Zorko's Arcane Appraisal

The Oil Can to The Gauntlet

---

“Welcome,” Zorko said, voice thick with wonder and reverence, “to the place where the earth forgets to stand still.”

He stepped off the transport skiff and onto obsidian stone that vibrated faintly underfoot, the resonance of nearby motion pulsing like a second heartbeat. His robes shifted in the warm wind, crimson fabric fluttering above soot-black sand. The orb hovered at his shoulder, lens widening to take in the view.

“Even the shadows sprint here,” he murmured. “This isn’t a city. It’s a breathless engine, dreaming of speed.”

Before him stretched the vast training grounds: a campus of domed stables, radiant forges, spell-slicked tracks, and winding trails braided with copper wire and rune-glass plates. The track looped in great parabolic sweeps that shimmered in the desert heat, flanked by storm-ward towers and sun-hardened stands. Mecha Ponies, part flesh, part spell, part machine, pounded across the far curve in synchronized rhythm. Each gallop was a declaration of physics defied.

Zorko held his phoenix feather at his heart, blinking against the sun.

“Not hooves, but hymns. Not mounts, but myths made mobile.”

The orb flickered once, almost shyly.

In the distance, a trainer whistled. A pony’s flanks hissed steam. Gears clicked. Glyphs flared. The world moved forward without apology.

Zorko took his first step toward the campus gate.

“Let us witness motion sanctified.”

The gate opened without a creak, only a soft hiss, as if exhaling. Zorko stepped through, and the world expanded.

The interior of the BlackSand Training Campus pulsed with life—not life as nature knew it, but engineered, orchestrated, elevated. Around him, glass-paneled buildings gleamed in the sun, their walls embedded with rune-strips glowing faintly in copper and green. Overhead, a cooling grid held aloft by levitation stones shimmered, filtering the heat into charged sigils that powered various systems.

A line of standard ponies—sleek, muscular, clad in padded training gear—trotted past him, their hooves striking the rune-etched pavement with disciplined precision. Trainers jogged alongside, whispering commands in a mix of words and whistled tones. Above them, an enchanted scoreboard flickered as new lap data flowed in. Magical quills scribbled midair beside levitating ledgers.

To the left, Zorko glimpsed a hydro-cryogenic therapy station, where a pony stood ankle-deep in glowing teal liquid, eyes half-closed as steam coiled from vents on its flanks. Beside it, a stable mage adjusted a floating diagram showing microfractures in a titanium tendon graft.

Zorko slowed, eyes wide.

“This is not a track,” he whispered. “It is a breathing temple. Every breath, a calibration. Every heartbeat, a lap.”

The orb captured it all: steam over steel sinew, the soft hum of arcane generators, the quiet symphony of discipline.

A spell technician darted past him, a stack of rune tablets nearly toppling from her arms.

“’Scuse me! Diagnostic emergency in Bay Nine!”

She vanished into a curved corridor. Somewhere behind him, a voice barked, “RECALIBRATE GAIT VECTOR, NOW!” followed by the sharp ping of a hoof striking a too-fast treadmill.

Zorko didn’t flinch. He smiled.

“Even the chaos here knows its role.”

Zorko followed the scent of burnt ozone and polished brass to the far edge of the main track, a wide, silver-veined oval etched with concentric glyphs that glowed with every hoof strike. The orb shifted closer to his shoulder, as if sensing something ahead.

There, near the north rail, stood a figure in a half-cape of dark blue over high-collared desert gear. One gloved hand rested lightly on the track’s guard rail. The other held a thin wand of obsidian, which tapped slowly against his boot. His eyes—sharp, alert, deeply present—tracked a single Mecha Pony galloping the curve ahead. The pony’s mane streamed in metallic strands, and its hooves sparked with rune feedback at each impact.

“Stride’s too short,” the man murmured, almost to himself. “Pressure glyphs on the rear left fetlock need retuning. Intake whine’s a fraction too high. She’s overcorrecting through the curve.”

Zorko paused a few paces behind him, not daring to speak. The orb hovered between them, silent.

The man, unmistakably Azazel of the Astral Plane, raised his wand to signal the control tower. A soft tone sounded, and the Mecha Pony slowed to a canter, then a walk, steam venting from shoulder ports.

An assistant jogged up, out of breath but smiling.

“Sir, alloy shipment from the Salt Coast just cleared customs. Do you want the cores loaded into Bay Eleven?”

Azazel extended the wand sideways without looking. The assistant passed him a crystal slate. Azazel signed it with a flick, eyes still on the pony.

