Three days since the prototype suit held against Reflamax-2. Three days since my legs stopped buckling under their own weight. And in those three days, we built something real.
I called it Breakiron.
It wasn't flashy. No ornamental plating, no imperial gloss. Just matte black modular armor, layered like scales over a skeleton of memory-reactive alloy. Beteraxe's raw frame. Firstborn's embedded forge-thread. Reflamax's edge-sense feedback system. All of it stripped down and rebuilt around me—bone-tight, breath-synced.
The Starcore in my spine interfaced with it seamlessly now. No more rejection. No more spasms. I had burned away everything soft inside me until only function remained.
Netra stood across the clearing, arms crossed, watching as I adjusted the cervical port connectors. Her eyes scanned every motion I made—not critically, not coldly. Just… calculating.
"You should fix the lower actuator drift," she said. "Left hip. It lags by a quarter frame on directional shifts."
"I already coded in the counter," I replied without looking. "It compensates after four steps."
"Three steps would be better."
She was right. I didn't say it. I just turned back to the chassis and recalibrated.
We didn't need praise. We didn't need to explain.
She wasn't here to be impressed.
She was here to make sure I didn't die.
---
Testing moved underground after that.
Old maintenance tunnels beneath the forge. Collapsed sectors. Tight spaces. Real combat conditions. She led the drills—blades, angles, footwork. Everything fast, everything clean.
I took hits. A lot of them. Her sabers struck like precise lightning—never wasting a movement, never giving me a moment to reset. If I wasn't wearing Breakiron, I'd be carved apart.
But every clash, every pressure point strike, every slide across rusted steel—
—my suit learned.
My body adapted.
And so did I.
---
Between sessions, I kept building.
Version 3 of the tendon frame included joint lock failsafes. Version 4 shortened the reaction loop by three milliseconds. Version 5 integrated a hybrid coolant thread under the shoulder mesh—something I'd salvaged from an old Eastborn unit.
I started dreaming about armor.
Not war.
Not power.
Just… surviving long enough to finish what I started.
---
One night, while recalibrating the boot hydraulics, I asked her:
"Why'd you stay?"
Netra didn't look up. Just adjusted her own gauntlet clamps.
"You needed help."
"Others would've let me die. Kazakov probably would've wanted it."
"Probably," she said.
Silence.
Then: "But I don't follow commands like I used to."
I looked over. "And what do you follow now?"
She met my eyes. "My judgment."
That was enough.
---
We kept working.
Vakill had started walking again—limping, but alive. He watched from the shadows, still too weak to join us, but his presence kept us grounded. The old man didn't speak much. Just observed. Like he was waiting for something.
Or someone.
---
We were nearing completion. Breakiron Version 6 was almost production-ready.
But the core needed more.
Starcore integration wasn't stable on high-burst fusion.
I needed more material.
Rare stuff. Stuff not even Ironlan black markets could provide. Element-12 stabilized isotopes. Relic-grade flexium. And above all, a compatible core crystal to synchronize the suit's power curve with my body's fusion wave.
And there was only one place left that had all three.
Eastborn's Deep Vault.
It wasn't just a fortress.
It was the grave of the last war.
Untouched.
Forgotten.
Sealed.
But not for long.
Because I was going back.
---
After the trials, the armor was close—so close it practically hummed with potential. The new framework, the neural mesh, and the tendon-frame were a success, but there was one final thing left: refinement.
"Alright, Netra, this is it," I said, wiping grease from my hands as I stood over the final iteration of the suit.
She gave a slight nod, always measured in her response, never rushing. I had no idea what went through her mind, but I was pretty sure she was as fed up as I was with my constant tweaks. I'd been at it for days. Weeks, even.
"You know what this needs?" I said, stepping back. "A name."
She didn't look up from adjusting a few wiring terminals, but I could tell she was listening. She always was.
And that's when it hit me. A name that would carry the weight of our rebellion. A name that would strike fear into Eastborn's heart.
"Eastborn... fuckmachine," I muttered to myself.
Netra didn't even flinch.
