The skeleton of the Ashwing cast interlocking shadows in the morning light, like the scattered bones of a fallen titan, standing tall at the heart of the beastman tribe. After a night of frantic reinforcement, the frame—forged from the Beast King's bones and refined rust-iron—now boasted basic armor plating, gleaming with a cold, silver-and-brown hardness under the rising sun. Liam stood within the longest shadow of the keel, his fingers tracing the main spine forged from Ragnarok's vertebrae. Beneath the cold metal, he could faintly sense the low, rhythmic flow of beast soul energy, like the breathing of a slumbering leviathan. The "Wolf and Hammer" pact sigil on his chest glowed warmly, forming a stable energy circuit with the one on Elara's chest beside him—an invisible shackle desperately holding the seething Corrosion Curse imprisoned beneath his sternum. The balance was fragile; with every heartbeat, he felt the dark, rust-colored power battering against the levee built from silver blood, volcanic ore, and beast soul.
Days of high alert and relentless fighting had honed his senses to a razor's edge on the brink of life and death. The sound of dew dropping from a leaf deep within the Rustwood Forest, subtle shifts in the sulfur concentration in the air, even the faint tremor of metal fragments in the soil beneath his feet—all were amplified, mapping onto his perception with crystal clarity. It was a survival instinct, forced into evolution by a brutal environment.
"My King!" The heavy footfalls of Gareth, the bear beastman chieftain, drummed like warbeats, shattering the morning's brief peace. He rushed over, his thick-furred chest heaving, his face etched with unprecedented gravity. "The eastern coastline... there's something in the fog... huge! Like a moving mountain of steel!"
Liam and Elara exchanged a glance. No words were needed. Together, they scaled the Ashwing's multi-meter-high rib frame with practiced ease, like two falcons perched on a metallic tree, and peered eastward.
The perennial, rust-colored fog surrounding the island churned like thick liquid. But within the gaps of that flowing, corrosive veil, a shadow loomed—massive as a mountain range, even larger than the steepest volcanic cliff behind the tribe. It lay in wait upon the sea's surface. It wasn't completely still, adjusting its angle with agonizing slowness, revealing its suffocating scale. Its flank was like a sheer cliff face, occasionally flashing with the cold gleam of searchlights—like a great beast blinking malicious, scrutinizing eyes within the mist. An intangible, icy pressure spanned the kilometers of ocean, crushing down upon every soul who looked upon it.
"It's the Dawnbreaker," Elara's silver eyes narrowed sharply, her voice low and tight. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the frame. "Flagship of the Imperial Seventh Fleet. A mobile fortress at sea. Its keel was reforged from the wreck of the legendary Unyielding, with armor over five hundred millimeters thick at its strongest points. It carries four twin-mounted 380mm 'City-Smasher' steam cannons. A single broadside could erase our tribe from the map, along with half the mountain ridge. Elias... this time he hasn't just sent hunters. He's deployed a true war-beast. He's determined to erase us, and the secrets of Rust Island, completely."
As if to confirm the horror her words described, the distant shadow let out a blast from its horn. Deep, prolonged, like a funeral dirge rising from the deep sea or the earth's core, it pierced through the sea fog and distance with an authority that proclaimed death and destruction. It made hearts tremble, set the twisted branches of the surrounding Rustwood Forest shuddering, and startled a cloud of black, metal-shard-eating rust crows into flight.
Several small landing craft, like shark eggs, slid silently from the shadow of the mothership. Like hounds sniffing blood, they began patrolling cautiously along the coastline, weaving between hidden reefs and surging waves. The ballistae on their prows were faintly visible in the mist, as if measuring the path of assault, probing for weaknesses in the defenses.
"They're testing us, and applying pressure," Liam's voice was as calm as steel soaked in ice. "The reefs and fog are our temporary shields. They're waiting for an opportunity—a thinning of the mist, or..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the beastmen below, marked by anxiety and unease. "...Or for us to turn on each other first."
"The Empire's methods are never limited to direct assault," Elara leapt down from the frame, her movements still agile, but her furrowed brow betrayed her inner turmoil. "Division, bribery, intimidation, even mental control... The tribe is newly united. Loyalties are not yet absolute. There will always be those who fear power or harbor treacherous thoughts."
Her worries, like an ill omen, soon found validation in reality. From the direction of the tribe's outer palisade came a commotion filled with anger and fear. Two loyal wolf beastman warriors, bearing old scars, roughly dragged a bound and struggling fox beastman forward. The fox's fur was matted with dirt and grime, his once-cunning eyes now wide with terror and panic, constantly darting around. Yet, at his waist hung a finely maintained, serrated dagger of unmistakably Imperial elite make—utterly out of place.
"My King! We caught this traitor at the secret waterway under the western cliffs!" The lead wolf warrior's voice was hoarse with rage. He handed Liam a finely engraved metal cylinder bearing the Imperial eagle, taken from the fox's hidden pouch. "He was trying to slip out, to swim to a rendezvous point! We made him talk—this wasn't his first time passing information!"
