The silence inside the abandoned hut hung like thick lead, heavy to breathe, filled with memories that seemed to creep through the gaps in the loose planks.
Kael had no tears left; weeping had dried up years ago, leaving only a hard, weary glint in his good eye.
He pulled Elian's thin shoulders tighter against him, wrapping the boy deeper in his worn, stained cloak — as if trying to shield that small spark of life from the rest of the world.
I lowered my head, staring at the embers slowly dying at the heart of the fire.
I let out a long, heavy breath, warm and rough, then lifted my chin. Something had shifted in the set of my shoulders; resolve had filled me again.
"We're going to take the First Forge," I said, my voice sharp and unwavering. "We must seize control of the Main Depot — cut the legs out from under their army."
A soft sound interrupted me.
Elian slipped free from his grandfather's hold.
Still small, his young horns slightly chipped, he knelt on the packed‑dirt floor. With a piece of charcoal, he began drawing quick, firm lines on a smooth patch of earth.
"The front gates have alarms… and plates that weigh anyone who steps on them," he whispered — thin, trembling, yet holding a calm that reminded me strongly of Brian.
He paused, squeezing the charcoal a little harder between his fingers, then added, as if afraid to forget something vital.
"I… I think this is something you all needed to know. No one ever talks about it, but I saw the little lights blink when a guard passed by very lightly — and the alarm went off anyway."
Laura stepped closer, crouching until she was level with the drawing. Her eyes traced every mark like someone reading a battle report.
"Good intel, kid," she said — a short nod was all the praise she gave.
Then she looked at me and Arthur.
"But think one step ahead: if we get inside, wipe everything out, and shut the furnaces down… what happens right above us?"
Arthur crossed his massive arms, his brow furrowing for a second before understanding dawned.
"The watchtower and the other two forges will see the smoke stop rising. They'll know something's wrong instantly."
"Exactly," Laura smiled — cold, predatory, never reaching her eyes in the dim light. "So we don't turn anything off."
Every head turned toward her.
"We turn this place into a house that looks lived‑in… but is hollow inside."
She tried to explain more simply, yet we still stared back blankly.
Laura sighed.
"If we kill everyone silently tomorrow night, and keep the forges burning, nobody will suspect a thing."
"We free whatever workers remain… but keep the fires alive," I finished, the plan clicking into place piece by piece in my mind. "All someone needs to do is throw enough coal to keep that pillar of smoke climbing skyward. That lie will give us a fortress right under their noses."
"The strike happens tomorrow, when the night is deepest. Before then, Kael, we need you to show us exactly where the blind spots lie around the forge."
The pact was sealed — firm, like hammered iron.
We split the remaining hours into watch shifts, but sleep never came for me. I leaned against the rotting wooden wall, listening to the sulfur‑heavy wind whistling outside.
Eyes closed, I mentally traced every foot of the path, every shadow, every door — steeling myself for the blood I knew would follow.
When the last ember crumbled to ash, night gave way to a dawn that brought no light — only a different, paler shade of gray across Ruitan's sickened sky.
The sun struggled in vain to pierce the thick black curtain; what fell over the dry plains was an orange glow, faint and unhealthy.
We spent the rest of the day peering through cracks in the rock, counting every second of every shift change, wrapped in the sulfur‑laden haze that draped everything.
Down below, Kael moved with quiet skill: tossing small stones toward the watchtowers' blind zones to test the sentries' range, while I committed every detail to memory.
On the other side of the complex, Elian repeated the exercise beside Laura, watching without rest.
Arthur stayed hidden within the forge's own shadow — motionless yet fully alert, tracking every step, every sound, every shift of movement inside.
I lifted my gaze to that vast expanse of black, draped in smoke so thick it seemed to press down on the world.
Today… you fall, I thought.
When darkness finally swallowed the last of the light, the operation began.
Kael and little Elian were left hidden in their shelter — we promised everything would go according to plan.
With routes memorized, we would strike fast, using the toxic mist rolling down from the chimneys at dusk to blind the towers' "eyes" and the patrols.
Suki turned to his companions, his gaze sharp and bright in the gloom, radiating unshakable leadership.
