Zeke immediately sharpened his senses, scanning his surroundings for the person Akasha had alerted him to. However, the task proved more difficult than expected. His Sphere of Awareness was flooded with hundreds of individuals, each moving about with their own purpose. Sifting through them all would take far too long.
Just as he considered another approach, a glowing blue arrow materialized in front of him, pointing the way.
Without hesitation, Zeke followed the path the Spirit had laid out. He weaved through the bustling streets, passing merchants hawking their wares and shoppers lost in conversation. Turning down a narrow side street, he finally came to a stop in front of a modest shop with a weathered wooden sign: Rodrick's Repairs.
The glowing arrow remained fixed, unmistakably pointing toward the shop's entrance.
Zeke narrowed his eyes, wondering who—or what—awaited him inside. Only one way to find out.
He pushed open the door, the soft jingle of bells announcing his arrival.
"Greetings, dear custom—" A stout dwarf behind the counter began his usual welcome, but his words faltered the moment his gaze landed on Zeke. His bushy brows shot up in surprise. "Oh my, if it isn't the Heir von Hohenheim. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Zeke barely acknowledged the dwarf, his attention sweeping across the room. The shelves were packed with mechanical trinkets, gears, and half-finished contraptions, but none of the occupants stood out to him. Yet the glowing arrow—his ever-reliable guide—remained fixed, pointing past the cluttered workspace toward a door in the back of the shop.
Whoever he was meant to find was beyond that door.
"Greetings," Zeke said, mindful not to leave the man waiting too long. His gaze remained fixed on the door at the back of the shop. "May I ask what's behind that door?"
The dwarf blinked at the unexpected question but answered without hesitation. "That's my workshop."
Zeke scratched the back of his head, knowing his next request would seem odd. But curiosity gnawed at him, and he couldn't ignore the arrow's guidance. "Would it be possible for me to take a look inside?"
The dwarf hesitated for a moment, stroking his thick beard as he considered the request. It wasn't every day that someone asked to inspect his private workshop—especially not a man of Zeke's renown. But reputation had its perks, and after a brief pause, he gave a good-natured shrug.
"Well, I don't see the harm." He turned toward one of his attendants. "Sally, dear, show the young lord around the workshop for a moment, will you?"
A dwarven girl, freckles dusting her cheeks and twin braids bouncing with each step, nodded eagerly. "Alright, Pa!" she chirped, then turned to Zeke with an excited grin. Motioned for him to follow, she practically skipped toward the back of the shop.
Zeke followed without hesitation, his focus shifting between her and the glowing arrow, which now pulsed faintly—likely signaling that he was close to his target.
Sally pushed open the door and immediately launched into an enthusiastic explanation. "This is our workshop," she said, waving an arm to gesture at the bustling space. "Right now, we've got three master craftsmen—one at the forge, one at the enchantment tables, and one working on fine mechanics. Each of them has three apprentices in training, so there are nine in total…"
Zeke listened with half an ear, his attention drawn to the workshop itself. The space was alive with activity—the rhythmic clang of hammers, the soft scratches of enchantments being carved into metal, and the sharp hiss of quenching steel. It wasn't hard to tell who the masters were; their movements were precise, honed by years of experience. The apprentices, in contrast, showed their inexperience in subtle ways—the occasional hesitation before a strike, the slightly uneven engravings on enchanted pieces.
Even so, there was an unmistakable air of craftsmanship here. Every movement, even the clumsy ones, was driven by a deep-rooted dedication to the craft. This was undoubtedly a serious establishment with talented staff.
However, one figure stood out among the rest—not due to exceptional skill or mastery, but simply because he was the only human in a room full of dwarves.
Seated at a workstation clearly built for someone shorter, the young man was hunched over, his long fingers carefully adjusting the intricate gears and cogs of an unfinished construct. His entire focus was locked onto the mechanism before him, oblivious to the world around him.
Zeke came to an abrupt halt, his breath catching. His eyes fixed on the familiar silhouette, and for a moment, everything else faded—the clang of hammers, the hum of enchantments, the murmur of dwarven voices. It was as if time itself had stopped.
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The young man, as if sensing Zeke's gaze, slowly lifted his head. Their eyes met, and a jolt shot down Zeke's spine.
Dark, curly hair. A straight nose. A jaw that looked as though it had been carved from granite. There was no mistaking him. How could Zeke not recognize the person before him—the one who had once been his closest friend, someone who still held an irreplaceable place in his heart?
"Markus…" he breathed.
For a long, suffocating moment, silence stretched between them. Then, at last, Markus spoke—but his words were not a greeting. They were a blade, honed to cut deep.
"Ezekiel of Feldstadt. Shame of Hohenheim. Betrayer of Arkanheim." His voice was devoid of emotion, each title delivered with quiet finality.
Zeke swallowed dryly. Never in his life would he have imagined their reunion unfolding like this. He had braced himself for awkwardness, maybe even resentment—but outright condemnation? It was as if Markus had been completely swallowed by the empire's propaganda, his mind poisoned against him.
