The carriage didn't just stop; it died. One of the rear wheels shrieked and shattered against a submerged rock, tilting the rickety box into a ditch filled with grey, freezing sludge.
"End of the line, Your Highness," one of the guards spat. He was a Rank 2 Rust-Vein named Korg, and for the last four hundred miles, his respect for Cyprian had been evaporating like mist.
Cyprian climbed out of the tilted carriage. The smell hit him first—rot, wet pine, and the metallic tang of stagnant water. This was Oakhaven. It wasn't a lordship; it was a collection of hovels huddled together like wet dogs against the shadow of the Black-Iron Forest.
"Where is the Manor?" Cyprian asked, wiping rain from his eyes.
Korg laughed, a wet, rattling sound. He pointed to a two-story structure at the edge of the village. The roof had partially collapsed, and the stone walls were choked with thick, parasitic moss. "There's your palace. We're heading back to the garrison at the pass. We weren't paid to stay in this hole."
"You were ordered to stay until the transition of power was complete," Cyprian said, his voice cold. He felt the familiar itch in his chest—the synthetic gold trying to respond to his irritation.
Korg stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a dull, reddish light—the sign of a Rank 2 awakening. The Status Pressure he emitted was weak, but to a "Dull-Red" like Cyprian was supposed to be, it felt like a heavy hand pressing on his shoulders.
"The Duke isn't here, little prince," Korg sneered. "And out here, blood that doesn't lead, bleeds. Give us your purse, and maybe we won't leave you in the ditch."
Cyprian's mind went into overdrive. Calculation: Four guards. One Rank 2, three Rank 1s. Distance: 3 meters. Terrain: Slippery mud. He couldn't use the Thorne's Black-Iron Aura. If he tried, he'd cough blood and die.
Instead, he reached into his sleeve, his fingers brushing the cold metal of a prototype he'd spent the last three nights wiring beneath his skin: The External Circuit (Mark I).
"I'll give you one chance to turn around," Cyprian said quietly.
"Or what? You'll bleed on us?" Korg lunged, his fist glowing with a faint, rusty heat.
Cyprian didn't dodge; he intercepted. He grabbed Korg's wrist, and with a sharp mental command, he triggered the circuit. A hidden battery of refined Ichor-dust snapped into life.
ZZZT.
A blue-white spark of high-frequency energy surged through the copper wires taped to Cyprian's palm. Korg screamed as the artificial current bypassed his Gates and fried his nervous system. The guard collapsed into the mud, twitching.
The other three guards froze. They had never seen a "Dull-Red" strike down a "Rust-Vein" with a touch.
"Leave," Cyprian commanded, his hand trembling from the feedback. "Now."
They didn't wait. They scrambled toward the remaining horses and vanished into the treeline, leaving their unconscious leader in the muck.
Cyprian slumped against the carriage, his vision swimming. Synaptic Burnout. The cost of the circuit was a splitting headache that felt like a needle being driven into his brain.
"That's a clever toy, lad. But toys don't stop the winter."
Cyprian looked up. Standing near the ruined manor was a giant of a man. He was missing an arm, and his left eye was clouded with a milky film. He wore the remains of a Rank 3 veteran's armor, but the metal was rusted and the Ichor-filaments were torn out.
"Who are you?" Cyprian asked, struggling to stand.
"Garrick," the man said, his voice like grinding stones. "I was a Sergeant of the Third Iron-Wrought. Until a Gold-Blood decided my unit was a 'necessary sacrifice' to win a duel. My 2nd Gate was crushed. Now I'm just the village drunk."
Garrick looked at the twitching guard in the mud, then at Cyprian's hidden sleeve. "You've got Iron in your heart, boy. I can see it. But the people in this village? They don't want a Lord. They want bread. And the bandits in the woods? They want your head."
Cyprian wiped a streak of soot from his forehead. "Then it's a good thing I brought blueprints for a bakery and a gallows."
Garrick let out a short, dry bark of a laugh. He stepped forward and offered his one good hand. "The Tithe is in three months. If you can make these people follow a man who bleeds red, maybe there's hope for this kingdom yet."
Cyprian took the hand. It was rough, scarred, and strong. This mud, this cold, and this broken soldier—this was real.
"Let's get to work, Sergeant."