Chương 29: Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gnolleptus Hyenanicus

X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gnolleptus Hyenanicus X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X" Are you sure this is safe?" Hestia asked nervously, wringing her hands and pacing a hole in the floor as I carefully scraped away the last remaining bits of Mithril ink that was used to connect Naaza's arm to her falna. Miach was off… somewhere in my workshop, probably standing in the corner and being his wallflower self, or whatever it was that he did. Alright, I'm a big enough man to admit when I'm wrong.

Dian Cecht's arm was not total garbage; It was still pretty shit, don't get me wrong, but it was not completely irredeemable. Instead of connecting directly to the nervous system, it used a sort of… tattoo-like structure made of Mithril-infused ink that interfaced with her falna. As her falna was hooked directly into her soul, it acted kinda like a brain-computer interface. Though, in this case, it would be a soul-brain-computer interface.

The system had some, some, advantages over its many disadvantages–disadvantages like having no feeling whatsoever, or generally poor coordination due to said lack of sensation. However, being wired directly into the falna meant that the raw power of the falna could be channeled through the arm itself, almost like it was its own foci. If Naaza were a mage, then she could have very well used her arm like a wand or staff of some sort.

But, as she was not blessed with a predilection for magic, the system was a net negative for her.

"Eh, shmaybe?" I waggled my paw as both she and Naaza shot me horrified looks.

"What? I've never worked with a system like this before. It's crude, but I have to admit it's a pretty interesting workaround–if you're an ignorant savage who can't figure out how to interface directly with the nervous system, that is. I wonder if I could use something similar to augment my own prosthetics…" I trailed off, rubbing my goatee thoughtfully. I'd need to do some research before I started, talk to a few gods who actually knew how their falnas worked, maybe even brush up on my old animancy notes.

I felt Naaza try to tug away from me, so I clamped down harder on her shoulder–forcing her back down into the padded table she was sitting on.

"Oh, would you relax? I was a battlefield medic for years. I've done shit like this more times than I care to remember. Now sit still, I'm almost done." With my tongue poking out of the corner of my mouth, I gently worked out the last remnants of the ink. When I was satisfied that I had gotten as much as I could without damaging her falna, I uncorked a potion with my teeth and poured it over her back to prevent scarring.

"Alright, to attach the mounting port, I'll need to perform some light surgery- light surgery!" I emphasized when Naaza tried to yank away from me again, her eyes wide with alarm.

"By Moradin's braided beard, would you relax already? It's like you have no faith in me at all!" The tarp covering the hole in my wall fluttered in the breeze, as a full-body shiver ran up through Naaza and into my paw. Huh, must have been the wind making her cold. I grabbed one of my more mundane and inexpensive medical items from my BoH, a leathery face mask connected to a bottle of Ether.

"Put this over your mouth and nose; it'll knock you out for a few hours so I can work. When you come out of it, you'll have a shiny new arm." She shared a nervous look with Miach, who then turned to Hestia. The two gods seemed to have a silent but furious conversation before Miach reluctantly turned to his captain and gave her a hesitant nod. Nervously licking her lips, she took the mask from my paw, and after mentally steeling herself, held it to her face and breathed in deeply.

She immediately started to sway, eyes glossy and unfocused. I turned to my assistant.

"Good, good. Hestia, would you please fetch the Bone-Puller and Sinew-Shredder?" Her eyes bulged, but Naaza didn't even have time to scream before her eyes rolled up into her head and she toppled forward. I had to catch her before she slid off the table and cracked her skull on the ground. Laying her flat, I gently folded back her sleeve until the gnarly remains of her stump were fully exposed.

"That was mean." Hestia harrumphed at me, arms crossed.

"What was mean?" I looked over my shoulder at her incredulously.

"I seriously need my Bone-Puller and Sinew-Shredder. They're in my toolbox, third drawer down from the left. Go get them, please." There was an echoing thud as Miach crashed to the floor in a dead faint. X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X"Although flesh may blacken and fail, fear not, For this too can be replaced. You will be reincarnated–reborn in steel. By the will of the Gnollissiah."

"What in the Hel are you muttering?"

"Don't worry about it." I demure, ignoring a slightly green-looking Hestia glaring a hole into the side of my head–who was avidly looking anywhere but at my patient. Working carefully, I finished cutting away the last of the necrotic flesh around the bone. I take back even the backhanded compliment I gave Dian Cecht earlier. He's back down to being less than sewer scum in my eyes. When he cut away the remains of her arm, he never bothered to operate on the bone itself.

