Deep in the obsidian mine, which smells of sulfur and rust all year round, seventeen-year-old miner Leon has been working continuously for fourteen hours. The gaps between his fingernails were filled with soot that couldn't be washed away, and the fresh blood blisters on his palms burned under the friction of the pickaxe handle. Today was supposed to be the same as usual - until the chipped mining pick accidentally cut through the rock formation, revealing the rune workshop behind it that had been forgotten for three hundred years. The smell of aged sheepskin scrolls and cold iron floated in the air. On the workbench, a hexagonal copper piece with a dark blue shimmer on the edge was flickering under the dust. Leon touched it with his fingers wrapped in rags. The copper suddenly became frighteningly hot, and then a piece of knowledge that he had never learned came directly into his mind: the twenty-seven etching paths of the "sturdiness" of primary runes, the compensation formula for metal fatigue, and a line of small words - "To latecomers: Don't believe those bastards in white robes from the church."
