Hours passed. Meanwhile, in another bath, Victor had consumed a small, white pill, and was currently coughing up black sludge, which not only didn’t foul the water, it dissolved in seconds, so potent was the water - or perhaps so weak was his impurity, or perhaps both. Jorfr basked in the water and the wholehearted belief that soon his own home’s baths would be filled with this miraculous water. The northman had promised Victor to watch over him for as long as it took, just as Zelsys had done for him. When questioned by one of the Bjorns, he simply half-lied that the boy had been teetering on the edge of a breakthrough for a while and that it had only been a matter of time.

As such, only Zel and Zef returned to the longhouse.

Several days passed.

During Zel’s second visit, she undermined Ingvald’s sanity even more than she had the last time.

“...Primary Spring or no, this is still further along than any reasonable estimation,” he grumbled, gently tapping away at her arm with a small hammer, causing scales of green to fall onto the anvil. “Even with your Beast Self fully cooperating, even with the Bjorn baths’ mild time dilation… There must be another factor speeding up the process.”

His old eyes turned to her. She just pulled out her Tablet and showed him her Special Traits list.

“Details, second from the top.”

Osmotic Essentia Absorption; the trait allowing her to benefit from the water’s contents actively, aggressively even. She willed it so. He furrowed his brow but said nothing.

“Third from the top.”

Metabolic Alkahest; the means by which she was able to break down and fully utilize everything she took in.

“Hrrmm… Yes, that would explain it…” he grumbled. “Just keep coming back every other day and we’ll see how you’re coming along. At this rate it won’t be long before I take the hammer to you properly. Honestly, I’m surprised that you hadn’t done this type of reinforcement earlier…”

He gestured at her neck scar.

“Besides those, I mean.”

“Ingvald, need I remind you that I am less than a year old?” Zel excused half-jokingly.

“That excuse won’t work on me, missy. I’ve seen white-haired dead-men-walking go into seclusion for a couple years and come out looking like fresh-faced teenagers with rock-solid cultivation foundations ready to go and no worse than some memory gaps to show for it, just like you came outta the tank. By the ancestors, you didn’t exactly come out of the tank not knowing how to walk or talk, did you?”

“...True,” she admitted.

“Alright, take your arm off the anvil, I’ll return in a moment,” he said, and that was exactly what happened. Ingvald returned with several objects; in his right another wooden box, atop it stacked large and very nice bullet-molds as well as a tankard of mead. In his left hand was a tray with several crucibles, each filled with a glittering bronze powder. Setting down these supplies and taking a seat at his anvil, he took a crucible in his right hand and the limb’s many creases began emanating a soft blue glow as well as terrible heat. “You said you had something to talk about, what is it? I can tell that you’ve been waiting for an opportunity since you came in.”

“I do not think that it would be a good idea to speak of it while you have that much molten bronze in your hand.”

“My hands are the steadiest in all of Borea. You could try to kill me right this second and I would not spill an iota of what is in this crucible. Speak,” he growled, genuinely insulted by the mere implication that words could make him spill anything. He reached for his mead, taking a drink. Its colour and sweet scent indicated a low alcohol content.

“Do you think that the tails of the sapdragon Eisengeist are tipped with metal of similar or superior properties to that which is found within the heart of a Fallen Star? For the purpose ” she asked plainly.

Ingvald double-took, choking on his drink and coughing. Not only did he not spill any of the just-molten bronze in the crucible, his hand remained utterly stable, unlike his body. It looked downright uncanny.

“Yough… Eegheugh… If there is anything I think to be impossible for you, it would be slaying Eisengeist - even with a blade wrought from the core of a Fallen Star. It’s a proper Dragon Descendant, beyond the reach of all but the strongest of this era. I reckon it might stand to give the Divine Emperor a decent fight.”

“...I don’t understand. Eisengeist has three eyes. I have battled and defeated a man empowered by a five-eyed dragon’s Dragonstone. As I am aware, more eyes means more power no matter the size.”

“You speak of Ten Billion Fathoms, a five-eyed dragon which was one of Tian Feng's strongest allies in his war against the Three Kings; the so-called Dragon of Arches, that beast which battled and mutually struck down one of Koschei the Immortal’s Titans. I heard of the battle, that the Dragon was buried and left unharvested in the apocalyptic consequences of the Three Kings Era’s dusk days. Between that and the city’s Order of the Dragon, I would surmise that the beast was left near-death after the battle and used its Dragonstone to keep itself alive, while the Hoedorff dynasty assisted in its survival in exchange for drawing on its waning power. If its eye was finally taken, then whoever harnessed it likely knew not how to do so properly - and no wonder, such a thing requires true expertise. It’s a miracle such a man even gained any benefit from the attempt,” the blacksmith replied.

He poured out the crucible into one mold and moved onto the next, continuing to speak as well: “Eisengeist is anything but a corpse. Wounded and partly blinded, certainly, but after nearly eighty years of hibernation in the jungle’s nourishing environment, he is at worst at seven-tenths of his peak strength. You do not have the strength to do battle with him. You also do not possess the clout to pull together a sufficient force to take him on, and even if you did, you would not be able to stake enough of a claim to take even one tenth of one tail-blade.”