which meant he was facing the front gate of the town. Ripley had a lot of fond memories of the town, despite living like a recluse for the most part.

“I’m back!” Marlowe entered the room with a meal tray on hand. “Here you go. Just sit right down and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

But just as Marlowe was about to tell Ripley some news, the latter interrupted.

“Remember the festival ceremony? You know, where we’re supposed to pick our jobs and all?”

“Yeah, you held up the line because you couldn’t decide what job you were gonna take, so you settled for smithing. What else were you supposed to choose? It’s your family profession! Anyway, why did you bring it up all of a sudden?”

“It’s not often that I come to Outpost to hang out with you and talk about stuff. You know, living here might not be so bad. I’ll try not to bother you too much.”

“Whoa, wait a second. You’re getting all sentimental there, Rip!”

Ripley’s goggled friend tried to break the gloomy atmosphere.

“Oh, yeah! I just remembered. The Blue Army had finally made their move. They have sent their armies moving across the border. Also, from what I heard, they’re also looking for new recruits. Do you know what that means, Ripley? It means I can finally escape this boring town and go get to see the Capital! Pretty amazing news, huh?”

“It’s not that amazing. You don’t know what I’ve been through to get here.”

“Really?”

“I saw them from atop. They were marching in this long line. And they brought two Behemoths with them. I didn’t like the sound of it.”

“Wow, Behemoths?! Those hulking masses of metal that walk on two legs? That’s crazy! I mean, we don’t have the firepower to combat them, and we’re not housing any Shorin refugees. Why would they bring those weapons?”

“I don’t know. But anyway, I told my father about them, and something changed in him, like he’d been waiting for them to come. He hurried and kept all our stuff, all the weapons we’ve been making. I tried to ask him about his connection to the Blue Army, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said I wasn’t ready yet.”

“Come to think of it, the Blue Army might have approached your dad because they probably needed more smiths for their weapons, right? Oh wait, your dad probably worked for them before.”

“I thought so too, but for some reason he didn’t want to join them. He told me to escape and-“

Ripley was about to tell his confidante about the box he was carrying, but he stopped himself and changed the subject a little.

“I ran and ran, and the next minute, I heard an explosion. I don’t know what happened back there, but all I know is that the Blue Army had used their Behemoth cannons. I’m concerned about my father. He might have been caught in it, or he might have been taken by them.”

And tears started to well in Ripley’s eyes once more.

“So are you just gonna stay in my bunk and bawl your eyes out, like you always do to every problem you have?” Marlowe chided. “This isn’t like that. Face reality, man! What would your dad say if he sees you like that?”

“But he’s not here anymore!” Ripley shouted, balling his still injured hand. “You wouldn’t know what it feels like to lose a parent! You don’t even have one!”

“That, I can admit. But that’s right. I don’t know. But grieving’s not gonna get you anywhere! We don’t even know whether your dad’s dead. And even if he’s alive, I don’t think the Blue Army’s gonna kill him. He’s a smith, after all, and they’re better off using his talents. At least, that’s what I think.”

With his friend’s sentiment, Ripley dried his eyes. “You’re right. Thanks for getting my head straight.”

“I did what I could, Rip, and I’m glad I helped.”

The young smith had trusted the goggled youth since they forged their bond of friendship, and that bond was still holding for as long as they could remember. Ripley saw his best friend as the closest thing he had to family, aside from his father who was mostly a stern figure.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” he asked.

“I haven’t really thought it through, but there’s a lot I want to know.”

Ripley took out the box and put it on his lap, which caused Marlowe’s eyes to shine like diamonds.

“Ooh, a shiny! What’s inside?!”

“I haven’t opened it yet, and I don’t think I should. Father’s wish.”

“Aw, what’s the harm in that? Locked boxes are meant to be opened, you know.”

“And there’s a reason they’re locked in the first place. But knowing you, I should probably open it anyway, since you’ll just annoy me to no end. Just not here.”