What was left was a twisted, fragmented wreck–slowly sawing away at the flesh under the stump. She was probably in constant agony whenever she moved her arm. Well, no need to worry any longer, my subje–I mean patient. This humble servant of the Gnollissiah shall see you reborn. The moment I understood the weakness of your flesh, it disgusted me. You will crave the strength and certainty of my steel. Wait a second, that came out weird. I shook my head to get rid of the distracting thoughts.

Unfortunately, what was left of the humerus had to go. Good thing fabbing out a replacement made of adamantite was a simple affair. It only took me a couple hours to forge both the faux bone and a mounting using an orichalcum alloy, thanks to Betty. The bracket fit snugly over the clavicle and scapula, held in place by a series of screws and long struts extending out deep into her body. Those would spread out the force of the arm deep into her magically enhanced skeleton.

Running through the metal bone and bracket were gossamer-thin wires of mithril, connecting to an array etched into the inside of the bracket. When activated, the array would build a metaphysical connection to the nervous system–customized to her exact biology. It would then act as the main computer, translating the signals fired off by her brain into commands to the arm. It could also translate signals back, meaning that it could emulate sensation to a fairly accurate degree.

It wouldn't be one-to-one, unfortunately. Something like that was far above my own expertise, but it would still be pretty damn close. With the bracket in place, I used a combination of mage-hand and a magically reinforced obsidian blade to gently sculpt the skin back over the metal plating–covering as much as I could, because I doubt she would be into the whole Cyberpunk chic. It wasn't perfect, but I thought the end result was good enough.

There was only a small strip of metal visible now, jutting out right where the arm was supposed to begin. Content that I did the best I could, I splashed her shoulder with another dose of potion to accelerate the healing process; as well as to nip any infections in the bud. Rising from my stool, I padded over to my workbench. There, sitting in a locked case and surrounded by cushioned velvet, was an arm. My (current) magnum opus.

Thanks to the bevy of material provided by the Dungeon, the only constraint I faced in its construction was of my own imagination, or lack thereof. I could make the prosthetic as great as I could possibly imagine. No longer held back by supplies or resources, the lessons Max learned fighting in the fields of Westruun on biology and medicine were used to great effect. With something approaching reverence, I slowly lifted the arm from its cradle.

Dian Cecht, or whatever flunky he foisted the project on, used a mixture of intricate clockwork and kinetic magic to give Naaza's arm articulation. As the signals that guided it were translated multiple times, from the soul to the falna and then the body, many things were lost in translation–resulting in awkward and jerky movements. My arm did not function in such a crude and ineffectual way.

Thick cords of faux muscles rippled beneath the treated Aurora Dragon Hide that served as its skin, lending the arm a pearlescent sheen along its glacial-blue surface. The snow-white scales of the dragon were arranged in spinning fractals along its length, subtly reinforcing weak points while appearing purely cosmetic. It ended in a thin, slender hand modeled to be an exact replica of Naaza's own. A grid of pads lay beneath the skin of the palm, capable of simulating the minute sensations of a real human hand.

If Dian Cecht's arm looked like Automail, then my arm looked like it just rolled off Arasaka's newest lines of military-grade Cyber Arms. All sleek curves and smoothed edges, it was as close to a real arm as I could possibly make… while still being able to keep all the cool-ass gadgets I installed under the hood. Let me tell you, getting those muscles to work was a bitch and a half. After trying multiple different materials, I ended up using Crystal Mantis forelimbs as the base.

I treated the raw crystals to an acidic bath and stimulated the slurry with electric shocks until it rearranged into the shape I desired. The end result was muscles that were far stronger and more responsive than any gold-winning Olympic weightlifter. Which was useless garbage in this world. I needed something that could match the strength of demigods, not puny mortals. The solution was to grow the crystals into long strands, then to twist them into tightly-wound helices.

Arrange those helices into bundles (which I unimaginably nicknamed myomer), and suddenly I had a prosthetic that could dent orichalcum with a half-hearted punch. In fact, I had to install an artificial throttle into the control array so Naaza wouldn't accidentally rip her own arm out of the socket the first time she tried to scratch her nose. The throttle was designed to automatically release its control as she Leveled Up, and her body became able to handle more of the strain.