"EastbornFuckmachine69 armor. Or EFM armor for short. Something that'll leave a mark, you know?"
At this, she stopped. Her hands froze mid-adjustment, and for a second, I thought I'd said something too ridiculous even for her.
Her expression remained unreadable. But I could tell she was weighing the gravity of the decision. Or... maybe she was just trying to hold back a laugh. Yeah, that was it.
"EastbornFuckmachine69... You're insane."
"Exactly." I grinned. "I mean, if this armor's gonna be the instrument of political revolution, it might as well have a name that makes people question their life choices."
She shook her head, clearly trying to suppress a smile. "Well, it works. If you want to start a revolution with zero dignity, sure, why not."
"Zero dignity is exactly what we need," I said, already back to work. "We'll topple him, not with power, but with sheer audacity."
---
Days passed. Armor in hand, I finally managed to tweak the system one last time. The EFM Armor—well, at least that's what we started calling it—was finished. It was a monstrosity of high-tech engineering, steel-plated defense, Reflamax-2 joint systems, and a neural interface. It had everything. And I mean everything. Every weapon and tool at our disposal. At least, every weapon that could somehow fit into the 'fuckable revolution' theme.
"Alright," I said, looking at the now fully operational EFM Armor, feeling a strange sense of pride. "The world's going to look a lot different after this."
"You mean we're going to bring Eastborn down using one of the most ridiculous names in the history of politics?" Netra said. "Because that's what I'm hearing."
"You bet," I replied, cracking my knuckles. "Now let's talk about how to do it."
---
It wasn't going to be easy. Eastborn wasn't just some corner thug; he was the kingpin of the region, controlling territories, manipulating people with political maneuvering that could've been mistaken for a game of chess played by sociopaths. His reign wasn't built on the strength of his army or his intellect—it was built on fear and manipulation. The kind of man who used others as pawns, and crushed them when they became a threat. But what he didn't expect was a revolution... led by a man with a weaponized ego and the best damn armor ever named in human history.
We had a strategy, but it was as chaotic as the name of my armor. We'd use a network of spies, fake political movements, and chaotic misdirection. The idea was to create enough distraction around Eastborn's political gatherings that he'd think his empire was being attacked from all sides.
"We can't just rush him. He'll see it coming from a mile away," Netra said, tapping a strategy map.
"Right, which is why we're going to flood the area with fake uprisings," I said, pacing in front of the map, planning each move like a king in checkmate. "We get his advisers and generals in one place. Let them think the whole region is breaking apart. Then we make our move—create enough chaos that they won't know who to trust."
"You're going to turn his power structure on itself," she noted, arms crossed, eyes cold.
"Exactly. We make him paranoid. He'll start seeing enemies where there are none. That's the way to take him down." I was practically grinning at the thought. Eastborn had made the mistake of underestimating me. And soon, he'd know exactly who I was.
"And then we make sure the EFM Armor gets some good use," Netra added, a rare glint in her eyes. "I like the sound of that."
---
The next few days were filled with tension. Spies did their part. Messengers moved, spreading false rumors and fabricated rebellion movements. Netra and I were ready. The stage was set.
It wasn't long before we found ourselves standing before Eastborn's political gathering—a lavish affair with far too many crowns in one room. The highest-ranking lords and ladies of the region, all seated around a massive table, each one clutching their power with enough fervor to strangle anyone who dared challenge them. But they were about to get a challenge they hadn't even seen coming.
"Let's make this quick," I said, slipping into the shadows with Netra.
"You're insane," she muttered, shaking her head.
But she followed me anyway.
The time had come. The revolution was starting. And no matter how ridiculous my armor was, it was about to become the symbol of something far greater than either of us.
---
The EFM Armor's servos whispered as I moved through the shadows of the gathering hall—like death in surround sound. The sensor suite pinged me every three seconds: fourteen high-value targets. Five unconfirmed. Thirty-two guards, mostly ceremonial. Two heavy units. Zero netra.
Eastborn stood at the center of it all, draped in gold-thread robes and arrogance. His voice slithered across the room like oil on water, charming, composed, imperial. Every lord here wore a crown—some literal, some invisible—but when he spoke, they all tilted forward.