“Eleven’s fine. Tell Yanni to test harmonic resonance before initial fusing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The assistant vanished, already tapping out messages as he moved.

Azazel let out a breath—the kind only a builder gives when the machine almost sings. Then he spoke, still not turning.

“You must be Zorko.”

Zorko stepped forward slowly, reverently, as if approaching a shrine that had just spoken.

“I am honored, Shaman Azazel,” he said, sweeping into a bow that trailed his crimson sleeves through the heat-heavy air. “Your reputation precedes you, though I now suspect it undersells the reality.”

Azazel turned. For a brief moment, his intensity softened, replaced by a worn-in smile. He extended his hand with casual warmth.

“Please, just Azazel today. You’re not here for a consultation. You’re here for the ride.”

They shook hands. Zorko’s fingers barely touched Azazel’s calloused grip before he was drawn forward by the quiet momentum of a man always in motion.

“I’ve read your scrolls,” Azazel said, already walking. “The one about the haunted compass? Beautiful stuff. Wrong about magnetic ghosts, but beautiful.”

Zorko blinked. “Ghosts are notoriously shy on record.”

Azazel laughed. “That they are.”

They passed a hydration bay where a Mecha Pony nosed gently at a floating mineral sphere before biting into it with a hiss of citrus-salt energy. Technicians nearby tracked readings on floating rune-holos.

The orb hovered to keep pace. It pulsed once, capturing Zorko’s widening eyes.

“You built all this?” Zorko asked, his voice caught between awe and disbelief.

“Designed most of it,” Azazel replied, leading them toward a corridor of gleaming test rooms. “The rest came from people who believed in what we’re building.”

He gestured to a young trainer adjusting a hoof coupling while singing softly to her pony.

“And what we’re building is faster.”

Zorko paused, taking it in—the rhythm, the precision, the way BlackSand moved through brass and breath.

“Welcome,” Azazel said, opening a door with a whisper and a gesture, “to the future of performance.”

The orb clicked once, softly.

Azazel led Zorko along a curved walkway to a shaded viewing bench beside a narrower, silver-banded track. This circuit shimmered faintly with enchanted insulation, heat rippling from the surface in measured waves.

A distant chime rang. A gate opened.

Then—a blur.

A Mecha Pony burst from the gate, its legs a flickering staccato of jointed alloys and padded hoof rings. The sound was less gallop than percussion, each strike perfectly timed, syncopated, alive. Steam hissed from underplate vents as it leaned into the curve like a hawk banking in flight.

Zorko sat, stunned, one hand clasped over his feather.

“By the engines of the ancients…”

Azazel didn’t sit. He watched, listened.

“Eighty-seven percent stride efficiency. Still climbing.”

The orb captured the pony’s motion—slow at first, then accelerating into clear lines of muscular piston work. Azazel spoke again, not to impress but to illuminate.

“Notice the leg lift. Tight but not restricted. New polymer struts. Hybrid cooling-glyph braid running through the shoulder coil. Keeps the system from overheating during high-torque bursts.”

Zorko barely heard him.

“It moves like an argument against gravity.”

Azazel nodded. “It moves like practice.”

The pony skidded to a perfect halt twenty meters past the far mark. A blast of cooling mist sprayed around it, followed by quiet applause from a shaded group of young trainers.

Azazel finally sat.

“Speed’s not the goal,” he said. “It’s the evidence.”

Zorko tilted his head. “Of what?”

Azazel smiled.

“Harmony.”

He reached into the side of the bench, where a reinforced satchel hung by a single brass hook. With the same casual precision he brought to everything, he drew out a square case wrapped in protective charm-thread and opened it with a flick of his thumb.

Inside: a small, deeply matte oil can, resting on dark velvet like a relic in a chapel.

Its body was industrial—no ornament, no etchings—but the surface shimmered faintly, like something breathing just beneath the metal. Not light reflecting. Something else. Inside, the oil didn’t slosh. It pulsed.

Zorko leaned forward, eyes wide.

“What… is that?”

“The BlackSand Oil Can,” Azazel said simply. “Only seventy-one in existence. Crafted during the airdrop celebration, but that’s not the important part.”

He picked it up gently.

“This stuff? It’s everything.”

Zorko rose slowly. The orb hummed, drawing closer.

Azazel turned the can in the light, letting the shimmer roll.

“No import. No trade. No formula leaves BlackSand. It’s what keeps our Mechas running. Not just functioning—thriving in conditions that would eat lesser mounts alive.”