Liam took the cylinder expressionlessly, his fingertips registering its cool weight. He unscrewed the cap. Inside was a small scroll of fine vellum, clearly not native to Rust Island. Unrolling it, he saw a single line scrawled in Imperial script: "In three days, at noon, if the fog clears, light the signal fire on Lookout Ridge to mark the bombardment coordinates."
Where a signature should have been, there was only a faint lip-print, carrying a strange scent of jasmine.
Gareth's face darkened with instant fury. He stomped forward, his massive hand seizing the comparatively slender fox beastman, lifting him clear off the ground. "Korso! You fox-folk! Always skulking and selling out your kin for scraps, even under Ragnarok's rule! Now you dare conspire with humans? You want to send our entire clan to the Imperial pyres? Has the rust eaten your hearts?!"
"We just want to live!" shrieked the fox named Korso, his face twisted with desperate madness as he struggled. "Is that a crime? Look at that monster in the sky! Following this cursed human, who can't even save himself, to fight an Imperial warship? You're leading the whole tribe into a boiling lava flow! The Imperial masters promised... if we provide enough information, and coordinate from within at the right moment... they'll guarantee my clan passage off this damned, rust-ridden hellhole!"
Heated argument erupted, drawing more beastmen. Confusion, anger, fear, and a hint of wavering resolve spread through the crowd. Liam remained silent, as if the tumult around him meant nothing. His thumb rubbed thoughtfully over the scented lip-print on the vellum, his gaze sharp as a honed blade, seemingly deciphering the information it held. Suddenly, he moved—not to attack, but with a lightning-fast swipe of his hand. A faint pulse of steam energy at his fingertips tore open the back of Korso's tunic with a rip.
There, embedded in the skin between his shoulder blades, was a grotesque, metallic spider-like protrusion pulsing faintly. Its edges flickered with an ominous dark-brown light, and fine, rust-patterned energy lines spread out from it like veins.
"This isn't simple communication! It's a highly encrypted live psychic beacon! He's been deeply compromised by the Rust-Purification Sect!" Elara gasped, her face losing all color, clearly understanding the implications.
Before her words fully landed, Korso's body stiffened. His pupils were instantly flooded with a cold, metallic sheen, all sentience gone. The rust patterns under his skin writhed and bulged as if injected with life—the latent rust spores within him had been remotely activated!
"ROAR—!" No longer a living being, but a pure killing tool, Korso let out an unearthly roar mingled with the screech of grinding metal. His body inflated unnaturally, the binding vines snapping like thread. A sharp, corrosive stench emanated from him as he transformed into a living rust-bomb, lunging directly at the nearby Liam.
"Look out!"
Elara's warning came almost simultaneous with Liam's action. He shoved Elara behind him as his will summoned the crimson-gold Armor of the First Boiling. It flowed like living liquid from his pact sigil, encasing his body in an instant. Steam pistons at the joints hissed sharply, venting pressure as it powered up.
THUD!
The horrifying, rust-transformed body collided with the hard metal armor. Corrosive, dark-brown blood seeped from Korso's form, splattering against the crimson-gold plates and immediately sizzling with an acid hiss, leaving behind glaring scorch marks. The force of the mutated assault was immense, actually sliding the heavily armored Liam back half a step, his boots ploughing twin furrows in the earth.
In that critical moment, a silver flash cut through the air like lightning splitting the night.
Elara didn't attack the seemingly lethal, bloated body. Instead, relying on the thousand-times-tempered combat instincts of a Silver Wolf Knight, she drove her shortsword—imbued with a wisp of beast soul energy—with surgical precision. It pierced and, in the same motion, excised the metallic control node embedded at the very center of the fox beastman's nape.
"Guh... ah..." Korso's inflated form deflated like a pierced bladder. The metallic gloss faded from his eyes, leaving dead emptiness, before he crumpled to the ground. His body underwent a rusting process accelerated millions of times over, dissolving into a stinking, viscous, bubbling puddle of rust, utterly losing its human form. Only a pearl-sized, faintly pulsating silver crystal, covered in fine energy patterns, remained rolling in the foul muck, emitting a sinister glow.
"A high-grade psychic beacon... a unique creation of 'Saintess' Cecilia," Elara said, carefully lifting the crystal on the tip of her sword. Her face was grim, her voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor. "She can not only remotely control the puppet and spy on its surroundings through this, but within a certain range, she can share its vision, as if she were there herself. It seems the Ashwing, and our defensive preparations, hold no secrets from her now."
As if in response to her assessment, or perhaps to mock their efforts, the Dawnbreaker out at sea sounded its horn again. This time, the note held an unmistakable, impatient edge—the irritation of a colossal beast provoked by insects, a final warning before the strike.
