The morning sun cast long shadows over the open field where Emery had set up his latest experiment. A dozen metal targets stood in the distance, their surfaces already dented from failed tests. His latest creation—a refined firearm—rested in his gloved hands. The air smelled of iron, oil, and sweat.
"Alright" Emery muttered, levelling the gun. His grip tightened as he exhaled slowly.
"Let's see what you can do."
The trigger clicked. A sharp crack split the air. The bullet struck the target but did little more than splinter the wood. Emery frowned.
Zafira stood behind him, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Not enough power."
He ignored the comment and immediately made adjustments, disassembling the chamber with practiced ease. The other disciples watched with curiosity and a hint of unease. Cultivation had always ruled the battlefield. To see destruction born without Qi—it unsettled them.
"Again" Emery ordered.
This time, when he pulled the trigger, the firearm roared. The bullet slammed into the target, obliterating it into splinters. The disciples staggered back, their murmurs turning to uneasy silence.
A second shot tore through reinforced steel, sending echoes across the training ground. The sheer force of it left deep cracks in the testing wall.
Zafira and Callum exchanged glances—realizing this weapon could change warfare forever.
Zafira, intrigued yet uneasy, asked, "Do you even understand what you've just created?"
Emery, tightening his grip on the weapon, whispered, "This is only the beginning."
Weeks of trial and error had led to this moment.
Emery wiped sweat from his brow, standing before the engine that had consumed his every waking thought. The machine—an intricate network of gears, pistons, and chambers—had refused to cooperate for too long. Now, with a final modification, he was ready.
He pulled the lever.
The engine shuddered before roaring to life, its metallic groan vibrating through the ground. Steam hissed from the pipes. The gears turned, trembling with effort. The noise was deafening.
And yet, something was wrong.
Emery narrowed his eyes, watching the machine struggle and shutting down. It was consuming fuel at an alarming rate, the heat dispersing inefficiently.
This was not true power. It was forced. Primitive. Wasteful.
He realizes: It's not about movement—it's about energy control.
He took a step back, rubbing his forehead
"No" he muttered. "This isn't it."
Before he could delve further, he turned off the engine.
Then Zafira strode into the room, arms crossed. "Your materials arrived."
Emery turned, momentarily snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"
She gestured to the crates stacked in the corner.
"The raw materials you wanted for your ''chalkboards''. Enough to cover every damn wall in this workshop once you put them together. You're lucky I agreed to this."
Emery's eyes lit up with renewed intensity. "Finally."
But the work had only just begun.
The materials were raw slate, unfinished, uncut. Creating a single usable chalkboard took a full month of trial and error, testing different sanding techniques, reinforcement frames, and mounting structures. Callum assisted relentlessly, cutting and refining slabs to match Emery's specifications while Zafira continued her daily inspections, ensuring their work remained funded. The weeks blurred together in sawdust and labour, their hands roughened from the process.
Finally, after months of gruelling work, stacks of completed boards filled the workshop, their dark surfaces smooth and pristine. Emery wiped sweat from his brow, taking a step back to admire the results.
"This is it." He turned to Zafira, who had been watching with a raised brow.
"You can sell the chalkboards to anyone you want now."
Zafira smirked, stepping forward. "Sell them, huh?"
She picked up a piece of chalk and, with exaggerated movements, began drawing on one of the freshly completed boards.
Emery squinted, his curiosity quickly turning into horror as the image took shape—his own face, but grotesquely exaggerated. His nose was comically large, his eyes wide and uneven, his mouth twisted into an absurd grin.
Callum took one look and burst into laughter, doubling over. "Oh gods, that's—That's awful!"
Emery's face flushed red. "Zafira, what in the fuck is that supposed to be?!"
"You" she said innocently, stepping back to admire her masterpiece.
"What do you think? A fine piece of art, isn't it?"
Before Emery could argue, some of Zafira's crew, drawn by the noise, wandered in. The moment they saw the drawing, they couldn't contain themselves, chuckling and egging each other on. Within moments, chalk was passed around, and soon the boards were filled with all manner of ridiculous doodles—some of Emery, others of Zafira and Callum in equally exaggerated fashion.
Emery groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as the workshop descended into chaotic amusement.
"I created these for science, not for—!"
Callum wiped a tear from his eye as he slung an arm around Emery's shoulder in a side hug.
"Emery, my friend, you've just given the world something even greater than knowledge. You've given us entertainment."
Emery, who normally despised physical contact, found himself not minding it—from Callum, at least. He simply sighed in disbelief, rubbing his forehead as laughter continued around him.
He turned to Zafira, expecting her usual smirk, but instead, she gave him a small nod of approval. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
His face heated slightly, and he looked away, "Tch. Whatever."
After the celebration died down, Emery found himself alone with Zafira and Callum in the engine room. The two stood behind him as he stepped forward, gripping the lever with tense fingers.
"Watch closely" he murmured.
With a deep breath, he pulled the lever.
The machine trembled, gears grinding against one another before, at last, a deep, guttural roar filled the room. Steam hissed from the pipes. The engine was alive.
Callum's mouth parted slightly in awe. "Emery… you did it."
Zafira exhaled through her nose, arms crossed but visibly impressed. "Not bad."
And yet, Emery only frowned.
He watched the pistons move, the heat escape in wasteful bursts. The engine worked, but it was flawed. Primitive. Inefficient. This wasn't power. This wasn't progress.
It was still caged fire.
Zafira glanced at him, noting the deep crease in his brow. "You look disappointed."
"Because I am" he admitted. "This isn't enough."
As the machine churned behind them, Zafira found herself lost in thought, staring at the rhythmic pulsing of the pistons. For a moment, she wasn't here—she was somewhere else, in the past.
Yasmina's voice echoed in her mind.
"Layla is different. She's reckless, yes, but she doesn't just want to fight—she wants to change things."
Zafira had scoffed back then. "Change things? War doesn't change. You either win or you die."
Yasmina had only smiled, eyes distant with admiration.
"Maybe. But if anyone could do it, it's her."
She hadn't just meant Layla's idealism—she also meant Layla's brutality.
Layla didn't simply fight wars; she ended them. There had been a battle, one where defeat was all but certain. Their forces were outnumbered, resources depleted, and morale shattered. And yet, Layla had turned the tide with sheer ruthlessness.
She had sent her own troops ahead as bait, luring the enemy into a false sense of victory. Then, under the cover of night, she burned their supply lines, poisoned their water, and left false retreat paths littered with traps. By dawn, the enemy army wasn't just defeated—they were annihilated.
Even Zafira had been shaken by the lengths Layla had gone to secure victory.
"She doesn't just seek to change things" Yasmina had murmured that night, watching the battlefield from the cliffs above.
"She's willing to become a monster to do it."
And now, standing before Emery—another mind consumed by progress—Zafira felt that same unease creep into her spine.
The memory faded, and Zafira's gaze flickered toward Emery.
Another mad genius chasing the impossible.