He placed the can on the bench between them.

“You asked me once,” Azazel continued, “how we get ponies this fast. This is part of the answer.”

Zorko didn’t reply. He stared at the oil like it was reciting scripture only he could hear.

He circled the oil can with the cautious awe of a priest approaching a relic too holy to touch.

He knelt.

“This is no lubricant. This is a conjuration. Refined reverence. A blood rite of machines. It doesn’t glisten… it waits.”

Azazel raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Zorko continued, eyes alight.

“Surely this is drawn from the marrow of forgotten engines. It smells like thunder about to decide something. I wouldn’t be surprised if it whispered gear-teeth dreams when left alone.”

Azazel smiled. Not condescending. Just amused.

“We’ve never heard it whisper.”

“But you don’t deny it?”

Azazel shrugged, still smiling.

“It does what it needs to. I focus on that.”

Zorko rose, robes settling around him like stage drapery.

“It must be sacred to the Bots. I’ve read they seek it in pilgrimage. Some say to consume it directly, as if it feeds their soul-circuitry.”

Azazel gave a small nod.

“They do. And it does.”

Zorko looked at him sharply.

“And yet… it’s here. In a training center. Not locked in a vault or atop some glowing monolith.”

Azazel looked back to the pony track, where a new unit began its warm-up laps.

“It’s not rare because it’s holy,” he said. “It’s rare because we made it rare.”

The orb flickered, as if unsure how to interpret that.

Zorko didn’t answer. He was still staring at the can like it might blink.

The can remained on the bench, unassuming, quiet. Zorko studied it like it might sprout runes.

Azazel tapped his thumb lightly against his knee.

“You want to see torque ratios next? We’ve got one of the rear-pulser models doing acceleration drills. They’ll scorch the track surface if we don’t stagger the heat sinks.”

Zorko turned to him slowly, still halfway to poetry.

“You mean to say there’s a… dance to the boiling point?”

Azazel grinned. “Something like that.”

Just then, a young assistant trotted up, holding a dataplate in one hand and a cooling cloth in the other.

“Shaman, the carbon-tuned fetlock prosthetics are arriving a day early. Should we reroute them to Bay Twelve?”

Azazel didn’t miss a beat.

“Twelve’s tight on space. Send them to Seven, then slide the kinetic calibration pods into Twelve by dusk. Rotate Xyla’s team forward to prep.”

“Yes, sir.”

The assistant held up the plate. Azazel took it, scribbled his signature, and handed it back.

“And tell Mira to triple-check the chill rune tolerances on the install pads. We’re not melting another hoof.”

The assistant nodded and vanished in a jog.

Azazel turned back to Zorko without pause.

“It’s not just the oil. Or the mechanics. It’s the ecosystem. Everything feeding everything else.”

Zorko glanced at the bench, then the track, then Azazel.

“You don’t run a facility,” he said slowly. “You conduct a symphony.”

Azazel smiled again.

“Not really. I just listen well.”

The orb flickered, unusually warm.

Zorko hadn’t sat back down. He hovered near the bench, fingers steepled like a theologian mid-epiphany, the BlackSand Oil Can still resting before him like an offering plate at the altar of velocity.

“You know,” he said slowly, “it would explain a great many things.”

Azazel raised an eyebrow. “What would?”

Zorko took a breath, as if preparing to deliver gospel.

“The resurgence of BlackSand. The perfection of these Mecha Ponies. The balance between heat, motion, and soul. You said it yourself—seventy-one cans. Not exported. Not duplicated. Why?”

Azazel leaned back slightly, amused.

“Because it’s hard to make.”

Zorko ignored him.

“Because it doesn’t want to be made again. This isn’t oil. It’s a vessel. A will. Perhaps even a fallen god, reduced to essence and sealed in alloy. A deity of friction and form.”

Azazel chuckled. “A fallen god, huh?”

Zorko was already pacing.

“You laugh, but think. This oil hums when no one’s watching. It pulses. It doesn’t mix. It refuses dilution. That’s not chemistry. That’s conviction. It isn’t used. It chooses.”

The orb blinked.

Azazel said nothing. He simply stood, picked up the oil can, slid it gently back into the velvet-lined case, and closed it.

“Come on,” he said. “You should see where it actually works.”

“I see,” Zorko said softly. “It isn’t a relic.”

“No,” Azazel replied. “It’s a result.”

The orb pulsed once, a gentle glow fading into a flicker of orange.

