Chapter 21 - Chapter 20 -Where the Smoke Leads

Chapter 20 -Where the Smoke Leads

The stitcher handed me the coat without ceremony.

"Lining's set," she said. "Mesh is sealed. Don't stab with anything stupid this time."

I paid her 200 shards for the service, accepting the folded bundle of Reboot Suit and longcoat cradled against my arm like a newborn made of soot and wire. The fabric was warm—still carrying the heat of the table—and smelled faintly of oil, resin, and blaze.

Sula waited outside, arms crossed, watching the market.

We didn't speak at first. Just walked.

The Grove had started to quiet. Not empty—just slower. Midday lull settling in. Smoke from the cookfires curled low across the path as vendors restocked or argued about root weights under their breath. Somewhere, a child shrieked with laughter. Another called for a lost hound.

Sula said nothing, but I felt her eyes drift to the bundle in my arms more than once.

It wasn't until we ducked into a narrow alley between drying racks and the back wall of the ink-smith's lodge that she finally spoke.

"You gonna carry that all day like a widow's blanket?" she asked.

"Was thinking about it," I said. "But I've got a better option."

I stopped, rested the bundle on one knee, and tapped the side of my wrist.

[NANOBOY 3000 — ACCESS GRANTED]

Action: STORE — Reboot Suit + Longcoat bundle

Mist hissed from the module. The coat shimmered, folded into geometric patterns, and vanished into the compression field.

Sula watched it happen, arms still folded, but her tone shifted—half-dry, half-genuine. "Your magic sure makes things convenient."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean the thing that makes me look like a hoarder with style?"

She smirked. "Better than looking like a scavver with scoliosis."

I blinked. "How the hell do you know that word?"

Sula shrugged, still walking. "Picked up a few things from Curie. She likes to explain injuries with detail."

I gave her a sidelong glance. "So now you're just saying fancy medical terms to sound smart."

She didn't miss a beat. "Is it working?"

I snorted. "Unfortunately, yes."

She grinned and nodded ahead.

"Let's go wake up Ubba."

I glanced up at the sun. "It's midday. Shouldn't she already be awake?"

Sula huffed. "You gave her a lot of ideas."

"Yeah?"

"There's no way her sleep schedule is normal right now. She's probably been designing and hammering for two days straight."

I winced. "So I should brace for yelling, sparks, or both."

Sula nodded. "Or schematics for something that shouldn't exist."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're speaking from experience?"

"She once tried to design a spear that could fold into a crossbow mid-swing."

"…Did it work?"

"She set a wall on fire."

I smirked. "There's actually Old One media that depicts stuff like that. Weapons that shift and fold mid-combat—blades turning into guns, axes snapping into cannons."

Sula gave me a sharp look. "Don't tell Ubba that!"

I held up a hand. "Relax. Most of those weapons were impractical anyway. They only worked because of magic and materials that don't exist."

Sula didn't look convinced. "Ubba doesn't need magic to try ignoring physics."

I didn't say anything at first. Just kept walking, but the thought stuck. Honestly? If I could ask for one impossible weapon, it wouldn't be a transforming sword or some cursed anime blade. It'd be Ember Celica. Yang's gauntlets. Shotgun chambers in the forearms, impact-triggered recoil—turning punches into explosions. Elegant in the dumbest way.

Then my mind flicked back. Fallout had something like that. Not just the Power Fist. The Ballistic Fist. Looked like a slab of steel duct-taped to a compressed shotgun, but every punch was a buckshot uppercut. Brutal. Direct. No wasted movement.

I glanced down at my hands.

Yeah. If Ubba ever asked what I really wanted... that'd be the one.

This world didn't need to follow the same path the Old Ones did. Back then, melee combat was dead. Efficient ranged firepower and drones made sure of that. But now? Melee mattered again. Not because bullets were gone—but because machines didn't flinch at lead the way they did at metal and force. And the human mind… it hadn't regressed with the fall. If anything, it evolved. All that instinct, all that ancestral violence—reignited by the challenge of surviving among machines. Add GAIA's influence—bladed beasts, armored juggernauts, artificial nerves wrapped in steel—and you had a forge of necessity that could twist old ideas into something entirely new.

Ubba's Railwhistle was proof. The Old Ones never would've built it. Why would they? Guns were already cheap, fast, mass-produced. But now? That rail-powered spike cannon was smarter than any pipe rifle. Tribal metallurgy, machine salvage, and sheer stubborn creativity—turned into a weapon that screamed. A gun not made in spite of the world, but because of it.

I glanced down at my wrist again.

Yeah. Ember Celica. The Ballistic Fist. Maybe not exactly... but something like it could exist. Not a relic. Not nostalgia. A weapon born here.

We rounded the corner and stepped into the mouth of the Pile.

Heat slammed into me first—thick, soot-heavy, the kind of air that stuck to your skin and made every breath taste like iron and resin. The forge-tunnels pulsed with light, rhythmic flashes of molten glow from the belly furnaces lining the walls. Smoke curled from vents carved into the ribbed structure of the dead Horus, rising like incense in worship of progress.

And then—

CHNK.

A loud metallic thunk echoed from somewhere up above. I looked up just in time to see the anchor claw of a repurposed Ropecaster slam into a scaffold beam with a sharp clatter. A split-second later, the whine of an overclocked motor screamed through the Pile—and something came flying.

Correction: someone.

No—not someone. A mannequin.

Dressed in full Legionnaire gear.

It shot through the air like a ragdoll shot from a trebuchet, arms flailing, helm bouncing loose mid-flight.

CRACK.

It collided headfirst with the scaffold brace and crumpled like overcooked jerky, tumbling limply to the forge floor below. The metal helmet clanged off the ground a half-second later, spinning in slow, mocking circles before toppling over.

Sula blinked. "...What the hell was that?"

I squinted. "Either someone's inventing anti-Legion mannequins... or Ubba's trying to weaponize disrespect."

From somewhere deeper in the forge, we heard a voice.

"Damn it! Too much tension in the recoil drum! He's supposed to somersault, not detonate!"

Sula sighed. "She's awake."

I stepped over the crumpled mannequin—its torso twisted, arm still twitching from a badly rigged servo loop. The rope was still taut, dragging across the beam where the anchor had latched.

I crouched, squinting at the mechanism.

"She's got the launch down," I muttered. "But this thing doesn't know when to quit."

