By the time the thick fog had completely dissipated, the scent of blood still hung heavy at the edge of the Rustwood Forest. The carcass of the young Rust-Beast lay on the black soil, its dark red blood tracing a grim path along the ground. A few stray Gear-Rats cowered in the gaps between mechanical wreckage, their red eyes peeking fearfully at Liam, not daring to approach.
Liam leaned against a rust-streaked tree trunk, taking a full fifteen minutes to catch his breath. The wounds on his back and ankle still oozed blood. His coarse work clothes were torn to shreds, stuck to his skin with a mix of blood, grime, and the black bodily fluids of the Gear-Rats, itching and stinging. He touched his left arm; the rust patterns had receded to below his elbow. The skin that had split and peeled wasn't fully healed, but it no longer felt hot, just slightly numb. The energy of the Seething Beast Blood still flowed weakly within him, just enough to keep him upright.
He looked down at the dead Rust-Beast. The drop of Seething Beast Blood that had merged with him had not only suppressed the curse but also sharpened his senses—he could hear the faint rustle of leaves deep in the Rustwood, smell the damp earth a hundred meters away, and the strength in his arms when he moved felt greater than before. But this boost was temporary. According to the original host's memories, the effects of Seething Beast Blood lasted at most three days. After that, the curse would flare up again, more painfully than before.
"Need to find a way to stably suppress the curse, fast. And get some usable weapons and supplies." Liam pushed himself up, panting, kicked aside a Gear-Rat corpse at his feet, and turned his gaze back to the scrapyard. Countless mechanical parts lay scattered there; perhaps he could cobble together some usable tools, maybe even a weapon. The piston rod had been a desperate choice; it was too heavy, exhausting to swing after just a few blows, and impractical against swarming enemies.
He picked up the piston rod and dragged it back towards the scrapyard, carefully avoiding the sharp metal fragments on the ground to prevent further injuring himself. Just as he stepped into the scrapyard, a faint clinking sound, like delicate metal striking metal, reached his ears from deep within the wreckage. Liam halted, tightening his grip on the rod, and cautiously moved toward the source—Rust Island housed many creatures that fed on scrap parts besides Gear-Rats and Rust-Beasts, and approaching blindly wasn't safe.
The sound came from a pile of stacked steel pipes and gears. Liam crept around to the side and peered over. Several sparrow-sized mechanical birds were perched on the gears, pecking at the rust on the surfaces with sharp metallic beaks. The birds were cobbled together from brass and sheet iron, their wing edges sharp as blades, their tail feathers consisting of a few long, thin steel needles. Their eyes were dark red glass beads. These were Rust-Sparrows, another common sight on Rust Island.
Rust-Sparrows weren't highly aggressive by nature, but if provoked, they would swarm, using their sharp wings to slice open a victim's skin. The steel needles in their tails carried a mild toxin, causing wounds to swell and fester. Liam didn't want any more trouble and was about to slip away when a glint from within the gear pile caught his eye: the remains of a broken revolver. Though covered in rust, the core components like the barrel and trigger seemed intact. It was missing its cylinder and grip.
A revolver! Liam's heart leapt. A firearm's stopping power far surpassed a piston rod. If he could piece this relic together and find suitable ammunition, dealing with creatures like Gear-Rats would be much easier. But the Rust-Sparrows were perched right on top of the pile. Retrieving the gun would surely disturb them.
He observed for a moment. There were only five sparrows, all focused on pecking rust, their backs completely exposed. Taking a deep breath, Liam gripped the piston rod, quietly circled behind them, then suddenly swung the rod down hard onto the outermost Rust-Sparrow.
The rod whistled through the air. THUMP! It struck the sparrow's back, denting and cracking the brass shell instantly. The mechanical bird's wings twitched twice before it fell to the ground, several of its tail needles scattering. The other four sparrows, startled, flapped into the air and dove at Liam, their sharp wings cutting the air with a piercing whine.
Liam was ready. He sidestepped the first bird's attack and swung the rod horizontally, smashing another sparrow's wing. It lost balance, crashed into a steel pipe, and fell. The remaining three Rust-Sparrows grew frantic. One dove for his face while the other two targeted his arm and calf.