Every one of them was already on their knees. They just didn't know it yet.
Netra didn't come with me past the outer corridor. She stood back, arms folded like always.
"I can't help you in there," she'd said. "My title as Blade of Kazakov means I can't raise steel against Eastborn unless he makes the first move."
"I'm not asking you to fight," I said.
And I meant it.
Because this wasn't a war.
This was a goddamn performance.
---
I stepped into the main hall.
Thirty-two guards turned.
A few weapons rose, hesitantly.
Then someone gasped as the light caught the matte-black surface of my armor—seamless and full of blasphemy. The reactor pulsed softly beneath my spine. The neural interface buzzed as I activated external comms.
"Sorry to crash the party," I said. "Just wanted to give Eastborn a little gift."
Gasps. Panic. The aristocrats recoiled.
Eastborn didn't flinch.
"Kael," he said smoothly. "That's quite the outfit. Trying out for a children's holo-drama, or are you simply here to embarrass yourself?"
"Oh, this?" I said, tapping the breastplate. "This is the EastbornFuckmachine69 armor. Or EFM Armor, if you're afraid to swear in front of your lords."
A ripple of confusion passed through the room. Someone in the back snorted.
Eastborn's face twitched for half a second—rage trying to hide behind politics. "You dare stand here and mock me in front of the high court?"
"Mock you?" I said. "No, no. I'm here to dethrone you with style."
Behind me, across the city, everything was in motion. The fake uprisings, the forged manifestos, the intercepted communications. My revolution was already bleeding through the cracks of his empire like hydraulic fluid through rusted steel.
"You see," I continued, taking slow steps forward, "while you were busy polishing crowns and rewriting truth, I was building something real. Not just this suit. A movement."
Eastborn took a single step forward, his robes whispering like old snakeskin.
"Your movement is a joke. Your suit is an insult. And your presence here… a death sentence."
He raised his hand.
Guards snapped into action.
And that was my cue.
---
The EFM Armor lit up like a devil's playground. Pulse shields flared. Kinetic dampeners kicked in. The arm-blades deployed with a satisfying shhnk. I moved like a myth—clean, vicious, impossible.
The first wave of guards didn't stand a chance. They hit the ground twitching, unconscious or crippled, their weapons scattered like toys.
The second wave brought heavier gear.
I smiled.
Time to test the fuckmachine part.
Twin burst-cannons deployed from the shoulders. Reflamax edge-sense kicked in as a halberd arced toward me. I dodged before the wielder even committed to the swing. A low kick shattered his stance. A follow-up palm strike sent him crashing into a gilded pillar.
Eastborn backed away now, clutching the edge of the ceremonial table like it could protect him.
"My lords!" he barked. "Detain him! He's an assassin!"
"Not an assassin," I corrected, grabbing a fallen warhammer and slamming it into a marble statue for effect. "A fucking symbol."
A lord stood and drew a pistol. Then another stood… and handed me their crown.
The hall went silent.
Another crown hit the floor.
Then another.
And another.
Thirty seconds later, the room was nothing but abandoned power and broken symbols.
Only Eastborn remained standing.
Only Eastborn still pretending the world hadn't changed.
---
I stalked toward him, armor hissing with each step.
"You built a kingdom on control," I said, "but you forgot the one rule of fear: it always rots from the inside."
His hand reached for a hidden blade.
"I wouldn't," came Netra's voice, echoing across the hall from the threshold.
He froze.
Of course he did.
Because if she got involved, that meant Kazakov was watching.
And if Kazakov was watching...
...then the crowns really were on their knees.
---
I didn't kill him.
Not yet.
The people would.
Let them tear him down in trials and tribunals and public flames. Let his downfall become a lesson etched in flame and irony.
Me?
I walked away.
The armor hissed closed behind me, heat venting from its spine.
"Long live the fuckmachine," I muttered.
Netra raised an eyebrow.
"That's going on your tombstone."
"If I die. Which I won't. Because this armor? It fucks."
She sighed.
But she smiled.
And outside, a revolution roared to life.