Dawn over the Eastern Plains was an assault of gold and scarlet, but it brought no warmth. The night's chill clung to Seiko like a damp shroud. He had barely slept, sitting with his back against the charred ruins, his useless knife in hand, while the Pawniard rested a few meters away—motionless as a statue of steel.
The Pokémon didn't seem to sleep. It merely watched. Its glowing red eyes sliced through the dim light, sweeping its surroundings in a slow, methodical rhythm.
'Discipline,' Seiko thought, rubbing the stiffness from his neck. 'A soldier Pokémon. Wounded, yet still standing guard. More of a soldier than any of my father's men ever were.'
He rose, muscles protesting from the cold and fatigue. Hunger knotted tight in his stomach.
"Alright," he said aloud, his voice rasping.
The Pawniard turned toward him, head tilting slightly. The copper-wire repair on its torso held firm.
"You and me. We need a plan." Seiko began pacing, speaking mostly to organize his own thoughts. "Priorities. One: drinkable water. Two: defensible shelter. Three: fire and food. Four: everything else."
He pointed at the Pokémon. "I'll call you Acies. It means 'edge' or 'battle line.' A name from… somewhere else."
The Pawniard—now Acies—simply watched him. There was no magical spark of understanding, no cheerful cry at hearing its name. Instead, there was assessment. Seiko wasn't giving orders like a master to a pet; he was stating facts. Acies seemed to find that acceptable and gave a short, sharp nod.
'Good. Respect built on competence. I can work with that.'
Water came first. The outpost wouldn't have been built far from it. Seiko ignored the ruined well—likely fouled by bodies or ash—and turned to his knowledge of geography. He searched for lower ground, following the line of greener vegetation.
Less than half a kilometer away, he found a stream. The water ran clear over smooth stones. Seiko fell to his knees and drank deeply; the cold bit at his teeth. Acies approached, dipped the tips of his metal claws, and, after a moment's suspicion, drank sparingly.
As he drank, Seiko's engineer's mind began to turn. The stream was swift—it had power. 'Waterwheel. Mill. Bellows forge. Later. Much later.'
He returned to the ruins, filled his own flask and one taken from a fallen scout. Water: secured.
"Priority two. Shelter."
The blackened ruins were a mess—emotionally draining, tactically foolish. Ground level. Exposed from every direction.
"We need the high ground," he muttered. He and Acies spent the next hour scouting the perimeter. The Plains weren't entirely flat; rocky outcrops and small hills dotted the landscape, remnants of ancient glacial moraines.
They found the perfect spot about a hundred meters from the stream: a small rise, perhaps ten meters high, with a granite ledge on its southern face. Beneath the ledge was a hollow—likely dug long ago by a hibernating Ursaring.
A natural shelter, though packed with debris and thick roots.
"Here," said Seiko, dropping his pack. "Defensible. Single entry point. Good visibility. Wind protection."
The problem was clearing it. The fallen rocks were too heavy, the roots as thick as his arm.
That was where the synergy began.
"Acies." He pointed to a particularly gnarled root. "I need this cut. Can you do it?"
Acies approached, assessing the target. The blades on his arms glimmered faintly—Fury Cutter.
Shnk—shnk—shnk.
The Pokémon moved with a speed Seiko wouldn't have believed possible for one so injured. Shards of wood flew through the air. In under a minute, the root Seiko would have needed a day to hack through was reduced to splinters.
"Impressive," Seiko said, genuine admiration in his tone. He pointed to a loose rock blocking the entrance. "I'll dig around it. When I say so—push. Use your steel claws."
He used his brittle iron knife—carefully, aware of its flaws—to dig out the packed earth around the rock's base. It was grueling, sweat-drenched work. While he dug, Acies stood at the entrance, a small, deadly statue, watching the plains.
Every few minutes, a metallic click came from Acies. Seiko learned it was a warning. He'd freeze, and they'd watch a herd of Blitzle pass in the distance or hear the hum of a Combee swarm. The Pawniard was a perfect early-warning system.
An hour later, Seiko stepped back. "Now."
Acies braced, his metal feet finding purchase. His claws gleamed—Metal Claw. He didn't strike the rock; he pushed, claws digging into cracks, and with a metallic groan, the stone rolled down the small slope.
They cleared the hollow. It was little more than a shallow cave—three meters deep, two wide—but it was dry. Safe.
"Good," Seiko panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Home sweet home."
Next came priority three: fire.
He had flint and steel in his pack—a gift from Elara that had likely saved his life—but an open campfire was inefficient and dangerous. It drew attention, wasted fuel.
