For the next hour, Arwin tested the Ashleaf Tree pieces. He burned them, crushed them, warped them, and melted them. He put them through every test he could to push the components of the tree to the limits and determine just how far they would make it under the less than gentle techniques of Dwarven Smithing. And as it turned out, the Ashleaf Tree could take quite a bit. The wood was surprisingly resilient. It was no metal, but flame didn’t take to it well at all. Every part of the tree was different in composition. The tree’s core was springy and surprisingly malleable, but it was easily cut and didn’t hold up long under much assault of any sort. It, unfortunately, went up in flames shortly after being introduced to any amount of magma. Its bark was considerably less movable. While Arwin could still bend it, it was far stiffer and harder than the core parts of the tree. The bark was as hard as metal and immensely tough. It was able to resist the heat of the lava for nearly a minute before it went from smoldering to aflame. The roots were somewhere right down the middle. They were malleable and strong, but not nearly as malleable as the tree’s core nor as tough as its bark. The roots were, unfortunately, also quite flammable. They didn’t last long at all when he put them into the magma. And therein laid the issue. Anything he worked with had to be able to resist the magma for long enough for him to form a connection with its song. The heat of the molten rock threatened to make using the wood as the core of his materials instead of metal impossible. Arwin’s tests were getting close to making him give up on using the wood as the core of the arm. If it couldn’t survive the magma, then there was just nothing to be done. The only thing that stopped him was functionality. The wood seemed perfect for just about every aspect other than usability. Swapping to a metal core would heavily decrease just how flexible the arm was. If Olive couldn’t control her makeshift limb like a normal one, then it wouldn’t be nearly as useful of a replacement. Arwin chewed his lower lip in thought as he examined a piece of Ashwood bark. He held it above the magma, but not so close that it could catch aflame, and dug through his mind in search of hidden inspiration. There had to be a way around this. Fire coated the inside of his mouth, protecting him from the heat of the magma as he brought it up to his lips and took a bite out of it, chewing with determination. He had a lot of work to get through. The arm was the first of several projects he would have to accomplish if they wanted a chance against Twelve. Arwin worked, chewing up and preparing his magma until he had a large ball that had been completely bonded to his mind. He wasted no time in grabbing the first piece of wood. Coating it with [Soul Flame], Arwin slid the wood into the ball of magma. He sent his senses into the lava, feeling for the wood within. Its song was faint, but it was there. A distant thumping heart that bore the desires that every material had. It was harder to hear than metal, but Arwin could just barely make it out. Arwin purified the wood, removing all of the impurities from within it. They weren’t the same as that of metal, but they were still present. Pieces of dirt; blood between fibers. Every microscopic piece that he could get a hold of was banished. But the process was far from simple. Arwin could feel the wood overheating as he worked. He was on a time limit. Power pumped into him from the Infernal Armory, intensifying the [Soul Flame] protecting the wood and making sure it didn’t char to a crisp before he could finish his task. He prepared the wood until its song had connected with his, until they could understand each other perfectly. And then he moved on to the next piece. An arm was more than a single segment, and every single one of them had to be borderline perfect if he wanted to ensure they all synchronized. The tension on Arwin’s mind intensified as more wood entered the ball of magma. His back and shoulders throbbed. The veins connecting him and the Infernal Armory thrummed with power. Their dark length pulsated with brilliant orange power as it pumped Arwin full of magic that he sent straight into the materials. Arwin worked without reservation. He didn’t consider failure as a possibility. He couldn’t afford the distraction. His full focus was completely on forging the wood — an idea so ludicrous that it would have been laughed out of any sane smithy. He blindly reached out to the plate at his side to gather another piece of wood. His hand met nothing but air. Arwin blinked. He moved his hand from side to side, but still it found nothing. He lifted his gaze away from the ball of magma perched in his other palm and turned it toward his pile of wood. There was nothing left. Every single piece was already within the magma, singing together in harmony. Not just together with him, but with each other. He’d finished the preparations without even realizing it. Arwin only let himself be stunned for a moment. He forced his body back into motion and quickly removed the pieces of wood from the lava. They were blackened and burnt, but he could tell from their song that the damage was only external. After a few minutes of scraping away at them with [Scourge] empowered fingers, Arwin cleaned the ash away and was left with tanned, perfectly prepared pieces of wood that were practically humming with magic and intent. He didn’t let himself gloat. The preparation was done, but the work was far from finished. All he had was a pile of wood that was ready to be formed into an arm. It had yet to be made. For a moment, Arwin hesitated. The last time he’d made a Cursed item, the Wyrm had made itself known before he’d started working. But the Ashleaf Tree was silent. It had yet to make an appearance. His lips thinned and Arwin shook his head. If the Tree didn’t want to cooperate, then that was fine. He couldn’t wait around for it. Either it would come or it wouldn’t.