Sula raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

I tapped the coil casing. "There's no cutoff. The moment it hooks, the motor just keeps pulling like it's trying to reel in a Thunderjaw. That's why your fake Legionnaire ate scaffold."

She crossed her arms. "You're saying you could do better?"

"I'm saying," I replied, standing up, "that you put a release mechanism here—right under the grip, maybe a palm-plate trigger—so the user can stop the pull mid-flight. Or better: a timed shutoff. Pulls for two seconds, then disengages and lets momentum handle the rest."

Sula looked at the broken dummy, then back at me. "You want to give launch control to someone in mid-air?"

"Better than giving it to gravity and a runaway winch," I said.

From deeper in the forge, something hissed. Then sparked. Then exploded with a bang and a shout.

"DAMN IT, NOT AGAIN!"

Sula didn't flinch.

"Yep," she said. "Ubba's definitely awake."

A door clanged open on the upper gantry. Sparks flared, and a soot-streaked figure leaned over the railing, holding a charred wrench in one hand and a half-melted clipboard in the other.

"You two gonna keep flirting by the mannequin pile," Ubba called down, "or are you here to contribute to progress?"

Sula cupped a hand to her mouth. "He just saved your prototype from snapping necks!"

Ubba squinted. "Which part?"

I pointed at the smoking wreckage and shouted up, "Add a release switch! Or limit the motor's pull time. Right now it just yanks until physics stops it—and physics is a bitch."

Ubba froze.

Then she straightened. Real slow. Like someone just handed her a fresh schematic and a marriage proposal in the same breath.

She tossed the clipboard over the railing—it bounced off a barrel and hit the floor with a hollow clunk. "Alright, no. Nope. Sula, listen to me real close—if you don't claim him soon, I will. And not just for testing."

Sula's expression didn't change. "He's got sharp eyes, not a death wish."

Ubba grinned. "That's your window closing."

Then she turned, shouting over her shoulder into the forge depths. "OY! Spanner Kids! We're adding a cutoff trigger and a manual override! And if any of you break another rope drum, I'm using your ribs for mounting brackets!"

A chorus of "Yes, Forge Mistress!" echoed back.

I blinked. "That's not an idle threat, is it?"

Sula gave me a flat look. "Ubba doesn't make threats. She makes prototypes."

Ubba reappeared a second later, hammer slung over her shoulder, soot clinging to her skin like a second paint layer. She pointed the head of the hammer at me.

"Alright, Prettyboy. You've earned workshop privileges. What else you got for me?"

I didn't answer her right away.

Instead, I tapped the side of my wrist and brought up the interface..

[NANOBOY 3000 – ACCESS GRANTED]

Action: DEPLOY — STORED UNIT: STRIKER (Rion-Designated) – "BOXER" VARIANT

Mist hissed from the compression seams. Blue light swirled and condensed—then the machine dropped.

THUD.

Humanoid frame. Heavy. Built like it remembered what violence felt like. Gauntlets clenched. Limbs locked mid-tension. One optic dimmed as it rolled lifelessly on the blackstone floor.

Ubba froze.

Then blinked.

Then stalked forward like she was approaching a sacred relic. She crouched beside it, eyes drinking in every detail—the curve of the shoulders, the socketed joints, the tension in the spine.

Sula folded her arms. "You've seen these before."

Ubba nodded. "A few. Not like this. Most of the graybone walkers we strip are half-rotted, jammed with corrosion or fused circuits. But this one's clean. And... look at those arms. The support plating is coiled—not layered. That's tensile design."

I stepped beside her. "We ran into it in the sublevels beneath Newton Medical."

Ubba's eyes didn't leave the body. "It attacked you?"

I nodded. "Did more than that. It fought me. Not like a berserker. Not like a machine. Like a trained combatant. Fast. Tight form. Precision strikes. Guard work."

Ubba frowned. "Guard?"

I pointed to its curled fists. "I think it's using a style from the Old Ones. A real one. Hand-to-hand—no blade, no spear. I'm calling them Strikers. This one? The 'Boxer' variant."

Sula stepped in. "It dodged. Adjusted. Tried to read spacing. Hit Rion hard enough to rattle teeth."

Ubba blinked. "That's not a random killbot, then."

"Nope," I said. "It's a mimic. Learning from footage, probably. Old security logs. Training sims. Could've pulled it from anywhere."

Ubba's voice dropped to a whisper. "That means they remember." She rose, hands twitching. "We could learn so much from this thing."

She spun on Sula.

"If you don't lock this one down, I will. That's the second time today."

Sula groaned audibly. "Do I need to hang a sign around his neck?"

Ubba grinned. "Only if it reads 'Not for sale but willing to negotiate.'"

She turned back to the machine and whispered, "You're mine now, graybone. I'm going to tear your secrets out piece by beautiful piece."

I folded my arms. "Should I be flattered or worried?"

Ubba answered without turning. "Yes."

Ubba didn't touch the machine right away.

She circled it twice more, eyes darting over every seam, every servo, like she was scanning it with sheer willpower. Then she stopped. Turned slowly. And looked at me with that kind of narrowed expression you usually saw right before molten metal got thrown across a workshop.

"…Wait," she said. "Why didn't you drop this off last time you were here?"

Sula's head tilted. I could feel her eyebrow going up without even looking.

I cleared my throat. "I… might've forgotten."

Ubba blinked. "You forgot?"

I shifted. "We were focused on getting the stim for Jorta. Priorities."

Her face didn't move. Just that slow, incredulous stare.

"You forgot to give me a fully intact, human-shaped warbot with tension-synced servos and adaptive guard stances."

"I said might've," I mumbled.

Ubba shook her head. "You know, I was this close—this close—to dragging you into the metal loft just for bringing me good parts and speaking in full sentences."

She pointed a soot-smeared finger at my chest.

"Now I'm rethinking it."

Sula smirked. "Told you she takes forgetfulness personally."

Ubba jabbed that finger harder. "You want to win me back? You better have something else tucked in that magic wrist box of yours, handsome. Something shiny. Something that screams I'm sorry I denied you weeks of technical ecstasy."

I raised both hands slightly, like I was about to disarm a tripwire.

"I've got options."

Ubba's eyes narrowed. "They better be very good options."

I raised an eyebrow and slowly reached for the Nanoboy.

"Alright," I said. "What if I told you I brought you something that goes bang?"

