Chapter 87: Iron Man

Now his entire body was behind the door, using it like a shield. The staff protruded through the slit like a spear, and Kael’s grip tightened around the leather-wrapped handle.

“Please hold,” he almost prayed to the door to not break apart and protect him in case shit hits the fan, he didn’t have a choice but to pray.

He took a couple of breaths, slow, controlled, and willed his mana into the staff.

Immediately, a fire explosion rumbled from behind the door.

Not a neat jet. Not a clean flame wave. More like the staff coughed and detonated at the same time. Heat slammed into the steel door, and the sound hit Kael’s chest like a drum. He couldn’t even open his eyes to see properly; his lids clenched shut on instinct as hot air rolled around the edges. Thankfully, the door held, and he didn’t get fried in the process. Somewhere deep down, he was thankful for this flimsy protection.

But he realized one thing instantly.

He had to let go of the metal staff immediately.

The staff turned hot like it was about to melt, and even through the leather wrap, he felt the heat building fast. If he didn’t have his hand wrapped in leather, he might have had to pry stuck fingers off the steel while it burned him. The thought alone made him shudder.

He released it, letting it clatter to the floor with a dull clang, and stepped back, breathing hard behind his improvised shield.

When the rumble faded, the aftermath was far less noticeable than the first attempt with the rune in his palm. There was no lingering flame on his skin. No blistering. No immediate agony.

But the results?

Terrible.

The fire was weak, more noise than damage. The “explosion” felt like a throttling in the staff, like mana jammed into a narrow throat and choked there, wasting itself. The channeling was inefficient, sloppy. Most of the power seemed to turn into heat and vibration rather than useful output. And he almost ruined the crowbar, his main weapon, by turning it into a staff that threatened to cook itself from the inside.

So he let it sit down and cool off, watching it like it was a snake that might bite him again if he turned away.

“Damn,” Kael muttered, voice quieter now, the frustration settling in. “This is useless…”

Then, because his brain didn’t know how to stop chewing on problems, he started talking himself through it. After all this was the only way for him to keep his sanity from slipping and ideas flowing.

“I can’t use the rune if it’s too close to my hand,” he said, staring at his palm as if it could explain physics. “Though the mana is optimally preserved when it’s in my hand…”

He glanced at the staff. “Using a staff… well, I don’t have anything like that. Anyone who used runes had a magical staff. Stuff that can channel mana…”

He sighed, and the sound was tired in a way he hated. The Tower kept giving him tools that didn’t quite fit. Kept forcing him to solve problems with half the pieces missing.

“All I have are items that can’t do such a task.”

He leaned back, letting the chair creak, and stared at the ceiling like it might offer an answer. The blue hum of the room pressed on him.

The smell of treated leather and dust lingered. His hand still remembered the pain even if the potion erased the injury, and that memory made him wary of repeating experiments without a safety net.

“If only I could have the rune in my hand,” he muttered, “but at the same time remain protected from its heat…”

He lay on his back for a moment, staring at his hand, flexing it slowly. The skin looked normal. Too normal for what it had just survived.

Then his eyes shifted.

The leather wrap he’d used hadn’t burned. Not even a scorch. This wasn’t even the heat-resistant leather. No, it was merely bits and pieces of the Black Basilisk, scraps he’d grabbed without thinking.

Kael sat up so fast the chair squealed.

Immediately, he took another look at the leather, then at the staff, then back at the leather again. The thought clicked into place like a locking mechanism.

“What if…” he began, then stopped, weighing it. “I coat my hand in leather? No, it’ll still be inefficient…”

Leather was insulation, yes. But it didn’t fix channeling. It didn’t fix the staff’s inability to accept mana without wasting it. It just kept his skin from cooking.

His gaze fell on the steel staff again, and the idea shifted shape.

“Instead of leather… a glove? No.” His eyes narrowed, mind racing ahead. “Gauntlet…”

The word carried weight. Protection. Structure. Something that could hold the rune close to his hand without letting the heat touch him. Something that could be mana-friendly enough to channel better than raw steel.

“Like Ironman?” he muttered, and despite everything, the stupid comparison sparked a grim little humor in him. A half-laugh, half-groan.

Then the Tower, because it always listened when it wanted to, answered him.

[+1 intelligence]

The notification scared him, more because he wasn’t expecting it than because it hurt. There was a tiny flare of pain, like a needle pricking behind his eyes, and then the familiar sensation of his thoughts smoothing out, sharpening, connecting dots faster.

But it also came with confirmation.

It was as if the Tower was helping him take the step, nudging him forward like a cruel tutor: Yes. That. Now do it.

Kael stood up, unable to contain his ideas any longer. The exhaustion was still there, but the excitement cut through it like a blade. For the first time in a while, he wasn’t just reacting. He was building something. Planning. Turning the Tower’s scraps into an advantage.

He pulled the needle, well, the fang, and the remaining tendons.

Then he began working while thinking, how cool would it be to shoot fireballs from one’s palms at will? Pretty sick now wouldn’t it?

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