A parchment-colored puff of smoke unfurled near the paddock, trailing whispers of burnt scrolls and stabled secrets.

Uvlius of the Belfry stepped through, robes faintly singed at the hem, clipboard in one hand, the other already pointing toward a passing Mecha Pony with the enthusiasm of a seasoned scholar spotting a myth in motion.

“Azazel,” he said, not yet looking at him. “That drift modulation unit. Version four?”

Azazel turned, startled only by the direction, not the presence.

“Five-point-three,” he corrected. “We swapped the gradient shelling after the heat fractures.”

Uvlius whistled, quietly, scientifically.

“Elegant. Inefficient on paper, but elegant.”

Zorko looked between the two, eyebrows raised.

“Uvlius, you’re... smiling?”

Uvlius blinked. “I am?”

Azazel clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You always were a closet racing man.”

“Not closet,” Uvlius replied. “My attendance at Ether Cup finals is a matter of public record.”

He turned to Zorko, eyes glinting behind his spectacles.

“Do you know what this is?” He gestured broadly at the paddocks, the rigs, the humming towers. “This is precision ritual. It’s what you get when obsession marries infrastructure.”

The orb let out a delighted ping, as if finally catching someone saying exactly what it had hoped for.

Azazel chuckled. “You came for the oil, didn’t you?”

Uvlius nodded, adjusting his clipboard.

“Among other things. Consider me... personally invested.”

Azazel led them past a maintenance bay humming with ley-field generators and glimmering gear arrays. Trainers called out distances and commands to Mecha Ponies on treadmills sloped like canyon trails.

Then, casually, Azazel opened a reinforced cabinet marked with flame and frost runes.

From inside, he retrieved a small, unassuming metal canister—matte black, etched with a swirling obsidian pattern that shimmered slightly depending on the angle of the light.

“This,” Azazel said, holding it with care, “is why we win.”

Zorko leaned in, the orb hovering inches from the artifact, humming softly.

Uvlius reached toward it with a gloved finger, then hesitated.

“May I?”

Azazel nodded. “Please.”

Uvlius touched it. His expression shifted toward awe.

“That texture—almost fractal. The pressure seal is inverted. And... is this quantum lacing?”

Azazel grinned. “That’s proprietary.”

“Of course,” Uvlius said, still staring.

Zorko tilted his head.

“It looks like a very fancy oil can.”

Azazel gave a short laugh.

“It is. But it’s also a biological stabilizer. An energy transducer. A trust pact. To Mechas, it’s not just fuel—it’s food, medicine, therapy, and belief.”

Zorko stepped back, letting the orb zoom in.

“And this can?”

“One of seventy-one,” Uvlius answered. “Originally distributed during the centenary celebration of Wizard Wednesday. Never sold. Only awarded.”

“Correct,” Azazel confirmed. “This one’s mine. I’ve used it ever since. Modified the recipe, of course. Now... every winning Mecha gets a taste.”

The orb flickered gently, reverently, like a candle before a shrine.

Azazel sealed the can and returned it to its shelf.

“You wanted to know the secret, Zorko? That’s it. Not speed. Not fire. Not thunder. Care.”

The rumble hit first. Then the blur.

Four Mecha Ponies rocketed across the track, engines thrumming like thunderclouds in a cage. Each one shone in unique armor—sleek black plating, chrome-tipped manes, hooves sparking on impact. Their neck vents hissed steam. Their eye-rings pulsed, bright and rhythmic.

Zorko’s feather fluttered, useless in the raw wind.

“Oh. Oh, they’re fast.”

Azazel barely blinked.

“Still a touch slow out of turn three,” he murmured. “Moonkick’s gait is sloppy, and Cascade’s left vent is overcorrecting her lean. I’ve got to tune the triple-axis stabilizer before tomorrow.”

A clipboard appeared in his hand. Where it came from, Zorko couldn’t say.

Uvlius leaned forward, visibly thrilled, coat edges flaring in the grit-swept air.

“Do they retain impact patterns after high-velocity collisions?”

Azazel nodded.

“Trauma-mapping platelets integrated into their lower shank matrix. Not only do they remember a crash—they learn from it.”

Another assistant jogged up, holding a pair of scrolls and a lemon pastry.

“Shaman Azazel—signoff on the drift-mod schematic? And your breakfast.”

Azazel signed one, ignored the other.

“Tell the kitchens—no sugar until we break sub-six seconds.”

The assistant nodded solemnly and vanished.

The Mechas looped the eastern turn, kicking up trails of scorched dust. One of them—a lithe, steel-blue pony labeled Thistlebyte—cut the curve too sharply.