Ubba crossed her arms. "That depends. Is it the right kind of bang?"

I tapped the module. [ACCESS GRANTED]

Action: DEPLOY — BUSTED SHOTGUN + AMMO (5)

A low hiss escaped as the old-world weapon shimmered into form—short, brutal, and half-melted. The grip was scorched, the pump cracked, but the frame was still recognizable: scattergun. Wide-bore. Close-range problem solver.

The moment it hit the floor, Ubba's eyes locked on.

She moved faster than expected—crouching beside it like it was a wounded animal she already planned to fix. "This is... old," she murmured. Her fingers brushed the receiver. "This is really old."

I dropped a small bundle beside it.

Five shells. Mostly intact. One clearly corroded.

Ubba looked at them like I'd handed her holy relics.

"Some of the powder's still dry," I said. "I checked. At least three could fire. Maybe more if you're desperate."

She stared at the shells. Then at me. Then at the shotgun again.

Her expression softened just enough for the grin to slide back into place.

"…Alright," she said. "I forgive you. Partially."

I smirked. "That's all it took?"

She held up the shotgun like a priestess lifting a relic. "You hand me an old-world bangstick with teeth and five chances to make it sing again—yeah. That helps."

Then, more seriously: "Where'd you find it?"

I paused.

"That's... a story."

She stood, still holding the gun, one eyebrow raised. "I've got fire. I've got time. Impress me."

Ubba sat on a crate, the battered shotgun resting across her lap like it carried more than weight. Soot streaked her cheeks, and for once, she wasn't speaking. Sula stood nearby with her arms crossed, her gaze steady, watching me. The forge around us crackled and hissed, but the conversation pulled all the heat inward.

I let out a slow breath. "I found it in what Kardin said the Oseram call a Cursed Depth."

That made both of them still.

"I found it by accident," I continued. "Buried door west of the Shallows. Looked sealed, untouched. No markings. I didn't even realize what it was until I was already inside."

Sula raised an eyebrow, and Ubba leaned forward slightly, both of them silent as I went on.

"It wasn't a ruin. Not really. It was a grave. Everything about the air down there felt wrong. Heavy. Thick with something old. And the deeper I went, the more it felt like the world itself was trying to forget it existed."

I looked at Ubba. "There were corpses. Dozens. Slumped in corners, fused to chairs, some still curled around each other like they thought the end could be waited out."

"And some," I said, quieter now, "were still moving."

Ubba's face shifted. "Ghouls? The kind travelers whisper about. I used to think they were stories meant to scare kids away from old bunkers.

I looked at her and said "They're real alright. Whatever sickness or radiation hit that place—it didn't just kill people. It left them behind."

Sula's voice came low, measured. "But this gun didn't come from one of them."

"No," I said. "It came from someone else. One of the only ones still thinking. Still speaking. At least… mostly."

I glanced down at the shotgun. "He called himself Walker. Wore power armor. Cracked, rusted, half-sealed—but it still moved. So did he. He talked to me. Said he had a mission. To guard the Depth. To keep people out. Didn't even remember why anymore—just that he couldn't stop."

Sula's brow tightened, but she didn't speak. Ubba stayed frozen, watching me.

"I tried to help," I said. "Tried to talk him down. But he was already slipping. The silence had done something to him. The years. The weight of it all. He started repeating things. Freezing mid-sentence. Then he looked at me and saw a threat."

I paused, my jaw tight.

"He threw me through a wall."

Ubba blinked. "Through a wall?"

"Steel and concrete," I said. "The armor gave him strength that wasn't human anymore. He moved like he still remembered every drill, every strike. Tactical. Cold. I couldn't beat him straight up."

I looked at Sula. "I used the Iron Bind. Anchored it against a support pillar and caught him when he charged. Even then, I wasn't sure it would hold."

Sula's expression softened. "And when it did?"

I looked at the floor for a moment before speaking again. "He stopped struggling. For a moment, he just looked at me. Part of him came back, just long enough to speak."

I swallowed hard.

"He said, Tell me…Is it still there? The world. Is it still… worth all this?"

Sula didn't respond right away. When she did, her voice was quiet, but clear.

"The person you couldn't save."

I met her eyes and nodded.

Ubba looked down at the shotgun for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edge of the cracked receiver. Her voice, when it came, was softer than I'd ever heard it.

"We can't fix this," she said. "Not really. The barrel's warped. The chamber's too unstable. The whole frame's built for a world that doesn't exist anymore."

She looked at me, then Sula. "But we can learn from it."

She turned toward the forge wall, stepping past us and gently laying the shotgun down on her workbench like it was a teacher's last breath.

"We can take its measurements. Study the casing. Understand the spread pattern, the recoil design, the feeding system—everything. And then we can build something new."

Her voice sharpened with purpose.

"Not a replica. Not a copy. A descendant."

I stayed quiet, letting that hang in the heat.

Ubba glanced over her shoulder, eyes hard again. "That way… he doesn't stay a ghost in a grave. He becomes something more. Part of the Ironbone. Part of us."

Sula nodded. "A Kansani weapon. Forged from sorrow. But carried forward with pride."

I stepped up beside them, looking down at what was left of Walker's weapon. It wasn't just old anymore. It was sacred.

"He stood watch for a thousand years," I said. "Let's make sure the next one who carries his fire doesn't have to stand alone."

Ubba smiled—just a flicker of white through soot. "Then let's get to work."

Ubba stood over the shotgun like a sculptor with an unfinished monument, already reaching for a scrap slate to begin sketching. Sula had gone quiet again, eyes half-lidded, listening with the stillness of someone watching legacy take shape.

I stepped in closer, eyes lingering on the fractured shells still sitting beside the old weapon.

"You might be able to replicate those," I said quietly.

Ubba looked up, one brow raised.

"Not perfectly," I clarified, "but close enough for testing. You'd need a tight casing—metal, maybe ceramic-lined if you don't want it to rupture—and the right explosive mix."

"Which is?" she asked, already flipping her slate.

"Blast paste and Blaze might get you close," I said. "Low-velocity but usable. The key'll be balance. Too much Blaze and the casing ruptures. Too little and it won't cycle."

Ubba frowned. "And if we wanted to make them the old way?"

I nodded. "If you can find sulfur and saltpeter, that gets you most of the way. Carbon's easy—charcoal's everywhere. You'd just need to refine the ratios. Control the pressure."

