A finely crafted longsword and a set of chainmail armor lay on Fro’s crimson cloak, beside a lump of silvery-white iron. Aelina crouched before them, examining these useful materials.

“I dismantled three knives and got 3.69 kilograms of iron,” she muttered. “This world’s basic rules differ from my old one—even for iron. My past material knowledge is useless here.” Using the Molecular Reconstructor, she added black carbon to pure silver iron. A steel strip formed in her palm. She pressed slightly; it bent like a noodle. “Old knowledge is worthless. Luckily, I have a reference.”

She pointed the Molecular Reconstructor at Fro’s longsword—a silvery blade usable with one or two hands. Its edge was sharp, the blade straight. The guard was plain but sturdy. The hilt was tightly wrapped in yellowed linen, ending in a counterweight iron ball.

“What are you doing?” Fro blocked her.

“Analyzing your sword. It’s important,” she said, slightly annoyed.

“You won’t break it?”

“No. Step aside.” Aelina tapped his forehead lightly. The Elf moved away.

Pale blue light dissolved his sword into mist. The mist reformed into a blade—but altered. Fro grabbed it. A fuller now lined the blade; the hilt was longer, the blade slightly extended. Worst of all, mysterious symbols adorned the steel.

The Golden Ape jumped up in anger. “What did you do to my sword?”

“Just made it symmetrical.”

“Why add a fuller? I don’t bleed blood—and it weakens the sword!”

“Unbelievable—a swordsman thinking grooves are for bleeding? They can’t bleed anything. It’s for counterweight and lightness,” she said, pointing. “This I-beam structure is only a tiny bit weaker.”

“You don’t forge swords! A master smith made this for my father—it was perfect!”

“You know it was for your father, young man,” Aelina said. “You’re seven centimeters taller than him, arms eight centimeters longer. The old sword didn’t fit. This one’s ergonomic. Try swinging it.”

Fro froze. His mother had measured him—he was exactly seven centimeters taller. Doubtfully, he practiced a few moves. The sword felt lighter, balanced, like an extension of himself.

“It’s like my third hand.” Convinced, he bowed solemnly. “Thank you.”

“It’s just a primitive weapon. Your courtesy is excessive.”

“Our tradition: a longsword is a warrior’s lover. We thank the smith deeply for a good blade,” he said, studying the symbols eagerly. “What are these? Magic to strengthen my sword?”

Aelina glanced at the three Chinese characters “Citizen X.” “My name—in humanity’s oldest script. Doesn’t it feel mysteriously ancient?”

“Honestly? It looks like my neighbor’s niece’s doodle.”

“Your taste is terrible.”

Aelina crouched by the 3.81 kilograms of iron. Lightening Fro’s sword had yielded 120 grams and its structure. She sought the secret to hardening steel.

“Elf,” she asked, “when forging swords, do you heat iron red-hot and quench it in liquid?”

“You mean quenching? Of course.”

“Just cooling?”

“No. Hammering comes first—smiths’ secrets. Some add family recipes; others claim unique magic.”

“I don’t get why knowledge is hoarded as secrets.”

“Aelina, no secrets in your land?”

“Only planet-destroying dangers. All else is in public libraries. People rush to upload discoveries for anyone to see,” she explained. She built a two-meter natural draft furnace with bottom vents. With Fro’s help, she packed it with wood and lit the top. As flames burned downward, wood turned to charcoal. Air flowed in through inlets when the burn reached the vents.

No thermometer measured the heat. But the vents glowed with blinding white light. She inserted soft steel strips, heated them red-hot, quenched them in ice water, and scanned them with the Molecular Reconstructor. Fro watched curiously as she repeated this several times before stopping.

“Can you tell me what you did?”

“I tested quenching steel with varying carbon content,” she said. “I found links between microstructures and hardness. As the first discoverer, I’ll name it Aelite. I also derived formulas—the Aelina Formulas. Future scholars will memorize them.”

Fro’s head throbbed.

Aelina’s snow-white dress was stained from the experiment. She cleaned herself with the Molecular Reconstructor, then aimed it at Fro. He shut his eyes as pale blue light enveloped him.

“Relax. Accept me,” Aelina’s calm voice whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Items with will cannot be decomposed.”

Fear was instinctive. Fro forced trust, relaxing. He felt like blades scraped his skin, his heart pounding. The sensation lingered. After a long moment, he asked, “Done?”

“Hm? Finished ages ago.”

He opened his eyes. Aelina was fiddling with the metal block on his cloak. He smiled awkwardly. He felt dry and refreshed, as after a hot bath.

Aelina held an iron hammer in her left hand, the Molecular Reconstructor in her right. Under pale blue light, a curved silvery iron sheet appeared beneath the hammer. She struck once—it vanished, replaced by a new sheet. Strike after strike—over thirty times—before she set the hammer down.

“Different microscopic rules limit me. This is the toughest steel I can make,” she muttered. “Hardness depends on Aelite and trace metals. My steel’s properties aren’t as good as your sword’s—but sufficient.”

The iron block reshaped into a round helmet. To Fro, it was plain—no spike or decorations—just a thick faceplate. Aelina handed it over. He put it on; heavy but well-fitted. Lowering the faceplate exposed only his eyes and brows, barely hindering vision. It shielded his neck too.

“How’s it feel?”

“Not bad.”

“It has a suspension system. Direct hits won’t shatter your skull. It weighs two kilograms,” she said. “The leftover iron made a rapier for my self-defense—I won’t be a helpless fish on a chopping board. And an iron chain.”

Aelina shook her Molecular Reconstructor. The handle-shaped device had a chain fixed to its base, linked to a light brown leather belt at her waist. On the belt’s other side hung a long rapier with a bowl-shaped guard. “Lucky I had spare leather. Now you’re fully armed. Adjust to the weight.”

Fro obediently donned the chainmail—it felt lighter. He wore the surcoat, draped the cloak. The cloak looked new; the helmet gleamed silvery. He swung his sword, feeling closer to becoming a Knight, battle spirit surging.

“I can’t wait,” he said. “How do we find the enemies?”

“Aren’t they here already?”

“What?” He raised his sword, scanning. Figures emerged from nearby bushes. Aelina had vanished behind a withered tree. “How so fast?”

Aelina pointed to the furnace. A column of snow-white smoke rose, revealing strong winds. “My plan: attract enemies during experiments. They’d split up—we only face a small squad.”

Barking erupted nearby. Ten men charged, leading three fierce dogs. Fro gripped his longsword nervously, turning his head. “Aelina, battle plan? Aelina? Aelina? Aelina!”

He searched—no sign of her.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Guess the timing’s not right yet.”

Below is a rough sketch of the helmet: