The flight was twenty-two minutes of strained, vibrating silence. The interior of the VTOL was as spartan and brutally functional as its exterior. There were no seats, only metal benches lining the walls. The Custodians huddled together, a small, weary knot of humanity surrounded by the cold, imposing presence of Rostova's two helmeted guards. The Phoenix soldiers stood perfectly still, their rifles held in a low-ready position, their posture a masterclass in disciplined intimidation. They didn't speak or look at the survivors. They just existed, a clear and present reminder of who was now in charge.
Leo sat on the metal bench, the fatigue hitting him like a physical blow now that the adrenaline had finally leeched out of his system. The flight gave him time to properly assess his own status. His mana was slowly, very slowly, regenerating. The experience points from the warehouse mission had pushed him right to the edge of Level 10, but the silent, unrewarding erasure of the Adjuster had left him feeling strangely cheated. He had performed a miracle, and the System hadn't even noticed. It was a detail that felt important, a crack in the logic of the world he was only just beginning to understand.
Through the small, armored viewport, he watched the landscape change. They left the graveyard of downtown skyscrapers behind, flying over miles of darkened, eerily quiet suburbs before the terrain shifted again. The view became one of massive, antiquated industrial structures: sprawling brick warehouses, rust-colored rail lines, and the skeletal remains of blast furnaces silhouetted against the sickly green-and-orange sky.
Soon, their destination came into view, and Leo understood why it was called The Foundry.
It was an entire industrial park, easily two square miles, enclosed by a truly colossal wall. The wall was a testament to desperate, pragmatic engineering. Its foundation was scavenged highway dividers and thick, pre-poured concrete slabs. Atop that, a patchwork of welded steel plates, intermodal shipping containers filled with rubble, and even reinforced brickwork rose to a height of thirty feet. A nest of electrified razor wire ran along the top, and watchtowers, armed with heavy machine guns and what looked like energy-based weaponry, stood sentinel at regular intervals. The entire structure was stitched together with glowing blue lines of System-based energy—a physical representation of [Reinforce] or a similar skill, applied on a titanic scale.
This was not a barricade. It was a border wall, a fortress city built to wait out the end of the world.
The VTOL flew over the wall and began its descent into a central courtyard that had once been a massive rail yard. The moment they were inside, the oppressive silence of the ruined city was replaced by the sounds of life. Generators hummed. Metal clanged against metal. Voices shouted orders. The air smelled of diesel fumes, welding ozone, and, faintly, cooking food.
As they landed with a soft hiss, Leo saw people. Dozens of them. They moved with purpose under harsh industrial floodlights. Men and women in grease-stained overalls worked on a large vehicle chassis. A team in lab coats hurried into a clean-looking modern building, carrying sealed containers. Others hauled scrap metal or tended to massive hydroponics farms built inside long, windowless warehouses, their interiors glowing with purple grow lights. It was a hive of frantic, organized activity.
The ramp lowered. "Disembark," Rostova commanded from the cockpit.
As they stepped out into the courtyard, the sheer scale of the operation was overwhelming. It was a civilization in a can. Rostova met them at the bottom of the ramp, her expression as unreadable as ever. Her eyes immediately found Leo.
"Processing is this way," she said, gesturing toward a long, brick building marked 'ADMINISTRATION'. "All new assets must be medically screened, skill-indexed, and assigned quarters and duties. You will find that efficiency is our highest virtue here."
As they began to walk, two medics in Phoenix Initiative uniforms, their movements gentle but firm, approached Rick. "We'll take the child to the Med-Sci wing. She'll be comfortable."
"I'm going with her," Sarah stated, her voice ironclad. "That was the agreement."
Rostova gave a curt nod to the medics. "Dr. Miller is to be considered the specimen's primary attendant. Grant her commensurate access." The medics nodded, their faces unreadable behind their visors, and began wheeling a floating stretcher towards Rick. Lily, still sleeping peacefully, was carefully transferred. Sarah gave Leo one last, long, worried look before turning to follow the medics and her new charge as they disappeared toward a separate, more modern-looking building.
Rostova led the remaining Custodians into the administration building. The interior was a stark, efficient bureaucracy. They were photographed, fingerprinted, and made to give blood samples. A tired-looking man with a clipboard asked them their names, former occupations, and—the most critical question—their System-assigned Class.
Ben enthusiastically described his engineering skills. Maria just grunted, "Demolition." When it was Leo's turn, he hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Class: Janitor," he said quietly.
The man looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowed in confusion. "A… janitor? Seriously?" He looked to Rostova for confirmation.
"His classification is 'Specialist Grade'," Rostova said, a statement which only seemed to confuse the clerk more. He shrugged and wrote it down. Janitor (Spec.).
Finally, they were handed a stack of grey, standard-issue jumpsuits and a set of keycards. "Your quarters are in Barracks C," Rostova told them. "You will share a single unit, as per your terms. A duty roster will be delivered in the morning following your medical quarantine. The mess hall serves at 0600, 1200, and 1800. Rules are posted in the barracks. Break them and your status will be re-evaluated."
Her meaning was crystal clear. They were inmates with a work-release program.
As she turned to leave them in their new, spartan room—a simple concrete box with six metal bunks and a single table—Leo spoke up.
"Commander," he said.
Rostova stopped and turned back, her eyebrow raised.
"Our terms," Leo said, his voice quiet but firm in the echoing room. "A hot meal. Before the probation."
Rostova stared at him for a long, hard moment, her grey eyes dissecting him. She saw no arrogance, no defiance. She saw a man holding her to the letter of a contract. A man who understood that rules, once agreed upon, must be honored. It was a principle upon which she had built her entire organization.
A slow, cold smile touched her lips. "The quartermaster," she said, "will be notified."
She turned and left. A few minutes later, a young Phoenix guard knocked on their door with a tray. On it were plates piled high with scrambled eggs and strips of sizzling, real bacon.
Maria let out a low laugh. "I'll be damned. The dragon keeps her promises."
Leo picked up a fork, the exhaustion so profound he could barely lift it. They had a home. They had food. They had survived. But as he took the first bite, he knew that the hospital had just been the orientation. His real job, as a Custodian in The Foundry, was just beginning.