The micro-fractures are spreading. Right shoulder plate took too much strain during the Verdan job. Hairline cracks webbing across the beskar alloy like lightning frozen in metal.
Can't ignore it anymore. In combat, those cracks become failure points. One well-placed shot and the plate shatters. Exposes the mesh beneath. Exposes me.
Been transmitting on covert frequencies. Old codes from the scattered Mandalorians. Looking for a forge, a smith, anyone who can work beskar without the Empire noticing.
Found a lead on Nevarro. Someone claiming to know a clan that still maintains the old ways. Secret forge, hidden beneath the city. Dangerous territory—the Guild has eyes everywhere, and the Empire's remnants are still hunting our kind.
But I need those plates repaired. Armor is my soul, and my soul is cracking.
Heading to Nevarro tomorrow. Mask on, helmet sealed, frequencies locked.
This is the way.