He needed a forge.
Leaving Acies on watch, he went down to the stream again—not for water this time, but for clay. His historian's mind reminded him that slow-moving streams deposited fine sediment. Sure enough, he found a bed of gray-blue clay only a few meters from where he had drunk earlier.
He spent hours hauling heavy clumps of wet clay uphill. His hands were raw; his muscles screamed.
'This is engineering,' he thought bitterly as he dropped the final load. 'Not blueprints or grand machines. Just moving wet, heavy earth from one place to another.'
He chose a spot sheltered from the wind, just outside the cave's entrance, and began building his furnace. It wasn't a brick kiln—he didn't have the time. It was a pit forge.
He dug a hole about a meter deep (a miserable job with his knife and hands), then shaped the clay into a dome above it, leaving an opening at the top and a smaller vent at the base. It was an updraft furnace design—one humanity had used for ten thousand years.
Acies watched with an intensity bordering on confusion. To him, Seiko probably looked mad—mud-caked, digging feverishly.
As he worked, hunger gnawed at him. "Acies. Hunt. Food," Seiko said, miming the act of eating.
Acies seemed to understand. He slipped into the tall grass. Seiko held his breath. Alone. Vulnerable.
Ten minutes later, Acies returned. He dropped a dead Patrat at Seiko's feet—a single, clean cut to the neck. Quick. Efficient.
"Thank you," Seiko murmured, a surge of gratitude rising in him.
He skinned the Patrat with trembling hands, clumsy from hunger, and set the hide aside—he'd need it later.
While the clay furnace dried in the afternoon sun, he prepared his fuel. Wood wouldn't do—it burned too fast, too cool. He needed charcoal.
He gathered dry timber from the ruins, stacked it tightly, then covered it with turf and soil—an improvised charcoal clamp—and set it smoldering from beneath. The fire burned slow and smoky, the starved oxygen turning wood into nearly pure carbon.
As the charcoal cooked, Seiko tackled the final problem: air.
A furnace needed constant oxygen flow. Bellows were the obvious answer, but they required treated leather and fittings—things he didn't have.
'I can't make bellows,' he thought. 'But I can make a tuyere.'
He took more clay and carefully shaped a long, hollow tube. He baked it as best he could in a side fire, hardening it into crude ceramic.
By sunset, everything was ready.
The charcoal was done. The clay furnace dry to the touch. The tuyere—his ceramic air pipe—set into the lower opening.
"Alright," Seiko murmured.
He filled the pit with charcoal, lit a bit of tinder, and dropped it in. Then he knelt in front of the tuyere.
He drew a deep breath and blew.
It was hellish work. He blew until his chest ached and dark spots swam in his vision. The charcoal resisted—then glowed—and with a muffled whoosh, it caught.
A cone of blue-white heat roared from the furnace's mouth.
'Gods, it worked,' Seiko thought, nearly laughing with relief.
The heat inside climbed—far hotter than any campfire. Hot enough to soften metal.
Carefully, using two thick sticks as tongs, he took the broken sword blade he'd salvaged from the ruins—the brittle, useless Heinar steel—and placed it into the furnace's blazing heart.
Acies, drawn by the heat, watched the metal vanish into the glow.
Seiko kept blowing, feeding the fire. The metal began to shine—first red, then orange, then a blinding yellow.
He pulled it out and laid it on the flat rock they'd used as a lever. With another stone as a hammer, he began to strike.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The sound of metal on metal echoed across the silent plains—a sound not heard here in a thousand years.
He wasn't forging a sword. He was burning out impurities. Reworking.
Heat, hammer, quench. Repeat. His arms screamed with each strike. He wasn't following Heinar tradition; he was following metallurgy itself—recarbonizing, normalizing the grain.
By the end, after what felt like eternity, he didn't have a sword.
He had a solid, well-tempered iron bar.
It was ugly, pitted with hammer marks.
And it was the most beautiful thing Seiko had ever seen.
He collapsed backward, exhausted, covered in sweat and soot. The bar hissed faintly beside him as it cooled.
Acies stepped forward, tapping the iron with the tip of a claw. It rang sharp and clear—a strong sound.
The Pokémon looked at Seiko. The confusion in its eyes was gone. What remained was respect.
Seiko lifted the bar. It was heavy. Real. The first tool.
"My father sent me here to die," Seiko whispered to the night sky, where the stars were beginning to bloom. "Instead, he gave me the materials."
He looked at the furnace, still glowing fiercely—a beacon of industry in the vast, wild plain.
"This is the first stone of a new age."