The sky had not changed color, yet I could feel their eyes. The air itself grew heavy, pressing down on my chest as if daring me to breathe. It was subtle at first—shadows stretching longer than they should, faint murmurs carried in the wind—but I knew what it was. The gods had heard me. And if the Watchers were bound to silence, then Heaven would not be.
But it wasn't the first time I had defied them. In my past life, it became routine. They would send someone or something to remind me that I had overstepped.
The day had blurred into motion—supply runs, oaths, and Maeve's shadow watching from above. I hadn't slept properly since returning, but rest could wait. I had work to do. Preparing for The End was one thing; preparing for the war against the Heavens was another.
Securing food and reclaiming Maeve were done. Now for the crucial resource.
I stopped before a hardware shop tucked near the station. Forgettable from the outside, nearly invisible if you weren't looking for it. I had found it late in my last life, a month after The End began, stripped bare. Yet the pair of knives I'd scavenged there had kept me alive longer than I realized. This time, I was here early.
The shop was exactly as I remembered it. Sandwiched between a shuttered café and a closed bookstore, its sign faded, windows dull with dust. Dusk settled over Day Three. Only eight days remained.
Maeve's voice stirred beside me, curious. "I understand the need for tools. But why this forgotten place in particular?"
I pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed faintly, and the air smelled of oil, rust, and old wood. "This shop doesn't look like much," I said. "But almost everything here is handmade. And the iron used comes from the Hashino Iron Mine in Iwate."
Maeve tilted her head. She sounded less curious and more intrigued. "You and your obscure details again. One day, you'll explain how your mind works."
"I found a survivor's ledger in my last life," I said, leaning against a workbench. "Hashino ore topped the list of places to scavenge. Back then, I didn't believe it mattered. I learned the hard way that it did."
Before she could press further, a small, stooped man appeared from behind the counter. His cardigan was frayed at the elbows, and his voice was steady but thin. "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"
"I'm looking for tools for a long camping trip," I said plainly. "But I need them made of iron from the Hashino Iron Mine."
The old man blinked, studying me. After a pause, he nodded slowly. "Not many ask for that anymore. But I keep a few things. Wait here."
He disappeared into the back. I began to explain the metal's importance to Maeve, folding the lore into my inner monologue:
When The End begins, the world shifts. Things we thought immutable will bend. Iron will be first—it always is. What comes out of the ground after that day won't be what went in. It becomes Black Iron: stronger, sharper, denser. It will be the backbone of survival, and those who control it will control the future.
The old man returned with a small wooden crate, setting it gently on the counter. Inside were tools—hammers, chisels, knives, nails—each forged by hand. Their edges were dark with age, but I could feel it already: a faint vibration beneath my fingertips, like a heartbeat—dormant, waiting for the world to break before waking.
Maeve leaned closer, her voice quiet. "They don't look special."
"They aren't," I said softly. "Not yet."
I picked up a hunting knife, perfectly balanced despite its crude appearance. In my last life, this same knife had cut through flesh, bone, even stone once the change came.
"These are old stock," the shopkeeper said, clearing his throat. "Forged by my grandfather. Few customers these days want hand-forged iron. If you truly need them, I'll sell them at half price."
"I'll take everything in this crate," I said. Then, after a pause: "And anything else you still have in the back, regardless of its usefulness."
"The things I don't need can be reforged into something I do," I commented to Maeve. "It's simple logic."
The shopkeeper's brows rose, but he shuffled away again, muttering about rare customers.
Maeve crossed her arms, studying me with a slow smile. "You're stocking up like we're going to war tomorrow."
I met her gaze. "That's because we are. When the world learns what this metal really is, there'll be blood in the streets over it. Better I secure it now while no one else knows."
Her lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile, sensing the profound advantage this knowledge provided. "Then let's not waste the chance."
When the old man returned, he carried more tools wrapped in cloth and bundles of dull spare blades. Ordinary things for ordinary lives. But then he placed one more item on the counter, wrapped in a long strip of faded cloth.
"I don't usually show this," he said, unrolling it carefully. "Not many know what to do with it."
He revealed a straight-edged blade—shorter than a katana, longer than a tanto. A chokutō.
Maeve arched an eyebrow. "A sword? From a hardware shop?"
"Commission piece," the old man said. "The buyer never returned for it. Been here ever since."
I tested the weight. It was heavier than I preferred, the balance rough, but the blade was honest, unpolished. The weight was familiar, painfully so. For a heartbeat, it felt like greeting an old comrade across lifetimes.
"It'll do," I said, sliding it back into its scabbard. "Add it to the lot."
"Planning to turn into a samurai now?" Maeve teased.
I shook my head. "Just so you remember, I also used a sword like this one as my primary weapon. Mastery over this particular type of weapon was one of the reasons I earned my title. And when the change comes, this blade will not stay silent when the sky shatters. I will give it purpose again."
I set it aside with the other tools. Just another purchase for now. But in the back of my mind, I knew—sooner or later, this sword would be at the center of every battle I fought in the times to come.