She paused, staring at me now like I'd just recited the shape of a star.

"You're not just guessing."

I shrugged. "Saw some diagrams once. Old-world chemistry books. Thought it might be useful."

Ubba grinned. "You're full of surprises, Prettyboy."

Sula's voice came dry from behind her. "He usually is. Most of them alarming."

But there was warmth there too.

Ubba nodded to herself. "Alright. I'll start with the paste mix, see if I can get a controlled burn. Shells first. Then the frame. We don't need a scattergun to match the Old Ones—we need one that survives in this world."

Ubba was already half-possessed by the work, scrawling overlapping schematics across soot-streaked slates, muttering barrel lengths and choke widths under her breath. Her eyes had that wild gleam again—the kind that usually ended in smoke, steel, and someone losing their eyebrows.

I watched her for a moment, then spoke up.

"If you're going to start somewhere," I said, "start simple."

Ubba didn't look up. "Define 'simple'."

"A double-barrel," I said. "Side-by-side or over-under. Doesn't matter. Just two solid tubes, a break-action hinge, and a trigger you can trust with your life."

That got her attention. Her hand froze over the slate.

"You're serious."

"Dead," I said. "It's the most reliable scattergun ever built. No cycling issues. No jammed feed. You load it, you pull the trigger, it goes boom. Twice."

Ubba set the chalk down slowly, staring into middle distance like I'd just offered her divine insight through minimalism.

"And you can forge it in pieces," I added. "No need for full-machine complexity. The locking block can be braced with boneplate or tempered iron. You don't even need perfect symmetry—just balanced barrels and tight tolerances."

Ubba nodded slowly, more to herself than to me.

"Double-barrel," she muttered. "Simple. Durable. Elegant in its own brutal way." She grinned. "Like the Kansani."

Sula quirked an eyebrow. "You're going to build a new kind of weapon and a new philosophy around it?"

Ubba shot her a look. "We're not just forging weapons. We're forging memory."

I glanced at the old shotgun one last time.

"He carried six," I said. "But if we carry two that never fail, maybe that's what matters."

Ubba smiled—not her usual lopsided grin, but something steadier.

"Then let's build it. Double-barrel. Old soul. Kansani teeth."

Ubba scribbled out her more complicated ideas and drew two long, clean lines across the slate—barrels. "Alright," she said, muttering under her breath, "short length, side-by-side... nothing fancy. Just a proper Kansani boomstick."

I couldn't help it.

I snorted.

Both women turned to look at me.

Sula raised an eyebrow. "What's funny?"

Ubba narrowed her eyes. "Did I say something dumb?"

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "No, no—it's just... that word."

"What, boomstick?" Ubba asked, sounding almost defensive.

"Yeah," I said, still half-grinning. "A hero from one of the Old Ones' stories—kind of a loud idiot with a chainsaw for a hand and no business surviving anything—he called his shotgun a boomstick. Fought off undead with it."

Ubba paused. Then she grinned. "I like him already."

Sula tilted her head, unimpressed. "Let me guess. You watched this for educational purposes?"

I smirked. "Strictly research."

Ubba rolled her shoulders. "Then that settles it. We don't need to give this thing some poetic name. No 'Vigil of the Ancients' or 'Echo of the Depths.' We're making a Kansani boomstick. The first of its kind."

She tapped her slate with the chalk, loud and final.

Ubba wiped her hand across the soot-smeared slate, dragging out long lines with the edge of her charcoal stick. The double-barrel form took shape fast—elegant, brutal, balanced. She scratched in tribal markings near the grip and added a quick blaze-channel vent along the upper spine.

She stepped back, nodded once, and jabbed the chalk toward each labeled part.

"Alright. Here's what I'll need."

"Grazer parts—specifically spine plates and Blaze conduits."

She tapped the barrels.

"They've got clean symmetry in their rib structures. Makes forging barrels easier without warp. And their Blaze lines can be turned into heat-diffusion vents. Helps cool the chambers after each shot."

"Scrapper plating—jawbone segments and tension coils."

Her finger moved to the buttstock and the trigger assembly.

"The jawplate's dense but flexible. Good for carving out a shoulder brace that won't crack when this thing kicks. And their shoulder coils? They'll let me wire a trigger mechanism with punch. Enough tension to fire manually or slam-fire if things go wrong."

"Shell-Walker capacitors and actuator plungers."

She jabbed at the firing chamber.

"They've got stable internal shock servos. Perfect for building redundant firing pins and pressure-stable primer igniters. No risk of misfire if you're sweating blood and shaking like hell."

She stepped back and tossed the slate onto the table with a clack.

"That's the core build. Everything else is garnish."

She glanced at Rion with a smirk.

"You get me those three machines in parts, and I'll get you a boomstick that sings Kansani thunder."

Ubba snatched the slate off the bench and held it up like it was a challenge.

"I'm not using shelf scrap for this."

Sula raised an eyebrow. "You've got crates of parts backlogged in the storage vault."

Ubba snorted. "Yeah. And half of them have been sitting there since before I was born. You think I'm gonna risk a misfire because some coil dried out under Ironbone dust?"

She tapped the sketched boomstick twice—right over the chamber.

"This isn't just a one-hit pipe cannon. It's a twin-barreled firemouth built from layered systems—Blaze heat management, dual capacitors, recoil channels, primer stability. Every part matters."

She looked at Rion. "I need them fresh. Pulled yourself or traded from someone who bled to get them."

Then she set the slate down, flat on the workbench, her tone sharp and final.

"This weapon's supposed to carry a legacy. If I build it with dead weight, it'll die with it."

Sula gave a low, impressed whistle. "She's fired up."

Ubba smirked. "Damn right I am."

Then she turned to Rion, eyes narrowing. "So. You ready to go hunting?"

Rion folded his arms, glancing toward the forge exit.

"I'll need to change first. Can't wear market clothes on a machine run."

Ubba didn't miss a beat. "Okay. Strip."

Sula groaned immediately. "Ubba."

Ubba shrugged with zero shame. "What? I'm invested in the build. Gotta inspect the user platform."

Rion just rolled his eyes. "You want schematics, you can ask next time."

He tapped the side of his wrist.