When I turned around and my divine audience caught a look at the arm for the first time, they both gasped in amazement. And I could not blame them; the thing was gorgeous. I was almost reluctant to let it go. But as they say: If you love something, set it free… on the world. Those poor bastards won't know what hit 'em. With solemn care, I slowly made my back towards my patient–and jammed the arm into its socket until I heard the bassy thump of the magmagic connectors engaging. What? I Ragnarok-proofed this thing.

You could arm-wrestle Saitama with it, and maybe last a full second before he reduced it to iron filings! Now that's the Hyena Werk's guarantee, or your money back! Opening a hidden panel in the shoulder, I punched in the code to engage the startup sequence (80085), and stood back. Immediately, the arm started siphoning mana from both the air and its host.

An aquamarine glow leaked out from between the armor panels as raw magic flooded its artificial veins, accompanied by a dull hum as its many capacitors filled with the roiling, volatile energy. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The arm twitched once, then twice–before suddenly raising and lowering itself at the shoulder; running itself through its full range of motion.

The arm spun around a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, all while rotating and flexing its joints. After the hand finished spinning completely around the wrist, it closed into a tight fist–the fingers flashing through a series of hand signs, including a few gang signs just for fun, proving that all the actuators were fully operational. When the hand twisted into a thumbs up, I closed the access panel and locked it in place. There was no need for Naaza to be fiddling around with maintenance codes and such.

"Alright!" I clapped my paws together.

"That should be almost everything. Just one last step before I wake her." I reached back into my BoH and pulled out a small paper packet. Holding my paw above her chest, I started swirling it around in the shape of a cog." The soul of the Machine God surrounds thee. The power of the Machine God invests thee. The hate of the Machine God drives thee. The Machine God endows thee with life. Live!" I cracked the packet of smelling salts underneath her nose, and she flew awake with a retching gasp.

Her ears shook with the force of her coughs, eyes wide in shock and confusion.

"Wha-what happened?"

"The surgery was a complete success!" I happily told her, "You'll need a few weeks of physical therapy to get used to it, and then a couple of months of light work to get back up to speed–but otherwise you should be all set." It was only then that she finally got a look at her new arm. Her jaw dropped as she lifted it in front of her, slowly turning it over to see it in all its magnificent glory. It did not click or clack or drag against itself horribly as her old one did.

This prosthetic moved in one long, sinuous movement; Like a real arm. The armor panels caught the light, beautifully carrying a shimmering rainbow across its sleek frame like oil dancing across water. She experimentally opened and closed her hand, and then gasped again when she-!

"I can… I could feel that!" She grabbed her faux hand with her real one, squeezing and poking and prodding at it. When Miach drifted closer to watch, the prosthetic snaked out faster than lightning–but stopped just before hitting him. It gently wrapped around his wrist instead.

"I can feel–I can feel again?!" A sheen of tears filled her eyes as she stared in shock at her own arm wrapped around his. She could feel everything–the air sliding against her skin, the slight chill contrasting against the glowing warmth of her god. By Above and Below, she could even feel the slight tensing of his arm under her grip. It was muted, for lack of a better term; not quite as good as her real arm. But it was still there!

"It feels like-" She trailed off, clearly struggling to figure out a way to describe the sensation.

"It probably feels like you're wearing a glove or something." I prompted, and she nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! It is exactly like that, like I'm trying to touch something covered in a blanket!" I could only shrug.

"Sorry, but that's as good as I can make it right now. My Old Man could make limbs that were even more sensitive than a real one–hell, they were better than the real thing in every way. But I was still figuring out his methodology when I ended up here." I shrugged again.

"I still have his journals along with the notes he left for me, but I'm nowhere near as good of an artificer as he was." She shook her head in disbelief, still marveling at her pearlescent arm.

"I cannot even imagine a better craftsman than yourself. This is unbelievable." I could only laugh ruefully.

"Trust me, I was a nameless nobody back home. I know of artificers who were more akin to gods than men; people who could bend reality itself to their will with more ease than I can shape normal metal." A sharp, feral grin slid over my muzzle.

"But enough about that, I think it's about time that I showed you the special features I installed. If you bend your fingers like this -" I curled my Index and ring finger in, while keeping the rest extended–basically the Spiderman web slinging pose.

"-And then flick your wrist like so." I followed my own instruction, giving my wrist a sharp jerk to the side.

"You'll activate the blade function." Wiping away the tears from her eyes, she copied the gesture, and her elbow snapped open–a telescoping blade sang as it lanced from its mount with a razor-sharp shlink! Extending into its full three feet of length, the blade's echoing note hung in the air as its single-edge hummed with malicious intent.