His mouth opened, ready to defend himself, to explain what had truly happened. But before he could utter a single word, Markus continued.
"…And my dear friend and brother that I have missed so dearly."
At those last words, his grim expression finally cracked, giving way to the warm, heartening smile Zeke had never forgotten—the smile of the childhood friend he had once known.
Zeke closed the distance in a single bound, moving with the speed and precision only a Grandmage could achieve. To any onlooker, it must have seemed as if he had simply vanished. Before Markus could even process what was happening, Zeke's arms were already wrapped around him in a fierce embrace, holding him tight.
For years, Zeke had forced himself to stay away, never reaching out, never checking in—not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. Any contact with his old friends would have painted a target on their backs. He had no choice but to bury his concern, to pretend indifference while the weight of uncertainty gnawed at him.
But only he knew the torment of those years. The endless worry, the sleepless nights spent wondering if those he had once called family were safe. He had left them behind, abandoned them to the mercy of his greatest enemy, praying they would be seen as insignificant, praying they would be spared.
Seeing Markus again—alive, unharmed, still chasing his dream—felt like the greatest relief Zeke could have hoped for. It was as if a weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying had finally been lifted.
"I don't mean to rain on yer parade, lads," a gruff voice cut in, "but that converter needs fixin' within the hour, and we're already behind schedule."
Zeke's first instinct was to snap at the interruption, irritated that someone would dare get in the way of this long-awaited reunion. But he caught himself almost immediately. The dwarf who had spoken was one of the three masters—likely Markus' mentor. Antagonizing him would accomplish nothing and might even create trouble for his friend.
More importantly, the man wasn't wrong. Zeke was the one who had barged into their workspace and disrupted their work. It wasn't fair to hold that against him.
Markus, too, looked sheepish at the reprimand, clearly aware that he was in the wrong but unsure how to respond. His expression, now so familiar to Zeke, made him easy to read—he was caught between his responsibilities and the overwhelming urge to catch up with his oldest friend.
For a moment, Zeke considered whether he could resolve this dilemma by leveraging his reputation or offering monetary compensation. However, he quickly dismissed the idea. If this job required the combined efforts of the entire team—including the masters—then it was clearly of great importance. No amount of gold or influence would make them abandon their duty. Their client was likely someone they couldn't afford to disappoint.
Fortunately, Zeke had another option. His eyes swept across the workshop, taking in the scattered components. Though he didn't recognize every individual part, it didn't take him long to deduce what they were assembling—a mechanical force converter.
His gaze settled on the component Markus had been working on. It was the gearbox, the crucial piece responsible for translating raw energy into usable motion. A complex mechanism, to be sure, but not beyond his understanding. Once the principle was grasped, it was just a matter of precise adjustments.
"Akasha," Zeke called out inwardly. "Handle it."
Without a word, Akasha sprang into action. Zeke felt a noticeable drain on his Core as she amplified her cognitive abilities and wielded telekinesis simultaneously. At one time, such a strain would have pushed his limits—but after his recent advancement, it was nothing more than a tickle.
The blue tendrils sprouting from his Core, forming a magical exoskeleton around his brain, pulsed with energy as he unleashed his Mind Magic without restraint. The speed of analysis and execution was something a True Mage could only dream of.
The impact was immediate.
The gearbox Markus had been struggling with suddenly came alive in a flurry of motion. Brushes swept away grime, a chisel refined the edges, and microscopic imperfections were filled with pinpoint precision. Even a master with a dozen hands couldn't have matched Akasha's efficiency. In mere moments, the component was fully restored—gleaming, pristine, and ready for use.
All movement in the workshop came to an abrupt halt as every dwarf stared, slack-jawed, at his handiwork. It was as if they were questioning their very purpose.
But Zeke wasn't finished. His gaze shifted to the next component. Akasha needed no further instruction—she continued seamlessly, restoring each piece one after another. Gears were cleaned, cracks mended, and worn parts reforged with pinpoint precision. At this time, she was working the forge, the enchantment table, and the smithy at the same time.
Within minutes, the entire project was complete.
By now, a bead of sweat had formed on Zeke's brow. The first repair had been effortless, but repeating the process nearly a dozen times had taken a toll. The strain on his mind and body was immense.
Even so, it had been worth it.
The dwarves remained frozen, their hands now idle, eyes locked onto the fully assembled device as if struggling to reconcile what they had just witnessed. Even the masters, seasoned and unshakable, seemed at a loss for words.
Zeke allowed himself a moment to bask in their stunned silence before clearing his throat. With all the humility he could muster—despite the undeniable smugness threatening to creep into his voice—he turned to the dwarf who had interrupted earlier.
"Would it be possible to borrow Markus for a while, sir?" he asked, his tone carefully polite, though the satisfaction in his eyes was impossible to hide.