Liam stepped forward. His armored right foot lifted, then came down hard.
CRUNCH.
A sharp, clear sound echoed as the silver beacon shattered under his metal boot, bursting into tiny, lifeless shards—like the last sparks of a dying firefly—before being utterly extinguished and ground into the dirt.
"They saw," Liam's voice, filtered through his helmet, carried an icy, metallic certainty. "That's why they seem so impatient now. The unknown breeds fear. And fear often stems from the possibility of being threatened oneself."
That night, within the largest tent at the tribe's center—made of beast hide and heavy canvas—the light of burning tallow torches stretched and distorted shadows on the walls. The air was thick with a complex mix of tension, machine oil, animal pelts, and sweat.
The core members had gathered. Gareth, representing the beastman warriors, voiced their resolve to fight to the death, but also admitted that fear of the Dawnbreaker had sown doubt among some of the clansmen. The head craftsmen presented their latest work, forged in a single night: three "Rust Resonators," shaped like inverted bells, crafted from the hardest scales near Ragnarok's heart.
"My King, based on your concept and the energy circuits provided by Lady Elara," explained an older wolf beastman craftsman, his face scarred by burns, his rough fingers tracing the complex engravings on a resonator's surface, "when activated, it should generate a unique energy field, resonating with the frequency of the Corrosion Curse. In theory, it can disrupt all active rust energy within a hundred-meter radius, lasting for about ten heartbeats. But against that leviathan... the effect would likely be minimal. The distance is too great."
"Passive defense will never win a war," Liam examined the ancient-looking device with its core of dark red beast king crystal, his eyes gleaming with calculation. "We need a 'nail' we can drive into the enemy's face. A lever to pry open their steel fortress from within."
His gaze fell upon the rack of super-heavy steam harpoons, forged for hunting deep-sea leviathans or battling large rust-beasts. These harpoons were nearly four meters long, made of high-strength alloy, with tails connected to thick cables soaked in volcanic ore dust, launched from massive steam ballistae.
He walked to one harpoon, gauged the structure of its tail, then picked up one of the smaller resonators.
"Modify it. Remove the explosive warhead. Hollow out the interior, reinforce the structure, and embed this resonator core inside. Secure it firmly." Liam spoke while quickly sketching a diagram on a nearby plank with charcoal. "Turn the disruptor into a specialized 'rust bomb.' The Dawnbreaker's heavy armor might withstand direct hits from conventional shells, but the rust force from Ragnarok's very essence, maximally activated, is a poison that unravels metal structures at their core. If we can breach its outer armor, even just a small crack, and deliver this 'bomb' inside its hull..."
He didn't need to finish. Everyone present drew a sharp breath, understanding the sheer, almost mad, logic of the attack—this might be the only method they could conceive of that had a chance of dealing substantive, even critical, damage to the sea fortress.
"Theoretically... feasible," Elara mused, leaning closer to the diagram, her silver hair cascading down. "But it requires extreme precision. We must test-fire, calibrate for range, trajectory, and drop at different distances. Most crucially, the detonation must synchronize perfectly with impact. The slightest deviation, and it either fails to penetrate or activates prematurely, wasting the energy. And..." Her gaze turned towards the boundless darkness outside the tent, towards the mountain-like shadow within it. "...We likely have only one perfect shot. Once they realize our intent, they won't give us a second chance."
Late at night, when the tribe had finally settled into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the footsteps of patrols and the distant, tide-like thrum of the warship's engines, Liam once more climbed alone to the highest point of the Ashwing. He stood on the streamlined, broad tail fin polished from the Beast King's caudal bone. The night wind carried the salt of the sea and the sting of sulfur across his face, and with it, the low, breathing sound of the slumbering behemoth far away.
He looked down, unsealing the armor over his left palm. In the steady glow of his pact sigil, he could see an almost imperceptible dark-brown line, like a living serpent, slowly but persistently slithering under his skin, trying to break past the封锁 of the energy bond. The pact provided powerful suppression and a tether, but it was also like opening a观测孔 in a dam, allowing him to perceive more clearly the imprisoned rust power deep within his chest—a furious, boundless trapped beast, each of its charging impacts more ferocious, more manic, than the last. This power was both a curse and their only current hope, dangerously alluring.
He sealed his armor again, his gaze returning to the seemingly eternal shadow upon the distant sea, and beyond, to the star-dusted night sky, blurred by Rust Island's haze. The shadow of war had fallen. The gears of fate were accelerating.
Just as his gaze unintentionally swept over a particularly unfamiliar and dim patch of starfield, an indescribable sensation flickered through him—a feeling as if his soul had been brushed by a cold fingertip, a sense of being watched. It was fleeting, yet starkly clear. As if, in the deepest reaches of the cosmos, eyes that indifferently observed all struggles and conflicts below had just casually blinked, casting a single, momentary glance his way.