"The Mantis-Blade has a monomolecular edge that is both self-sharpening and self-repairing to a limited degree." I helpfully explain to the three people gaping at the weapon extending out of my patient's elbow.

"The cutting-edge is actually a self-extruding line of obsidian, while the blade itself is an alloyed mixture of orichalcum and aluminum, which I call Elyrium. I do have some ideas for adding an electrical or heating element to the sword to increase its combat potential, but due to power constraints I left those features out. If you make the same gesture and flick your wrist back towards yourself, it will retract."

Wordlessly, she followed my advice, causing the weapon to snap back inside its sheath as her arm folded back into place.

"Now, to activate the forearm-mounted coilgun, just curl up your hand but extend your pinkie and thumb, and twist your wrist three-quarters of the way–yes, just like that." She popped a shakka and flicked her wrist, and with a whine of charging capacitors, her fingers snapped up and away as her palm unfolded open to reveal the glowing bore of the coilgun, which she was pointing straight at me. I smoothly stepped out of the line of fire and continued.

"You should always treat the coilgun as if it were a bow with its string pulled back: only point it at what you intend to destroy." She sheepishly lowered the gun towards the floor.

"I-I-Is that like the thing that blew a hole in the wall?" Hestia stammered, taking several big steps back.

"Don't be ridiculous," I laughed.

"This one's way better. I reinforced the entire firing mechanism with orichalcum struts. Sure, the payload is a bit smaller so I could fit more rounds into the internal magazine, but as a tradeoff I made it self-loading. It'll have a firing rate of around three hundred rounds ah' minute, give or take. With a magazine of fifty darts, you'll be able to dump the mag' in ten seconds flat. Wanna' go take it for a spin?" Three blank looks were my answer.

I corrected myself, translating my reasonable language into their twisted barbarian tongue.

"Would you like to break some shit with it?" This time, I got two horrified shaking heads, and a hesitant nod from the only one whose opinion mattered here. X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X Three straw dummies covered in cheap armor stood side by side, holding their lonely post at the far end of my firing range. I had dubbed them Privates John, Marcus, and James. John, Marcus, and James's lot in life was a poor one, for they lived and died by my need to test one ranged weapon or another.

Or if I was simply in a bad mood, and needed something to vent my anger on–giving one of the three amigos a whap on the head with a hammer was usually enough to make me feel better.

"Set your feet kinda like if you were firing a bow, but keep most of your weight forward on the leading foot–yeah, exactly like that. Now, raise your arm straight out while supporting it with your left; when in coilgun mode, your index finger will automatically act as the sight picture. Just place the top of your knuckle where you want to shoot, and when you're ready, flex your thumb against your index finger. Just tap it to fire once, or you can hold it down for continuous fire."

Naaza shifted awkwardly on her feet, the stance I suggested was unfamiliar to what she was used to as an archer. The next part though? That she was more than familiar with. She leaned her head over her arm, resting her cheek against her upper arm while putting John behind her knuckle as she was told. Slowly, she brought her thumb towards her hand and! - A razor-sharp crack filled the air, accompanied by a flash of light from her palm–which was quickly followed by an echoing ptang!

as John's armor spun wildly around the mount; a shower of sparks and straw stuffing flying out the back in a huge cone. She blinked, then resighted on target. Tapping her thumb twice was rewarded with another two hypersonic adamantite darts streaking downrange faster than the eye could hope to track–finally knocking John flat on his back. A small, almost reluctant smile pulled at her lips as she swapped over to Marcus and held her thumb flush to her hand.

My backyard was filled with a deafening chattering as the remaining two targets were rocked by a hailstorm of darts going so fast that they only imparted a tiny fraction of their force into their lightly-armored targets before exploding out the other side. Eventually though, as all good things do, it ended when she ran the gun dry. All that I could hear was a muted thudding from within her forearm as the feed mechanism bumped uselessly against an empty follower.

"Looks like you're out." I apologized; it was hard to rain on her parade like that when it was so clear that she was having such a great time. I reached into a pocket and handed her a stripper clip filled with twenty-five darts.

"To reload, you have to pop a hatch on the back of your forearm. It's hard to get at because the seam is really small–Oup, there you go. See those grooves there? Line the bracket up with that and push it in hard. Don't worry about breaking it, I built it Gnoll-Tough™." There was no real reason, or even a tactical benefit to doing so, but I just couldn't resist. Sure, it wasn't really an en bloc clip, but it wasn't that hard to make a stripper clip that vibrated when ejected.