[NANOBOY 3000 – ACCESS GRANTED]

Action: EQUIP — Field Loadout (Mk.III)

The air hissed, and shimmering mist coiled around him as plates and fabric phased into place. First came the reinforced torso mesh, then the segmented armored sleeves, followed by the harness webbing, bracers, and thigh guards. His coat unfurled last—black leather with white-lined tribal markings down the arms.

And then he reached in and pulled out the final piece.

A helmet.

Dark, angular, with a narrow, v-shaped visor glowing dim orange beneath a carved ridge of stylized plating. Tribal etchwork wrapped around the sides like bone-scorched paint.

Ubba actually blinked. "Well. That's new."

Sula crossed her arms. "Where'd you get that?"

Rion slotted it under one arm. "Found it in the armory Walker was protecting."

Ubba tilted her head. "What is it?"

"I don't know everything yet," Rion admitted, running his gloved fingers along the ridged plating. "But it's another prototype. Old World tech—military-grade or better. Hardened inner lining, reactive joints at the neck, stabilized vision grid."

Sula stepped closer, eyeing it. "Looks like a machine's face."

Rion nodded slightly. "Yeah. And it can filter out airborne toxins. Mold, radiation dust, even pressure-burst gas from decayed Blaze chambers. My guess? That's why it was down there. From what I've been able to find the air in the time of the Old Ones was going bad. This helmet was sealed to survive it."

He met Ubba's eyes. "You wanted serious?"

He clicked the helmet on with a soft hiss. The orange visor lit fully, casting a subtle glow across his face.

"I'm ready to hunt."

A beat of silence passed.

Then Ubba gave a slow, appreciative grin. "Alright, Prettyboy. You're dressed like a ghost, geared like a myth, and carrying the will of a man who wouldn't die. Let's see if you can back it up."

Sula shook her head, muttering, "Great. Now he has a matching personality for the helmet."

Rion smirked under the mask.

"Let's go get your parts."

Before we left, I paused and reached into the Nanoboy again.

"There's one more thing you should see."

Sula turned, and Ubba looked up from her sketch.

I pulled the object free—fist-sized, angular, and dark as burnstone. Its surface was sharp-lined and unnaturally smooth, with a single bone-colored spike protruding from the underside. Even now, the thing gave off a faint, unnatural hum.

Ubba's expression went still.

Sula stepped closer, squinting. Then her eyes widened slightly. "The ones you asked about the other day."

I nodded. "Found this in the Depth—near the bunker where I got the shotgun. Looked like the early Kansani stripped everything else down. This was the only thing left."

Ubba leaned in, hands on her knees, studying the thing without touching it. "Yeah… I've seen one of these before. A few, actually."

She stood back up, crossing her arms. "Nobody's ever figured out what they do. Too dense to melt, too sharp to break. Grosh calls them cursed hinge-stones."

"There's maybe five left," she added. "Rest got ruined by old experiments. People tried cutting them open, burning them, threading wires through 'em. None of it worked."

I looked at her. "But they didn't throw them out?"

Ubba shrugged. "Didn't dare. Stuff like that doesn't rot, doesn't rust, and definitely doesn't belong. So we kept them."

She pointed toward the back of the forge. "They're in the parts pit. Top shelf. Right-hand bin, painted with a red claw mark. Feel free to poke around if you want."

Sula crossed her arms. "Don't let it bite you. Last apprentice to dig in that box wound up dreaming in circles for three nights."

Ubba grinned. "Which is why we only let people we like go near it."

I slid the module back into the Nanoboy and nodded. "I'll take a look. After the hunt."

Ubba clapped her hands together once. "Then let's go make history—and parts."

I turned to head out—only to hear the clang of a tool rack behind me.

Ubba was already tightening her rig, latching armor plates into place and strapping down a pack full of field tools.

I blinked. "Wait... you're coming?"

She gave me a look like I'd asked if steel was heavy. "Best way to make sure the parts are good is to rip 'em out myself. Besides—" she grinned, "—I've got something to test."

She vanished into the back of the forge for a moment and came back carrying another Railwhistle across her back—sleeker than mine, with reinforced rails, side-load chambers, and white spiral etchings burned into the barrel. The back-end coil had a heavier brace, and the tribal marks near the trigger housing were new—rough, recent, and glowing faintly with temper scorch.

"Railwhistle Mk.II," she said, slinging it across her shoulder. "Same core as yours, but redesigned for tighter recoil control and manual reloading mid-fight. I want to see how it stacks up against the original."

I glanced at it. "So I'm not getting that one?"

She laughed. "Hell no. You're the baseline. I'm the chaos."

She walked over to a side bench, grabbed two bundles of spikes, and handed one off to me. I popped it open. Long iron-core rounds with serrated edges and red-banded tips. Mine had a faint oily shine—blaze-touched. Hers were darker, matte-finished, with duller fins.

"These aren't the same," I said.

"Exactly," she replied. "Yours are blaze-primed. Full combustion. Hit something solid, it screams fire. Mine? Stripped the ignition layer. Heavier impact, no flare. I want to see which performs better out there—raw heat or kinetic brutality."

Sula glanced at both of us. "So you're running a weapons test during a machine hunt?"

Ubba smirked. "When better? Besides, if it turns out the Mk.II hits cleaner, I'll start forging it as the mass model. If not, the original's still the champ."

I slung the Mk.I over my shoulder, adjusting the bracer straps. "Just don't get jealous if mine puts on a better show."

Ubba tapped her Railwhistle once like it was a promise. "Only if yours leaves more craters than mine."

Sula, standing nearby with her arms crossed, gave a quiet huff through her nose. "You two sound like parents arguing over which child should get the family name."

Ubba grinned. "We are choosing favorites. I just want to know which of these beauties gets to carry the legacy."

Rion looked between the two weapons. "So I'm the old reliable?"

Ubba smirked. "You're the firstborn. Comes with responsibilities and a higher chance of exploding under pressure."

Sula muttered, "Fitting."

I gave them both a long-suffering look and flicked the safety on my Railwhistle.

"Can we go kill something now?"

Ubba slung her pack over her shoulder. "Lead the way, Prettyboy. Let's go gather some machine bones."

We stepped out from the forge and into the late afternoon haze. The heat clung low, the sun bleeding gold across the rooftops of Ironwood Grove.

I tapped the side of my temple, bringing up the Focus's overlay. The map blinked to life—thin lines and glyph-marked landmarks etched across a semi-transparent grid. Overlayed atop that were the notes from Ubba's earlier handoff: Kansani-marked machine sites, color-coded by frequency and type.