Zorko gasped.

Thistlebyte stumbled, one leg grinding against the guard line, sending out a shriek of tortured alloy. The Mecha skidded sideways, flipped once, and crashed into the magnetic runoff field.

The orb sizzled. Uvlius flinched. Zorko winced theatrically.

“That—was—violent.”

Azazel was already moving. He vaulted the rail, crossed the dirt, and reached Thistlebyte before the echo had faded. One hand on the chassis. The other on the pulse gem.

He waited. Then he nodded.

“She’s alright,” he called out. “Core stayed stable. Just needs a rethreading on the left knee conduit.”

Uvlius was scribbling furiously.

“Do all Mechas carry gem-linked biosentience?”

Azazel returned, brushing soot from his coat.

“Only the elite models. Emotion is fuel, too.”

Zorko placed a hand on his chest.

“Emotion is... fuel. What a phrase. What poetry. May I borrow that?”

Azazel smiled. “You can try.”

Zorko turned to the orb, eyes wide.

“Viewers, this is no ordinary practice lap. This is a ballet of brutality. A concerto of combustion. We stand at the intersection of velocity and vision.”

The orb flickered with awe.

Azazel stepped between them again, raising his voice over the whirring wind.

“Come. There’s one more layer to this. The rider-pony sync. It’s where instincts meet interface.”

He led them toward another section of the track where three riders in full racing gear stood beside their Mechas. They wore gauntlets wired to the ponies’ neck joints and visors gleaming with telepathic sigils.

Zorko whispered, “Is this... bonding?”

Azazel said, “Better. It’s partnership.”

A single tone rang out. The riders mounted.

Three Mechas surged forward—less as machines, more as thoughts given form. Every gallop was a decision. Every pivot, a sentence in a new language.

Uvlius spoke reverently.

“This is art.”

Azazel’s grin widened, unguarded.

“No. This is BlackSand.”

Azazel stepped away from the rail, motioning for Zorko and Uvlius to follow.

“Come. The real magic happens under the canopy.”

They passed through a pair of high archways into a corridor lined with equestrian murals—stylized depictions of Mecha Ponies mid-gallop, each framed with bursts of magical circuitry and feathers. The hallway opened into a vast octagonal chamber, the workshop proper, where light streamed through hex-glass domes and the buzz of arcane machinery harmonized with the distant neighs of metal-shod hooves.

Dozens of staff moved in quiet synchronization: grooms brushing chrome-plated withers, engineers tweaking resonance cores, handlers whispering calibration mantras.

“Welcome,” Azazel said, arms wide, “to the beating heart of BlackSand.”

Zorko’s eyes roamed across brass wind tunnels, floating gyroscopic saddles, levitating test crystals, and scroll racks with enchantments flickering along the spines.

“Is that a telemetric scrying bench?” he asked, pointing.

“Among other things,” Azazel smiled. “That one’s tuned to pain thresholds. Helps us measure strain before it becomes injury.”

A young assistant jogged up with a clipboard.

“Sir, prototype number nine needs your approval on the fuel blend ratio.”

Azazel signed without looking, his other hand gesturing toward a suspended oil rack.

“And now, the secret,” he said, moving toward a vault-lined pedestal in the chamber’s center.

Uvlius leaned in, eyes bright.

“The Oil Can.”

Azazel pulled away a velvet cover, revealing a matte-black container—curved like a teardrop and capped in copper runes.

Zorko crouched instinctively.

“You refined this?”

“I led the team. It took four winters and one very angry kelp elemental.”

He unscrewed the top. A sliver of scent escaped—earthy, electric, like rain on hot stone blended with warm mint and cold iron.

Azazel held the can reverently.

“This oil isn’t just lubricant. It’s memory. Synthesized from ancient residues found beneath Imperium’s ruins. Mixed with desert wind dust. Infused with low-frequency pulse magic. It remembers how to run.”

Zorko looked up.

“A memory oil?”

“Exactly. We call it Pony Recall. Once it’s inside a mount, it awakens mechanical reflexes. Anticipates strain. Corrects posture. It doesn’t just help them move—it wants them to move.”

Uvlius allowed a rare smile.

“I’ve read of this. Failed attempts. Lost formulas. I assumed the oil was legend.”

Azazel chuckled.

“It was. Until we made it real.”

A distant clanging echoed—the sound of a misfire on the far track. No one flinched.

Zorko took a slow breath, rising.