How could I make a top-loading gun and not add The Ping? She slammed the darts in, and The Ping rang out with a glorious reverb as the extractor sent the empty clip flying. She turned to me, blinking in confusion; clearly looking for assurance that she hadn't broken it or something.

"Secure the cover, and you'll be ready to fire again." Naaza's head was bowed as she carefully closed the lid back in place, pushing it in until it locked with a click, but she did not turn back to the firing range. Instead, she twisted her wrist, and her palm folded back together as she disengaged coilgun mode.

"Why?" I was alarmed to find tears pooling in her eyes when she straightened back up.

"Why are you giving this to me?"

"Uhhh," I shared a befuddled look with Hestia, "-Because I stole your other arm so I could throw it at the jackass who made it?"

"No!" She angrily shook her head, causing her ears to flap around wildly.

"Why are you giving this to me!? There are hundreds, thousands of other adventurers out there who need prosthetics. Better people–People who need way more help than I did! I had an arm! One of the best money could buy," She quickly glanced at her shiny new arm.

"Or at least it was! But it was still good enough. Even at our best, the Miach familia could have never afforded something like this. So why? Why give it to me?"

"I… thought we established this?" I asked quizzically, cocking my head at her.

"I'm doing it to piss off that fuckhead Dian. I don't need a better reason than that. If you're worried about payment," I scoffed; material wealth had no more use to me now that I had an entire nation's worth of adamantite and orichalcum gathering dust in my basement. No, money didn't interest me, but getting one over on a jerkoff like that? That was something that I could not possibly hope to put a price tag on.

"Then you can promise not to cover up your arm this time. Let everyone see it, and when they ask, be sure to tell them exactly where you got it. I won't ask for more than that." All three of them gawked at me, which was seemingly becoming a habit. The other two I get; I've only met them a few times. But I expected Hestia to have gotten used to my MO by now. Maybe the problem is that I'm not being more me, and she's becoming numb to my me-ness? I'd better step up my game, then.

X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X-x-X The wild success of my myomer bundles had me reevaluating the magmagic system of Dormul's armor, which I had decided to tentatively name the Jotunframe Mark I. The model, I mean. My friend's suit will of course have a name of its very own, but the armor set itself will be the Jotunframe. I'll need to have a talk with Dormul before I make the important step of christening his armor. The Jotunframe before me was a real sorry sight.

Hanging from a pair of chains, only the endoskeleton was fully complete. Magical arrays and loose wires littered its frame, and only the most basic of auxiliary systems had even been connected yet. I was at an impasse–I could either forge on ahead with the original system, or I could scrap the current model and move directly into the Mark II, which would use myomer bundles for locomotion. I wasn't too far along in its construction, so it wouldn't be a great loss; it would only be my time that had been wasted.

However, my main hang-up was whether or not myomer-driven power armor was too good to sell to anyone. I still needed to find the time to work on my own kit. It was only a matter of time before the fragile peace that held the various gods from jumping me broke, and I'd be forced to defend myself. If I had to fight people armed with my own equipment, then it would be prudent to keep the best of my toys for myself.

Not that I think Dormul would betray me, but once people see him thudding down the main street in power armor, everyone and their mother will want one for themselves. I paced around the armor with my arms crossed, drumming my fingers along my bicep as I examined it from every angle. No… No. I nodded with conviction this time. I'm sorry, Dormul, but I can't give you the best. The Jotunframe will still be superior to everything else, but it cannot be better than my own personal kit.

Which begged the question: do I even bother building myself a suit of power armor, or should I just skip the appetizer and dig right into the main course? By that, I of course mean a full BattleMech. No, if there were ever a need for me to go into the Dungeon, then trying to crabwalk a three-story-tall killing machine in there would not end well. I'll need to make a… Yeenframe? Maneframe? Maneframe's not bad, actually. Too bad no one here would get the joke. Eh, I'll workshop it later.

Either way, I'll have to make the light stuff first; I needed to crawl before I could run, something like that. So sorry, Dormul, but you'll only be getting the second - best powered armor in the world. With a content sigh, I flicked my nose down, knocking the welding mask back into place. Taking up my oxy-mana torch, I ignited it with a flash of Heat Metal–washing my dimly lit workshop in a flickering ghostly blue. By the Prime, I love my job.