The dust from the collapsed drill site settled behind them. The roar of the Foreman's machine faded into a distant, angry rumble.
Silas and Cassidy found themselves in a tunnel that was distinctly different from the ancient necropolis.
The walls here were reinforced with modern steel beams. Electric lights—powered by humming Tar-batteries—strung along the ceiling, casting a harsh, artificial glare on the ancient stone floor.
And there were tracks.
A narrow-gauge railway line ran down the center of the tunnel, disappearing into the dark.
"Well, well," Cassidy whistled, holstering her revolver. "The Foreman wasn't just digging for fuel. He was building a highway."
They walked along the tracks. Alcoves had been carved into the walls, stacked high with crates.
These weren't rough mining crates. They were polished mahogany, stamped with a seal in red wax: A Double-Headed Eagle grasping a Beaker.
The Royal Alchemists Guild of Iron-Hold.
"Jackpot," Cassidy grinned. She pulled out a lockpick. "Forget the Gravekeeper heart. This is the real loot."
[The Smuggler's Cache]
Cassidy popped the lid of the nearest crate.
Inside, packed in straw, were rows of glass spheres filled with swirling blue gas.
"Volatile Lightning Grenades," Cassidy whispered reverently. "Illegal in three states. Worth a fortune."
She carefully pocketed two of them.
Silas ignored the weapons. He was looking at a manifest pinned to a crate of rifles.
Recipient: The Reclaimers.
"They're arming rebels," Silas muttered. "Or provoking a war. The Crown is smuggling weapons through a dead city to avoid its own customs inspectors."
"Politics is boring, Vane," Cassidy moved to the next crate. "Look at this!"
She pulled out a gauntlet made of brass and glass tubing. It looked like a smaller, refined version of the Foreman's armor.
"A Piston-Fist. Hydraulic punch assist. I could use this to open safes... or faces."
Silas didn't answer. He had stopped moving.
His Grave Sense—which had been buzzing constantly in the necropolis—had suddenly gone silent.
There was a blind spot in the tunnel ahead. A void where his senses couldn't reach.
"Don't touch anything else," Silas said quietly.
"Why? You want a cut?"
"No," Silas pointed to the large, tarp-covered shape standing in the middle of the tracks a few yards away. "Because the statues are breathing."
[The Sentinel]
Cassidy froze.
The shape under the tarp shifted. The heavy canvas slid off.
It wasn't a statue.
It was a Clockwork Centurion.
A relic from the First Era, but modified. It stood eight feet tall, crafted from oxidized bronze. Its face was a stylized, stoic mask of a bearded king. But its chest had been cut open, and a modern, glowing Tar-Engine had been shoved inside, pulsing with corrupt black light.
The miners hadn't just found it; they had hot-wired it.
CLICK. WHIRRR.
Gears ground together—the sound of metal teeth chewing on rust.
The Centurion's eyes—lenses of red glass—lit up.
It didn't speak. It didn't roar. It simply raised a massive bronze shield in one hand and a spinning buzz-saw blade in the other.
UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL, a recorded voice scratched from a voice-box. SANITIZE.
"I hate robots," Cassidy groaned. "You can't bluff a robot."
[Metal vs. Bone]
The Centurion charged.
It was heavy, shaking the floor with each step.
"Scatter!" Silas yelled.
Cassidy dove right, behind a crate of rifles.
Silas stood his ground. He wanted to test the machine's limits.
He swung his shovel.
CLANG.
The iron blade hit the bronze shield. The impact vibrated up Silas's arms, jarring his bones. The shield didn't even dent.
The Centurion countered. The buzz-saw arm slashed.
Silas leaned back. The saw cut through the lapel of his coat, shredding the fabric. If he had been an inch slower, it would have opened his chest.
THREAT LEVEL: MINIMAL, the machine droned.
"Minimal?" Silas frowned. "I'm insulted."
He dropped the shovel. He stepped in close, inside the reach of the saw.
He grabbed the Centurion's shield arm.
Sequence 8 Strength.
He heaved. Metal groaned. He tried to topple the machine.
But the Centurion was anchored. Spikes shot out of its feet, locking it to the floor.
It headbutted Silas.
CRACK.
Bronze hit skull.
Silas stumbled back, seeing stars. Blood trickled down his forehead.
Okay, Silas thought, shaking his head. It's stronger than me. And harder.
Cassidy popped up from cover.
"Hey! Tin Man!"
She threw one of the Lightning Grenades she had just stolen.
CRASH.
The glass sphere shattered on the Centurion's chest.
Blue lightning arced over the bronze plating.
The machine twitched. Its gears seized for a second. The Tar-Engine in its chest stuttered.
SYSTEM ERROR. REROUTING.
"It's shielded!" Cassidy yelled. "The electricity didn't fry the core!"
[The Weak Point]
Silas watched the lightning dance over the metal. He saw where it gathered.
The joints.
The knees and the neck were unarmored to allow movement.
"Cassidy! The legs!" Silas shouted. "Blow the knees!"
"I'm out of grenades!"
"Use the Piston-Fist!"
Cassidy looked at the brass gauntlet she had just looted. She jammed her hand into it. She flipped a switch. The hydraulics hissed.
"This better work, or I'm billing you for my funeral!"
Silas grabbed his shovel.
"I'll distract it."
He charged again.
Ability: Hallowed Ground.
He slammed his foot down. The pressure wave hit the Centurion. It didn't stop it, but it slowed the gears, making the machine sluggish.
Silas swung the shovel at the Centurion's head, drawing its attention. The shield raised to block.
Cassidy slid across the floor (like a baseball player stealing home).
She aimed the Piston-Fist at the Centurion's right knee joint.
KER-CHUNK.
The hydraulic punch hit the gear mechanism.
The brass gear shattered.
The Centurion's leg buckled. The massive machine toppled sideways, crashing onto the tracks.
[The Dismantling]
It wasn't dead. The buzz-saw was still spinning wild, sparking against the stone floor. It tried to push itself up.
Silas jumped onto its back.
He grabbed the glowing Tar-Engine exposed in its chest.
The heat was intense—burning his cold hands.
"This doesn't belong to you," Silas grunted.
He pulled.
Muscles strained against metal cabling.
SNAP.
He ripped the engine core out.
The red lights in the Centurion's eyes faded. The gears ground to a halt. The machine died.
Silas tossed the sputtering core aside. He looked at his hands—burned and black with oil.
"Effective," Silas nodded to Cassidy. "You fight dirty."
"I fight to win," Cassidy smiled, admiring the dented Piston-Fist. "I'm keeping this."
[The Ticket Out]
Beyond the fallen guardian, the tracks led to a large freight elevator platform.
A lever on the wall was marked: Surface - Sector 7.
Silas walked over and pulled the lever.
Gears clanked deep in the shaft. The platform groaned and began to rise.
"We're leaving the underground," Silas said, watching the ceiling approach.
"Sector 7 is on the outskirts of Iron-Hold. The Capital."
Cassidy sat on a crate, counting her loot.
"You know, Vane, we make a decent team. You break the big things, I steal the small things."
Silas adjusted his tattered coat. The wound on his head had already stopped bleeding.
"Don't get comfortable, Ace. The Capital is where the real monsters live. The ones that wear suits."
The elevator broke the surface.
Blinding grey sunlight hit them.
They weren't in the desert anymore.
They were looking at a massive, walled city of black iron and smokestacks, rising like a fortress against the pale sky.
Iron-Hold.
Silas touched the pocket where the mysterious gold coin lay.
I'm coming, he thought. Whoever killed me... I'm coming.