He ducked under the attack aimed at his face and kicked away the bird going for his calf, but his arm was grazed by the wing of the third sparrow. The freshly scabbed wound tore open, blood immediately welling up. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Liam backhanded the piston rod, smashing that sparrow into pieces. The final Rust-Sparrow, seeing its companions destroyed, fled in terror deep into the scrapyard and vanished from sight.
With the sparrows dealt with, Liam, breathing heavily, walked to the gear pile and picked up the revolver remnant. The metal was cold. Beneath the rust, he could barely make out the original black finish. The barrel was about ten centimeters long, decent caliber. The grip had been snapped off cleanly, as if broken by brute force. He rummaged through the surrounding gears, hoping to find a matching cylinder and grip, but after ten minutes, he only found a few broken cartridge casings and a section of steel pipe of suitable thickness—no usable gun parts.
"Can it really not be fixed?" Frustration gnawed at him. He turned the broken frame over in his hands, and remembered the Mechanical Core from before. Its housing was made of hard alloy—perhaps he could break off a piece for a grip. As for the cylinder, maybe he could fashion one from a scrap copper pipe. But he had no cutting tools, only brute force—prying with his hands or smashing with the piston rod to try and break the core housing apart.
Carrying the remnant, he walked over to the now-empty Mechanical Core. Though devoid of energy, its housing remained hard. Liam raised the piston rod and brought it down hard on the housing. A loud CLANG echoed, but the metal only showed a shallow dent. He couldn't break it. He tried different angles, striking over a dozen times until his arms ached, finally managing to crack the housing.
Dropping the rod, he pried at the crack with his fingers, his nails aching, until he managed to break off a palm-sized piece of the alloy shell. It was a good thickness and size, just right for a revolver grip. He found a few thin metal rods, bent them into shape using a rock as an anvil, and used them as crude fasteners to join the alloy piece to the broken gun frame. The process was painstaking without proper tools, relying on force to adjust the alignment. The fasteners were loose, wobbling at the slightest movement.
After more than two hours of struggle, the grip was somewhat secured. But the cylinder was still missing. Liam sat on the ground, staring at the half-finished revolver in his hand, his brow furrowed. Without a cylinder, he couldn't load ammunition; the gun was still just scrap metal. He looked up, scanning the surrounding wreckage, his gaze falling on a pile of discarded steam pipes. An idea struck him—the copper pipes inside steam conduits could be cut into short segments, serving as makeshift chambers. He'd just need a suitable spring to make the cylinder rotate.
He got up and searched through the mechanical piles, finally finding a small, serviceable spring inside a broken steam valve. He also found a copper pipe that matched the barrel's diameter. Using the piston rod, he hammered the pipe, cutting it into short segments, each just long enough to hold a single round. He assembled these segments into a crude cylinder, fixing it beneath the frame with the spring.
He tested the cylinder; it rotated stiffly, but it worked. Now for the ammunition. He only had a few broken, empty cartridge casings—no powder, no projectiles. The original host's memories held that sulfur ore could be found in the volcanic veins on the island. Metal fragments from the wreckage could serve as bullets. For gunpowder, he might be able to mix sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal. But saltpeter and charcoal were hard to come by; Rust Island was mostly black soil and slag, with little charcoal from burned wood.
"First, see if I can find sulfur ore. If not, I'll just use metal shards as thrown weapons. Better than nothing." Liam tucked the half-finished revolver into his belt, picked up a few sharp metal fragments and stuffed them into his pockets, then stood and headed for the scrapyard's edge. The volcanic veins at the island's center had sulfur, but it was far, and the journey would be dangerous. In his current state, wounded and with the curse only temporarily suppressed, a long trek was impossible.
Maybe there was leftover gunpowder somewhere in the scrapyard? Clinging to that slim hope, Liam resumed his search. After another half-hour, he found nothing useful, but he did discover a few sealed bottles of machine oil. It could be used for lubrication later, so he took them too.
Just as he was about to leave the scrapyard to find water and maybe some wild fruit in the Rustwood, that familiar, rapid click-clacking sound returned, denser than before, as if hundreds of Gear-Rats were approaching. Liam's heart sank. He gripped the unfinished revolver at his waist and turned toward the sound.
The fog had crept back in unnoticed. Within the mist, countless pairs of small red eyes lit up, swarming through the gaps in the wreckage. In moments, a dark, seething mass surged toward him. This time, the number of Gear-Rats was several times greater than before—at least several hundred. The leaders were larger than the rest, their teeth gleaming coldly—rat kings.