“This facility, these ponies, this oil... this isn’t a racing center. It’s a temple.”

Azazel’s gaze softened.

“Then may we worship well.”

He turned to a nearby Mecha Pony, currently suspended mid-air as a groom polished its chrome fetlocks.

“This one’s named Pulse,” Azazel said. “She’s our top sprinter. Want to see her fire up?”

Azazel tapped a rune on the pony’s flank. A low hum began—deep and resonant, like a mountain waking up. The pony’s eyes lit with violet-blue flame. Hooves spun once in the air.

“Fuel status?” Azazel called.

“BlackSand Oil at full infusion,” the groom replied.

The room quieted.

Azazel stepped to the pony’s head, placed a hand along the bridle, and whispered:

“Let them see you.”

The hum sharpened into a whine. A pulse of light streaked across the runes lining her flank.

Zorko staggered back, shielding his eyes.

“She’s... vibrating between frames.”

“Just a phase-blink,” Azazel grinned. “She’s choosing which version of fast she wants to be.”

Pulse landed. Metal hooves touched stone. She didn’t move.

“Now,” Azazel said quietly, “watch.”

He stepped back and snapped his fingers once.

Pulse was gone.

Only a gust of displaced air and a shimmering afterimage remained—a ghost of her form twenty yards away.

Zorko gasped.

“That wasn’t teleportation.”

“No,” Azazel said, beaming. “That was velocity.”

Uvlius gave a long, reverent whistle.

“Oil,” Azazel said, replacing the cap on the can, “isn’t just a product. It’s the difference between movement and momentum. Between potential... and purpose.”

The orb hovered closer, humming softly. As it did, Zorko whispered toward it:

“This is why we appraise.”

Zorko’s nod was immediate.

The trio walked a curving path that wove between low sandstone buildings and training circles lined with obsidian markers. Ahead, a walled arena glowed with runes. Dust billowed within, kicked up by pounding hooves—a blur of color and motion behind enchanted shields.

“This is the Gauntlet,” Azazel said. “Where ponies earn their edges. Precision. Endurance. Bravery.”

Inside, a lean Mecha Pony thundered through a shifting course of levitating rings, moving walls, and elemental hazards. A burst of wind knocked a flaming hoop off axis; the pony adjusted mid-air, skimming through sideways. The crowd—staff and other trainers—erupted in cheers.

Uvlius’s eyes sparkled with unspoken calculations.

“This track simulates battlefield chaos.”

“Racing isn’t just speed,” Azazel said. “It’s problem-solving. It’s poise.”

They reached a private overlook. A table had already been set: chilled fruit slices, sparkling blackwater, and a silver tray holding three polished badges—shaped like racing stirrups, etched with the crest of BlackSand.

Zorko touched one.

“Gifts?”

“Mementos,” Azazel nodded. “And markers.”

“For what?” Uvlius asked, eyeing the subtle magic pulsing in the metal.

Azazel leaned in slightly.

“For those who’ve seen what we’re building. Who understand that this is more than a stable. It’s a sanctuary.”

Zorko picked up his badge and felt its pulse—like the rhythm of galloping hooves.

“It’s... warm.”

“Attuned to conviction,” Azazel said.

Behind them, another Mecha launched into the Gauntlet—faster, smoother, deflecting a falling rock barrier with a force pulse that sent dust curling in spirals of violet.

Zorko turned to Azazel, his eyes unusually solemn.

“You know this can’t be ignored. What you’re building here… it’s not just innovation. It’s evolution.”

Azazel didn’t look proud. He looked satisfied.

“We’ve only just started.”

Uvlius, normally reserved, stepped to the edge of the overlook. His gaze followed the pony weaving between fire jets and crystal shards. He spoke quietly, almost to himself:

“I used to think magic had limits.”

Azazel clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“It does. Until you pair it with courage.”

The orb circled, slowly zooming out. Below, the arena burned with motion. Trainers called out adjustments. Mechas howled through jumps.

Above it all, the shimmer of the BlackSand crest pulsed from a glass dome, catching the light of the descending sun.

Zorko raised his badge to the camera.

“Viewers... today’s appraisal wasn’t about gold. Or rarity. It was about purpose. Precision. And the people—and ponies—who chase something greater.”

Azazel stepped into frame.

“You’re welcome in BlackSand anytime, Zorko. Bring your boots. And a helmet.”

The orb panned skyward.

Behind it: a city reborn. Racing toward the horizon. Black sand flying.

And the echo of hooves that refused to be forgotten.

Entered by: 0x6424…79B4