Grazer herds. Scrapper ambush trails. Shell-Walker convoys. All logged by Kansani scouts and runners over the last few seasons.

I flicked through the layers, sorting by proximity.

"There," I said, pointing toward a marked ridge less than ten clicks southwest. "Closest cluster. Grazer track. If they're not there, we check the next one north by the dry riverbed."

Ubba leaned over my shoulder to glance at the display. "That ridge is good hunting. Open enough to move, narrow enough to funnel. Just don't stand in front of a Grazer stampede. They'll flatten you and look proud doing it."

Sula adjusted her bracer and started walking. "We can make the ridge by dusk if we move now."

I slid the helmet back on and locked the seal with a hiss. The visor flared orange.

"Then let's go test your rifle."

Ubba cracked her neck, grinning like a predator. "Let's go see which one barks louder."

The trail south bent low through cracked scrubland and sun-bleached rock, broken only by wind and the distant chatter of insects. We moved quiet—boots soft against the dust, visors down, rifles slung across our backs.

Then I saw it.

Smoke—thin but steady—rising from the edge of the hills, just to the right of our destination. It wasn't wild. No brushfire. The line was too clean. Controlled.

Sula saw it too.

She slowed and frowned, one hand resting on her axe handle. "That's an Oseram mining site."

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know there was one this close."

"There's a few," she said. "Scattered along the edge of Kansani land. That one's called Emberhook."

Ubba muttered, "More soot than silver, last I heard."

I scanned the rising column again. "So why do we let them dig here?"

"They pay us," Sula replied flatly. "Monthly. In shards, tools, and salvage rights. It's a standing agreement with the Ironbone and Grove elders."

I nodded slowly, still watching the plume. "And if they stop paying?"

"Then they stop digging," she said. "One way or another."

Ubba gave a short snort. "And then we test the boomsticks on something squishier."

Sula didn't smile. "It hasn't come to that. Yet."

I shifted my eyes back to the map. "The Grazer track cuts west of them. We'll keep our distance."

"Good," Sula said. "Let them breathe smoke. We'll stay downwind and clean."

We were about to move again when the wind shifted. It was subtle—just a passing gust rolling in from the east, dragging heat with it. And then the smell hit.

Rich. Charred. Oily.

At first, it registered like cooking meat. Someone roasting venison, maybe—until Sula froze. Her nose wrinkled. Her shoulders locked. She didn't speak for a few seconds. Then, quiet and cold: "That's not animal."

I turned to her. "What?"

She didn't look at me. Just stared at the rising smoke on the ridge. Her voice was flat. Absolute.

"That's human."

Ubba's face twisted. "You're sure?"

Sula nodded. "Bones, fat, skin—it's different. You smell it once, you never forget."

The wind pushed again, stronger this time. There was no mistaking it now. Not a campfire. Not a smoker's pit. People were burning at Emberhook.

Sula's voice dropped lower. "Something's gone wrong."

We moved closer—quiet now, even Ubba—and cut a wide arc through the brush, staying low beneath the ridgeline as the smoke thickened. No birds. No machines. Just silence and ash on the wind. The closer we got, the heavier it felt. Like the land itself was holding its breath.

And then it hit me—not the smell this time. The memory.

Not from this world.

From another life. From the first time I played Fallout: New Vegas. A dusty little town called Nipton. I remembered walking in, seeing the banners, the crucified bodies, the fires still burning in hollow shells of homes. At first, I thought it was just another raider hit—until I realized what Caesar's Legion had done. They hadn't just killed people. They'd made an example. A message. A monument to fear.

This… this was that moment again.

Only it wasn't scripted. It wasn't lines of dialogue or a player choice. It was smoke in my lungs and the heat of real fire on my skin. The stink of burning flesh and desperation. There were no checkpoints here. No reloads. Just consequences.

I felt my grip tighten on the Railwhistle. My breath slowed behind the visor. The game hadn't prepared me for how it would feel to live through it. For the silence after the screaming stops. For the weight of it on your shoulders.

Sula crouched ahead near a fallen tree and raised a hand. She didn't need to speak. We all felt it. Whatever was happening at Emberhook…

It wasn't mining anymore.

We reached the edge of the rise overlooking the camp. Emberhook wasn't much—just a scatter of metal sheds, pipe scaffolding, and a slag pit that steamed faintly with heat. But what caught me wasn't the layout.

It was the chaos.

Bodies lay slumped in heaps. Some burned. Some bound. Charred ropes and blood-blackened stakes marked the main path like warnings. One of the slag haulers was on fire, its wheels still slowly turning.

Sula crouched low beside a split boulder, scanning the perimeter with narrowed eyes. Ubba didn't speak. Her hand rested on the Railwhistle, and her jaw had gone tight.

Then, through the heat and smoke, we heard it.

"YES! I WON THE LOTTERY!!"

A man's voice. Loud. Jubilant. Laughing like someone who'd just stumbled out of a dream and hadn't realized it was a nightmare yet.

My stomach twisted.

I raised a hand and dragged it down over my helmet's visor, resisting the urge to groan out loud.

Sula blinked at me. "What?"

I muttered, "Of all the stupid lines to hear again…"

Ubba gave me a sideways glance. "You know that lunatic?"

"No," I said. "But I've heard that exact phrase before. Too many times. Never ends well."

Below us, the man stumbled into view—shirt half-burned, face wild with adrenaline and soot. He danced in circles in front of a smoking crate, waving a torn strip of fabric like a flag. All around him, the rest of the camp looked like a battlefield frozen mid-collapse.

"I WON!" he shouted again. "YOU HEAR THAT? I WON!"

Sula didn't blink. "He's mad."

Ubba raised the Railwhistle, checking the sight. "Or high."

"No," I said. "He's lucky. And that makes it worse."

The man stumbled out of the camp's center, tripping over a broken rail beam as he hollered with joy. He didn't look back—not at the bodies, not at the smoke, not at the ruined miners nailed to beams like warnings.

"I WON!" he bellowed again, voice cracking with glee. "AS SOON AS I GET BACK TO THE CLAIM, I'M DROWNING MYSELF IN BOOZE AND WHORES AT PLEASURE'S PEAK!"

Sula's face didn't move, but her hand slowly lifted to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Ubba blinked. "Did he just say—?"

