Dwarven's eyes widened. "Nooo. An Ohgun Craft? In the flesh." He leaned closer, awe written across his face. "This is the rare of the rare. How'd you get it?"
The Onyxsmith turned the weapon, revealing an engraving etched along the steel: FOX.
"It was my father's. Maybe his before him. Ohgun saw the injustices cast on our people who went south, and he armed each family head with one of these." He held it up reverently, light catching along its grooves. "This is his work. And it's survived generations."
"Mmm."
"What's that 'mmm' supposed to mean?" the Onyxsmith asked.
"Well," Dwarven said, leaning back, "I think I heard that story a little different."
"Oh really? And what's that version?"
"Well—don't get me wrong, the Ohguns are by far the greatest Onyxsmiths to ever live. But some of 'em? Absolutely chaotic. I heard the First made a sword that could summon hellfire. The Fourth? A war-satellite the size of the moon."
The old man frowned. "Get to the point, boy."
"Right, right." Dwarven grinned. "Some say Ohgun armed the 'Jins so they could fight in the war. That's why we had so many 'Jin mercenaries running around."
The Onyxsmith snorted. "And I suppose the same people say Ohgun freed slaves just to work his mines? Or that he built Tereliva to swallow the ocean?"
Dwarven chuckled. "You got a point."
The old man holstered his weapon and sighed. "Truth is, son, southern 'Jin had it different. My grandfather brought my father over the Snowveil to escape the dictatorship up north. But down here? All we found was hardship. Folks already had it rough—no one had anything to spare for refugees. You were lucky if one of us found work. One man fed the family. The others trained to fight bandits… or sold their skills to the highest bidder."
A faint smirk touched his lips. "Our gunplay's still the sharpest in the Nine, after all."
Dwarven tilted his head. "That what you're here for? Family?"
The silence stretched, the old man ignoring the question as he picked up his tools. His voice hardened as he spoke, eyes fixed on the work.
"My father fought in the war. Folks back home knew it, and they hated him for it—hated that their neighbor was selling himself to fight against his own country. One day he came back to find the house ash and the family gone. Townstead burned, every Mechanica smashed. I was the only one left. My mother hid me so well, he only found me because I was crying. He had no bodies to bury… so he buried this gun instead. Then he picked up the hammer. Became an Onyxsmith by trade."
Dwarven gave a short nod. "Hell of a legacy. And what—you went back to get it?"
"No." The old man's tone dropped low. "My son did."
Dwarven blinked. "Your son? Didn't know you had a boy."
"Why would you?" The Onyxsmith sighed, slipping off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "He died in all that ruckus fourteen years ago. I don't care to talk about it. I still keep it on me though to remember him by. That's most of what I do now, remember things. Here, in this workshop I was lucky enough to inherit from my pa in this old good for nothing mine town"
He set his glasses back on and leaned over the bench. "Anyway, things have gotten loud again. Some new outfit muscled out the Vipers. Name's on the tip of my tongue… Screech? Crier? Something like that."
The old man grunted, shoved a hammer across the bench, and muttered, "Whatever. Here you are, son."
Dwarven clutched the hammer, tilting it in his hand, running a thumb along the etched grooves. "Ehh. I could've done better."
"Why, you—!" The old man scoffed and jabbed him lightly in the arm. "You've got some nerve slapping trigger guards on them like they're revolvers."
"Makes it easier to throw."
The old man snorted. "Right. And what did you call that nonsense style again?"
"The Dynamite Hammer Shoot Style."
"Boy, you're ridiculous." The old man shook his head, though a faint grin tugged at his mouth. "Be careful with that style of yours. I see how well you maintain it, but all those ignitions are straining the housing. You'll only be able to reinforce it so many times."
Dwarven slid the hammer back onto his belt, patting it with the care of a man holstering a trusted companion. "You don't have to worry about her. The old girl can take it. And when she finally croaks…" He gave a half-smile. "I'll give her a proper burial."
"Ha! I admire you Belmonts and the way you treat your Mechanicas. Saints above, I wish the rest of the world thought the same."
"Yeah, but they dont." Dwarven's gaze drifted to the humming generator in the Onyxsmith's workshop. "This energy." He swirls his finger in the air as he looks up. "It's just a convenient power source. Stronger than solar, cleaner than electric. That's why the Godhand hoards it—puts a price tag on every spark."
"The Ohmay." The Onyxsmiths voice perks up Jasper's ears.
"The what?" Dwarven questions.
"Heh, I guess you all call it Luzid, but to us it is called the Ohmay, or, Source of all. Though I'm only half Tsukijin, I hold the same thought. It is truly special. It's the air we breathe. The water we drink. It's the joy of meeting a good friend, the fury you feel when you see injustice."
"It's in everything. And when you make a Mechanica, you don't just pour it into the metal—you pour yourself in too. Every hammer, every gun, every blade is part of its maker." Dwarven says
He looked down at his hammer. In his eyes, it wasn't just steel and gears, but something vast—as if he were holding a piece of the cosmos itself. "So I treat them with the respect they deserve. Like… keeping your fingernails trimmed."
Jasper couldn't help but overhear their conversation. Her fingers brushed over her own Mechanica revolver. She unlatched the barrel, checked the eighteen rounds within, then closed it with a soft click. Her thumb traced the engravings along its steel frame, almost tender "L'Iz."
"You're a strange one, boy," the old man muttered. "Never heard anyone compare caring for a Mechanica to trimming fingernails." His eyes narrowed as they lingered on the hammer. A thought struck him, sharp and sudden. "Wait… am I to believe you actually made that—"
He was cut short by pounding at the door.
BANG. BANG. BANG.