"Damn it, so many!" Liam's face paled. He turned and ran for the Rustwood. His revolver was useless in its current state. He only had the piston rod for defense, but against hundreds of rats, he wouldn't last long. Last time, he'd managed to fight off a hundred thanks to the Mechanical Core's energy suppressing the curse and the Seething Beast Blood boosting his strength. Now, his energy was nearly depleted, his wounds still bleeding. He stood no chance against this horde.
The Gear-Rats were fast. They caught up in seconds, the front runners latching onto his ankles, their sharp teeth tearing into his existing wounds. Blood gushed. Liam cried out, kicking several away, but more swarmed up his legs, their teeth gnawing at his clothes and skin, stinging pain spreading everywhere.
He raised the piston rod, sweeping it at the surrounding rats, sending a dozen flying. But they were endless. For every one he knocked away, two more took its place. His arms grew heavy with fatigue, his strength draining rapidly. Gear-Rats bit into the wounds on his back, the agony making his vision dim. His steps became unsteady.
On the verge of being completely overwhelmed, Liam remembered the half-finished revolver at his waist. No ammunition, but the frame was hard alloy—maybe he could use it as a club. He yanked it out and smashed it down on a Gear-Rat crawling on his chest. CRUNCH. The rat's head burst, black blood splattering over him.
He used the revolver to bludgeon the rats around him, but the gun was light, far less effective than the rod. It only temporarily kept a few at bay, unable to stop the onslaught. Soon, his arms and back were covered in countless new bites, his clothes soaked with blood. The scent drove the Gear-Rats into a greater frenzy.
"This is no good! I'll be stripped to the bone!" Gritting his teeth, Liam's eyes scanned the wreckage, landing on a tilted steam pipe not far away. It was connected to a damaged boiler at the top, which seemed to still hold residual steam. An idea sparked. Steam was scalding hot. If he could lure the rats under the boiler, he might scald them.
Bearing the pain, he ran toward the steam pipe, the Gear-Rats clinging to him, still biting. His left arm began to feel hot again; the rust patterns faintly reappeared. The curse was threatening to flare up early. Clenching his jaw, he pushed harder, finally reaching the pipe. He grabbed its edge, hauling himself up onto it, and sat atop, looking down at the seething mass below.
The Gear-Rats gathered densely beneath the pipe, their red eyes fixed on him. They tried climbing the smooth metal surface but slid back down after a few attempts. They could only scratch and gnaw at the pipe base with their teeth, filling the air with an earsplitting screech of metal.
Sitting on the pipe, Liam finally caught his breath. He looked at his left arm; the rust patterns had climbed past his elbow, the burning sensation intensifying. The Seething Beast Blood energy seemed almost spent. He touched the pendant on his chest. It was still warm, but no longer glowed. The earlier light seemed to have drained its energy; it couldn't help now.
The Gear-Rats below kept gathering, their numbers swelling. Some even tried stacking on each other to reach the pipe. Looking down at the dark, swarming mass, Liam felt a heavy dread. He was trapped. He couldn't get down, couldn't leave. Once his energy ran out and the curse flared, he'd lose his strength, fall, and be consumed in seconds.
His gaze fell on the half-finished revolver in his hand, then he remembered the metal fragments in his pocket and the machine oil he'd found. The oil was flammable. If he could douse the rats with it and ignite it with a burning metal fragment, he might burn a path through them.
He quickly pulled out the oil, unscrewed the cap, and poured it down onto the Gear-Rats below. The liquid streamed down the pipe, coating many of the rodents, making their bodies slick. He then took out a sharp metal fragment, struck it against a nearby piece of wreckage to create sparks, and set the fragment ablaze.
Holding the burning shard, he threw it down into the oil-slicked mass. It landed amidst the drenched rats, instantly igniting a fierce fire. Flames spread rapidly via the oil, quickly engulfing the surrounding Gear-Rats. Screeching in agony, the burning rats scattered in panic, creating a gap in the previously tight encirclement.
The fire grew, consuming many Gear-Rats, their blackened corpses piling up on the ground, filling the air with a foul, acrid stench. Seizing the chance, Liam jumped down from the pipe and sprinted for the Rustwood Forest. The remaining rats, intimidated by the flames, didn't give chase, staying behind to hiss angrily as he escaped.