"Yes," I muttered, "He said Pleasure's Peak. Leave it to Oseram to name a whore town that. I swear to whatever gods are left, this whole continent is one bad fever dream."

The man didn't slow. He took off down the slope, headed straight for the road toward the Grove, laughing so hard he almost choked on it. A tattered, soot-streaked mining sash trailed behind him like some makeshift victory banner.

Sula stared after him, jaw tight. "We let him through?"

I looked at her, then at Ubba.

Ubba shrugged. "I'm not touching that mess."

I exhaled. "Let him run. Whatever happened here... he's the last man standing. We'll figure out why once we know what did this."

The wind shifted again. Smoke. Blood. Charred steel.

The laughter faded down the valley.

We moved in.

We crept closer, weaving through scorched brush and low-cut trenches. The smell got worse. Smoke thickened with grease and copper. The sound of buzzing flies overtook everything else.

Then we saw it.

The miners were strung up on makeshift crosses—arms spread, heads slumped, some still twitching weakly in the heat. Others were nailed by the feet and shoulders to scaffolding poles, their bodies blackened by fire and left to crackle in the sun like dried meat. The worst of it was the pit in the center—half a dozen corpses cooking over an open blaze, skin split and blistered, limbs slowly turning on skewers hammered through the bone.

Ubba went still beside me. Sula whispered something under her breath in a language I didn't understand—but it was sharp, cutting. A curse or a prayer.

And then we saw him.

A large tent stood near the slag pit, its fabric stained with red blood. In front of it stood a man in heavy leathers, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the head of a wolf over his own—an entire skull, jaw clamped shut over the brow, blackened bone polished like a crown. His arms were bare, painted with dark spirals and glyphs I didn't recognize. Around him stood at least twenty Legionnaires, each armored in red-dyed leather, faces hidden beneath war helms, gladii at their sides, and blood still fresh on their boots.

But it was the man kneeling in front of them that stopped me cold.

Bound at the wrists. Wearing a black reboot suit. The left breast was marked with a single white letter:

E.

The Enclave.

He was alive. Barely. Blood leaked from a split lip and a cut across his temple. But his head was still up.

And the man in the wolf's head stepped forward, boots thudding across the scorched dirt with purpose.

He looked up at the ridge. Right where we were.

Right at me.

When he spoke, his voice was deep and smooth—like a knife sliding between words.

"Ah... the remnant from the duel. Integrating with the Kansani, I see."

My stomach turned to stone.

Sula reached for her Railwhistle.

Ubba didn't move.

The wolf-headed man smiled beneath the skull.

"So tell me," he said, spreading his arms slightly. "Have they taught you how to die on your feet yet?"

We didn't move. Not yet.

The wolf-headed man didn't need to shout—his voice carried, low and clear. The Legionnaires flanking him stood still, not braced, not twitching—just ready.

His eyes, visible through the hollow sockets of the wolf skull, locked onto me with measured curiosity… before drifting past. To Sula.

"Ah," he murmured. "Even better."

I felt her shift beside me—only slightly, but enough to make the air between us tighten. She didn't speak. Didn't blink.

"You," the man said, "are not just the remnant's companion. You're the niece of the Great Jorta. And the girl who killed Legate Ricktus."

My heart kicked once, hard.

I turned to Sula slowly. "What?"

She said nothing.

The man in the wolf's head—Vulpes Inculta, I was beginning to realize—stepped forward with predatory grace, the firelight licking at the bone of his mask.

"Did he never wonder where you got that red skirt, girl?" he asked. "The one you wore during the duel. That wasn't decoration. That was a trophy. Torn from Ricktus' cloak after you gutted him five months ago on the southern ridgeline."

Sula remained still. Stone-still. Her fingers flexed once at her side.

I looked at her. "You killed a Legate?"

Vulpes chuckled—low and almost respectful. "She did him a favor. His punishment for that blunder would've been far more severe than what she gave him. And slower."

He raised one hand, letting it rest on the shoulder of the kneeling Enclave operative. "You Kansani think you're so clever with your silence and scars. But the Legion remembers. The Legion watches."

The flames snapped behind him, illuminating the full weight of what we were seeing. Crucified miners. Butchered corpses. A bound Enclave survivor. Twenty soldiers waiting for a command.

And the Wolf of the East had just named his targets.

The silence stretched long between us, broken only by the crackle of fire and the low, wet hiss of burning flesh.

Vulpes Inculta let his hand drift from the shoulder of the bound Enclave man, then folded both arms behind his back with the slow grace of someone completely in control.

"You're lucky," he said finally. "All three of you."

He turned slightly, just enough for the fire to catch along the curve of his wolf-helm.

"Because as of this moment, the Legion and the Kansani are under ceasefire. If they weren't—" he paused, not for effect, but for certainty "—I would capture you. Bind your hands in iron. Drag you across the plains. And have you kneel before Caesar himself in the ashes of what used to be Ironwood Grove."

I tightened my grip on the Railwhistle, but didn't raise it. "And yet... here we are. Why would the Legion honor a ceasefire?"

He tilted his head, and beneath the skull's shadow, I saw the faintest glint of amusement.

"Because we've fought them for years," he said. "And they've fought us. No flinch. No retreat. No weakness. You fight an enemy like that long enough, you come to know them better than you know your allies."

His voice remained calm, but the edge in it sharpened like a blade being drawn.

"Open war would bleed us both. Dull our knives. Leave us exposed to scavengers and soft fools who've never earned what they have. That is not strategy. That is waste."

He looked directly at Sula now.

"It is a great honor to say such a thing about one's enemy."

Sula's jaw clenched, but she didn't speak. Not yet.

I looked back toward the crucified miners, the blood and soot, and the bound man still kneeling under Vulpes' grip.

"And this?" I asked. "This butchery—what is it?"

Vulpes turned back toward the fire and gestured to the carnage with a slow sweep of his hand.

"This?" he said. "This is discipline. For those who break deals. Who fail to pay tribute. The Kansani honor contracts. The Oseram at Emberhook did not."

Vulpes swept his gaze over the ruined camp, then jerked his head toward the bound Enclave agent. "We punish those who work with those who should have died with the rest of the Old Ones," he said, voice flat and final. His boot tapped the dirt once, a sharp punctuation to his words.

The kneeling man's eyes flicked up through a slit in his helmet, confusion and fear warring in their depths. He tried to speak, but Vulpes raised a hand.

