WebNovels

Onyx Arms

HeWhoChops
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
--
NOT RATINGS
8.9k
Views
Synopsis
In the lawless Emerald Frontier, the strongest Mechanica wins. Bandits and outlaws rule the land with these powerful weapons, while rumors of a rebel army threaten the Godhand's grip on the globe. Flung into a web of conflict, a reckless onyxsmith named Dwarven must decide who he forges weapons for-and who he becomes a weapon to.
VIEW MORE

Chapter 1 - Prologue-The Long Road Ahead

Episode 1: Prologue

The Emerald Frontier. A wide, lawless expanse where young guns carve their names in smoke and blood, chasing legends like Black Jackson. But even out here, the long shadow of the Godhand falls heavy. 

From their home in the Reach, They've tried to bring the frontier to heel, but the land runs wild—bandits on the roads, outlaws in the hills, and rumors of a small rebel army rising in the south, threatening to tear the Godhand's grip apart. 

To stamp out the fire, they've called in hired killers—the Vipers, a private army meaner than most militias. Their aim? Tereliva. Jewel of the south. Free city-state. And guardian of one of the greatest power sources in the world.

The Godhand means to take it, no matter the cost.

But what they call rabble may be far more than they realize—

and the Frontier's got a mean way of biting back.

The Border town Tyla's tiers clung to Tereliva's mountain-like ribs, stacked high above the beach below. Pearl-stone walls glared in the sun, alleys wound like veins, and saltwater smell rolled up from the surf. Life bustled across bridges and stairwells, but the city's core was sour.

High in one crooked alley, a body swayed from an iron beam. A Viper—the snake insignia on his coat still visible. Civilians passing beneath spoke in hushed tones.

"Heard that's the last one of 'em."

"Without the Vipers, who's gonna protect us from the Shriek?"

"Good riddance… but now we're the ones paying. The don't care about us, just Tereliva."

Their voices dimmed as a tall man strode under the corpse. Broad shoulders under a poncho, two heavy bags at his sides, dreads swinging, eyes hidden behind round shades. He moved without hurry, boots steady through shadowed streets until he stopped before a sign creaking in the salt wind: Fox's Workshop. He looked farther up at the top of building at the high reaching mechanical collector tower drawing luzid energy into it, the green particles filling the power crevices in the tower. 

Inside, the air stank of oil and hot metal. An old smith sat behind a cluttered bench, squinting at the stranger who laid a hammer across the wood. Its head was blackened, peeling, streaked with burn scars.

"I need it repaired. Got a forge I can use?" the man asked.

The smith turned the hammer over, brow furrowed. "Saints, this thing's cooked through. You really did a number on it. But no—my forge is mine alone."

The man dropped a heavy bag of Krits onto the bench. "I'll pay double."

"You could pay triple, but no man touches my forge but me," the smith shot back.

The stranger studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Fair enough. Keep the payment—just handle my baby with care."

The onyxsmith snorted, pulling the hammer closer for inspection. "This'll take an hour or two." He ran a thumb over the blackened head. "I've got Mercury metal I can use. Reinforce the head proper, keep the blunt force strong."

"No," the man said, voice firm. "It has to be Mars metal."

The smith frowned, bristling. "Mars? That's fire-resistant plating, explosive shielding. You don't reinforce blunt with Mars, boy. You don't even sound like you know what you're asking for."

The man's tone cut like steel. "Old man, I know exactly what I'm talking about. You gonna do it or not?"

The smith hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. "Fine. Customer's coin, customer's choice." He began gathering tools from the bench. "Come back in a couple hours, I'll have it done."

The man set his bags on the floor and leaned against the wall, arms folded. "If it's all the same to you, I'll stay here."

The smith glanced up. "In here? There's a festival going on out in the streets, and you'd rather sit in here?"

The man's voice was flat. "Old man, you must not get out much. There's no festival out there."

The smith gave a dry chuckle. "No, I suppose not. I just stay in here and tinker."

"Must be nice."

He shrugged. "It's a living."

The man leaned his head against the wall, then turned toward the smith. "Tell me—did you really work on weapons for Mav Kesher?"

The smith's eyes narrowed, cutting to him. "I've worked on pieces for a lot of people. Don't take names. Didn't even ask yours."

"Fair," the man said. "But Mav was someone you'd remember. Marred eye, thick skull, spirit that wouldn't bend."

The smith's mouth twitched. "Think she still owes me a thousand Krits."

The man frowned, unimpressed. The smith let out a short laugh. "Ah, I'm joking. Of course I remember Mav. Last of a dying breed. She had true grit. You knew her?"

The stranger gave a small nod. "Yeah. Something like that. And you're right—there aren't many like her left."

The workshop door slammed open. Two bandits stormed in, revolvers drawn, grins wide.

"There he is—the Grave Digger," one sneered. "Sage has been hunting you. Time to hand over those bags… and your life. Bounty's for both."

The smith stiffened, cursing under his breath. "I don't want this kind of traffic in my shop."

But the Grave Digger didn't so much as glance at them. His eyes stayed locked on the smith. His voice was low, steady. "Don't know if you've heard… but Mav's dead."

The onyxsmith froze, the words hitting harder than the bandits' guns. "What? When?"

"Six months ago," the Grave Digger said. His jaw tightened. "I saw it happen."

"Hey! Don't you hear us?"

"I think they're talking to you, son," the onyxsmith muttered, back pressed against the wall. His eyes flicked to the man—head bowed, burdened with grief.

"She had big dreams," the Grave Digger murmured. "Dreams she never got to see through. Now it's up to me."

A shot cracked, splintering wood on the wall. The smith flinched, breath catching in his throat.

The Grave Digger didn't move. He studied the reflection of the bandits in a glass bottle on the counter, calm as stone. His voice was low, steady. "She always spoke fondly of a smith in Tyla. I don't trust anyone with my mechanica… Can I trust you?"

The bandits growled in frustration. "Hey, Grave Digger! You got 'til the count of three to get your hands up, or we flood this place with lead!"

The smith swallowed hard. "Kid, they mean business—you better do as they say."

But the Grave Digger's gaze never left him. "Can I trust you?"

"One!" the bandit barked. The pressure made the smith sweat bullets.

"Listen, kid—you hear them?" the smith pleaded.

"Don't worry about them," the Grave Digger said, voice calm as ever. "Can I trust you?"

"Two!"

"Hey—this workshop's all I've got. I don't need this trouble," the onyxsmith stammered.

"They don't mean a damn thing," the Grave Digger said, eyes never leaving the old man. "I need to know you're as great as she said. Can I trust you?"

"Three!" the bandits barked, trigger fingers twitching.

The onyxsmith broke, nodding furiously. "Yes! You can trust me!"

The Grave Digger's lips curved into a low laugh. Slowly, he shifted, revealing a second hammer strapped to his hip. His hand closed around the haft, and as he drew it, the weapon came alive—pulsing with a deep Luzid green.

His grin widened. "Then I'll show you some true grit."

The hammer flared—blinding light, crackling energy—and the next sound was a deafening explosion.