“I guess you’re right. I think I know the perfect place to open it,” said the goggled youth. “Let’s go to the research facility and see what we can find out.”

“Isn’t it just some hole in the ground you just for one of your pets?”

“Not that research facility! And that was a grave!”

The two exited the Palmetto and entered one of the shacks that litter the town. Marlowe took one of the wooden floorboards, revealing a set of stairs that led to a room larger than the original shack. A large table sat at the center of the room, and the walls were littered with a bunch of maps and other scraps of paper that held some sort of information. There were also shelves filled with, aside from books, dust and cobwebs, as well as some fixtures that collected the same.

This was the Research Facility, and the two discovered it a few months ago, when Marlowe was chased around town for some stolen fruit. Ripley thought it was more appropriate to call it the War Room, but Marlowe claimed ownership, thus staking the naming rights.

“So,” Ripley asked, “where are the lockpicks?”

“Hold on. They’re probably right here,” Marlowe replied and dug under the overalls until a metal ring holding an assortment of keys was found, and he casually tossed it to the boy holding the box.

The box, in question, was an ornate-looking case made of wood, with the Bulwark emblem carved on the hinged lid. Its construction was solid and clearly not meant to be opened forcefully, as Ripley and Marlowe were trying to do.

The first thing Ripley did was slip a lockpick into the keyhole, and jiggle it a bit, hoping the motion would trigger the lock and open the box. But after 6 broken lockpicks, Marlowe took over. After half an hour of lockpicking, he threw in the towel.

“That’s the last of it,” said the lockpick expert in a frustrated manner. “34 broken lockpicks, 7 broken knives, and not an opened box.”

“Is the locking mechanism really that intricate?” asked the owner of the box.

“Even when forced, it wouldn’t budge. Why don’t we just break it? It’s easier.”

“You’re just mad it broke all most of your collection.”

“I sure am!” And Marlowe threw the box to the ground in a fit of rage. But something weird happened as it hit the floor.

A shockwave threw the two across the room and knocked the air out of their lungs.

“Whoa, what happened?”

“You know what, Marlowe? This isn’t just some random box. The lock is actually enforced with magic.”

“No kidding. How else did it knock us off?!”

The pair stood up and approached the wooden box, which was now emanating a wispy blue glow.

“Must have been a barrier spell set on the box to prevent it from getting broken,” Ripley mused. “Father wasn’t really kidding about not opening it.”

“First it broke most of my lockpicks, and now it broke most of my ribs! What’s it gonna break next, I wonder?!”

“Take it easy. I’m trying to figure something.”

“Good luck on that,” Marlowe commented, “or it’s probably gonna break your head next.”

“Most spells are far from perfect,” thought Ripley out loud. “Only the Goddess is able to cast perfect magic, which means this spell can be sabotaged.”

Ripley pondered on the use of a spell on the box. Magic, in and of itself, used to exist in myth for the most part, and in those tales, the Goddess was said to be the sole proprietor of magic, turning the once barren Earth into a green paradise.

In recent time, which was at least one hundred years ago, the Goddess decided to imbue the gift of magic to mankind before disappearing, but they are far from reaching the level of skill she was able to do. In other words, only a select few can truly cast magic beyond the simplest spells.

The young smith was actually taught by his father about magic, as it was a necessary craft to learn, according to him. They even went as far as covering lattice-matrix patterns and whatever foreign-sounding term it was to the layman, but all he can ever master was a strengthen spell and a barrier spell.

Which was exactly what the spell on the lock was, and he knew what to do.

“I’m gonna need some liquid mana for this. I’m going to overload the spell circuit on this lock.”

“What?!” Marlowe gasped. “But it’s dangerous! You know how volatile liquid mana is when exposed to the air!”

“I know what I’m doing. You do have a vial on you, right?”