"No words," the wolf-headed legate intoned. "Only judgment."

Sula's hand drifted to her axe handle. Her eyes burned, but she remained motionless, keenly watching Vulpes weigh his next move.

Ubba's grip tightened on her Railwhistle, the metal brace groaning softly under the strain. She didn't lower her weapon—nor did she raise it.

I swallowed, visor reflecting flickers of flame. This was no longer a simple scavenging run. We had walked into a verdict.

And the sentence had only just begun.

Vulpes turned back toward us, his posture calm, measured—like a teacher about to explain a hard truth to a slow student.

"Did you know," he said, "that this camp was digging an underground passage to Ironwood Grove?"

None of us responded. The fire cracked louder in the silence.

He continued.

"Not for mining. Not for Blaze. For blood."

He motioned once, casually, to the burned buildings, the smoldering scaffolding, the shattered lift entrance at the back of the slag pit.

"They had tunneling equipment. Reinforced drills, echo-dampened. Supplies stacked in sealed crates. All sanctioned under a false contract negotiated by a few desperate Oseram drunk on greed."

His hand rose again, this time toward the bound Enclave agent still kneeling in the dirt.

"And this one? He wasn't here to oversee operations. He was here to coordinate timing. When to strike. How to breach. How to silence the Grove while it slept."

My jaw tightened behind the helmet.

Sula said nothing, but I saw the shift in her stance—the stillness before a storm.

Ubba's mouth curled into something that wasn't a smirk anymore.

Vulpes looked at us like the matter was already closed.

"Mercy is weakness. And when you uncover betrayal buried beneath your feet… you burn the roots."

I stared at the crucified miners. At the flames. At the bound Enclave operative shaking behind his visor.

Then I looked back to Vulpes.

"You burned a whole camp," I said. "To stop a betrayal aimed at the Grove. Why?" I shook my head. "Why protect the Kansani?"

Vulpes chuckled—a low, knowing sound, like he'd been waiting for the question.

"I already gave you the answer," he said. "We've been fighting the Kansani for years. Testing each other. Sharpening each other. Like blades on a whetstone."

He took a step forward, arms spreading slightly, his posture almost reverent.

"The weak die. The soft break. The fools drown in their own arrogance. But those who survive? They become strong."

He turned his gaze to Sula. "You think we hate you because you resist us. That's not hatred. That's admiration."

He began to pace slowly before the tent, voice smooth and certain.

"You held your borders with spears and fire while the rest of the tribes broke and drifted like dust into wind—only existing in memory."

He looked at me next. Direct. Measured. Calm.

"We don't want to destroy the Kansani. We want to absorb you. Fold your strength into ours. Your structure. Your bloodline. Your iron-tested discipline."

He gestured to the burning camp and the crucified bodies behind him.

"This? This is the cost of betrayal. Of weakness. But your tribe?" He paused. "Your tribe is the last worthy enemy left."

He raised his chin.

"With your strength combined with ours, the whole continent will belong to the Legion. Not as scavengers. Not as raiders. But as the architects of a restored age—an empire to rival the Old Ones. And this time, it won't collapse under its own cowardice."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling fire and the hiss of fat dripping into coals.

Then Sula stepped forward.

Her shoulders squared. Her eyes burned.

And she growled.

"You think we'd ever join you?" Her voice rose like thunder splitting the sky. "The Kansani will never kneel to Legion dogs!"

Her hand dropped to the haft of her axe, knuckles white with rage. Her breath came sharp, controlled, like a fighter holding back the urge to charge.

"You talk about strength, about honor, but all I see are cowards hiding behind fire and cruelty. You think slaughter earns you respect? You think crucifying workers makes you worthy?"

She took another step forward, past the ridge cover now—exposed, and she didn't care.

"That dust in the wind line?" Her voice cracked, just for a second. "That was for the Lonaki, wasn't it?"

Vulpes didn't answer. He didn't need to.

She kept going.

"I remember what you did. So do the ashes. The Grove still bears the names of the clans you tried to erase."

She spat into the dirt.

"You want to absorb us? You'll choke on our bones before you break our will."

Vulpes tilted his head slightly, just enough for the firelight to glint off the edge of his wolf-helm.

"So you say, girl," he murmured. "So you say."

His voice dipped into something lower—more assured. Not mocking. Not angry. Just... inevitable.

"But we'll see in a month's time."

He turned slightly, just enough to glance toward the east—toward the long shadows cast across the far ridges.

"A true monster is what your uncle will face this time."

The words hit like a weight in my chest.

I knew. Instantly.

Even before he said it.

Even before the name could be spoken.

I'd seen the stories. Heard the rumors. Played the game and watched him walk through fire and bone like death made flesh.

Sula didn't know. Not yet.

But I did.

Legate Lanius.

The Terror of the East.

The butcher. The wall-breaker. The man the Legion only unleashed when they wanted nothing left standing but smoke and blood.

Vulpes didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just let the name hang there, unspoken, because he knew its weight would do the talking.

Vulpes looked at Sula one last time, his voice like ice cracking in the firelight.

"Until then, Kansani… embrace the time you have with your uncle. I know he won't win this time."

His gaze slid back to me—sharp, lingering.

"And we will meet again, remnant."

Then he turned, the wolf skull catching the light one final time as he gave a sharp gesture to his men.

Two Legionnaires stepped forward, grabbed the bound Enclave operative by the arms, and dragged him across the scorched dirt. The man didn't resist. He didn't even look back.

None of the Legionnaires did.

They moved as one, turning their backs to us and heading east—away from the flames, away from the Grove—into the long shadow of the broken hills.

For a second, it was like time held its breath.

Then Sula raised her bow, eyes locked on the back of Vulpes' skull.

Her fingers tightened on the string.

"No one would know," she whispered, almost to herself.

I stepped in front of her.

She didn't speak, didn't blink—but her jaw clenched tight.

Then I pointed.

Up the ridge. Just left of the slag pit.

A lone figure stood at the crest of a nearby hill—partially hidden in brush, motionless but unmistakable. Another Legionnaire. A scout. Watching.

They saw us look.

And they waved.

Slow. Calm. Certain.

Sula stared.

Her bow slowly lowered.

"He's right," she said, her voice bitter. "Open war is too costly."

I nodded once. "And too early."

The fire behind us crackled. The smoke drifted east.

And the weight of what we'd just seen settled in like ash on our shoulders.