Marlowe hesitated, but after some deliberation, he reached into the overalls to pick up a vial of glowing blue liquid. Ripley doubted that his friend had any liquid mana, or anything magic-related for that matter, but he didn’t care as long as the needed material was on hand. Besides, Marlowe was an expert thief. Who knows what’s under the baggy overalls?

Ripley then slowly poured the viscous liquid on the box, and the reason for Marlowe’s worries were becoming obvious. As he said, liquid mana evaporates when exposed to air, creating aether, which wasn’t a dangerous gas. But often, the liquid evaporates so fast that it would cause an explosion, and an aether explosion can cause burns more serious than a normal burn.

As Ripley poured, he prayed to the Goddess for forgiveness, as he was about to tarnish the ritual it took to create the spell. Electric sparks started to fly as the drops of mana landed on the lock, which was starting to glow hot. He hesitated for a few seconds to stabilize the reaction before pouring some more, until a sound of breaking glass could be heard, indicating that the vial was empty, followed by a fizzling sound, indicating the deactivation of the spell.

His handiwork was shoddy. Burn marks could be seen on the box, signs of the reaction of volatile chemicals. Marlowe emerged from the improvised hiding spot that was the bookshelf, and Ripley sat down, shoulders slumped as the work had finally been done.

“Did that do it?” asked Marlowe sheepishly.

“I think so,” was Ripley’s reply, still gasping for breath. “That took some concentration. It was a mid-tier, three-layered barrier spell. I was afraid that one vial might not be enough.”

“Good thing you only needed that one small tube. It took me five whole weeks to refine.”

“But you still have more on you, right?”

“I’m not giving you any more than what you’ve asked. I was gonna sell these for a fortune! And now, I’m one vial short of a dozen!”

The place smelled of ozone and fresh alcohol, the aroma wafting through their noses. The blue glow on the box was getting fainter and fainter by the second.

“What are you waiting for?” Marlowe was getting excited. “Go on, open it!”

“What do you think this is, my birthday?” Ripley joked and carefully reached for the lid, as it was still hot from the reaction.

Inside the now-ruined box was a burnt envelope and a piece of cloth that was covering an object. When Ripley took off the cloth, he could find below the object a bunch of documents. But the documents and the envelope were the least of their concerns. It was the contraption at the center.

“What is that? A hammer?”

“Looks too strange for a hammer.”

The hammer had a curved head, a complex mechanism, and a hollow handle. For something as strange as a pocketwatch, Ripley and Marlowe didn’t think that this was a child’s toy or a smith’s tool. Stumped as to what the object was for, they set it aside and reached for the paperwork.

“Why would father hide a clockwork hammer from the Blue Army?”

“You should read the letter first. It says Nightjar on it,” Marlowe suggested.

Ripley took the envelope’s contents, and sure enough, Marlowe was right. It’s a letter addressed to him, and it read as followed:

To Ripley:

If you’re reading this letter, it means two things,

One, that I have failed to protect the one thing that I had sworn to protect, and two, that you disobeyed me.

I was supposed to give you this as a gift in your inaugural ceremony. I wanted to congratulate you for turning into a working-class citizen the moment you decided to become a Nightjar smith. But I felt that you still were not up to the challenge. Your musclework leaves a lot to be desired, and your skills in the martial arts and smithing business need polish.

But now, in the worst possible time, the Blue Army had decided to take me back, in order to complete my service to the kingdom. All my life I have worked for the Bulwark, but after the death of your mother, I decided to leave them to raise you, my son. I hope I did my best as a father.

There’s some documents that I placed in this very box, as well as a tool, a relic from a bygone era. Use it as you will. However, you must not let anyone else get their hands on it, for it will forever change everything you know about the world. Or maybe you already know…

“A relic from a bygone era? Does that mean anything to you?” Ripley turned to his companion, who was busy reading the documents that were scattered on the floor.

“No,” he said. “But after reading this manual, I know exactly what that hammer thing is. For one thing, it’s not a hammer.”