"The plan begins now," Suki murmured, his voice steady and cutting through the wind's poisoned hiss. "Laura — the outer perimeter is yours. Sweep the walkways, eliminate every patrol. Leave the factory blind."
The assassin merely nodded, a lethal half‑smile touching her lips.
"Arthur — you take the barracks surrounding the forge," Suki continued, looking up at the colossus. "Break the night shift. Crush those asleep. Silence the card players. No one walks away from those bunks."
"Understood. And you?" Arthur asked, cracking his knuckles softly, already eager for the kill.
"I go straight to the heart of the forge," Suki answered, his hand falling to the hilt of the Kazekiba, feeling the sword's power hum beneath the leather.
They shared one last look — a silent vow — and from then on, communication would be only through gestures and glances.
Like a shadow gliding through rubble, Laura advanced through the ruins of burnt‑out houses ringing the Forge. With her, silver‑edged, sharp claws glinted in the dark.
The toxic mist hung low, hiding her almost completely.
The first patrol approached through debris: four guards, light armor, slow, careless steps, laughing quietly as they kicked chunks of wall aside.
"Keep going like this, soon enough we'll be the ones turning into coal here," one grumbled, rubbing sweat‑crusted neck.
"Shut up," another cut in, a dry laugh. "Night shift's worse — smoke drops so thick you can't see your own nose. Thank the early‑shift folks, lads."
"And I heard the General's nerves are frayed thin," added a third, tossing a stone aside. "Any slip‑up, someone pays the price."
"Quit the ghost stories," the fourth snapped, gruffer. "As long as the slaves keep taking the beating and working, we're fine. Now move — still two rounds to go."
That was when Laura passed so swiftly above the last in line he never knew what killed him.
The first barely had time to grip his spear's haft before silver claws sliced the air like cold lightning — tearing through throat skin, muscle, cartilage in one horizontal stroke.
Only a dull rip followed, like heavy canvas splitting; dark blood sprayed against a stone wall, and he sank to his knees before realizing he could no longer breathe.
The second stepped back, mouth opening to shout — but Laura was already a shadow pressed against his back.
Sharp claw‑tips pierced deep between ribs, striking the beating heart with precision.
His body stiffened for a heartbeat, then went loose all over, as if bones had melted away.
The third turned sideways, arm lifting to defend — but silver metal bit into his right hamstring, slicing it clean.
His leg folded outward unnaturally; as he fell, panic‑stricken eyes looked up, and she brought her arm down — claws hooked, dragging from the side of his neck to the base of his skull, severing vertebrae in a wet, clear crunch.
The last tried to draw his sword, but motion lagged too slow. Two silver claws crossed over his chest, opening a deep gash through muscle and bone, splitting his torso wide.
He fell backward, air rushing from lungs in red‑flecked gasps — steel never even touched the ground.
One by one, Laura moved swiftly over rubble, cradling heads and shoulders so no helmet struck stone, no metal belt clattered.
The floor lay stained black and red, yet silence held unbroken.
Farther ahead, near a makeshift slave shelter, rough voices and stifled crying carried outward.
Laura slipped to a crack in a crumbling wall — shadow within shadow.
Inside the shack of loose planks, air smelled thick with sweat and fear.
Two sentries stood there, off‑duty, muddy boots propped on broken crates.
One gripped a young draconic boy's wrist — skin marked with scars, horns still small and chipped — pressing him hard against the wall until his shoulder ground audibly.
The other held a heavy wooden club, tapping it rhythmically in his palm, as if deciding what to do next.
"You really thought spitting in his face wouldn't get an answer, kid?!"
"You're dead meat now," the first replied, squeezing harder until the boy groaned through gritted teeth. "Go on — finish him!"
The boy tried to curl inward; the club struck a ribcage with a hollow thud, and he fell sideways, coughing.
"Not done playing yet."
Filthy trash, Laura thought, cold rising from her neck to fingertips where silver claws gleamed faintly.
She waited for the tormentor to lift his head and spit — then burst the space between them like a cutting wind.
Silver claws clamped around the first man's throat, piercing deep instantly.
She lifted him slightly; he clawed at her wrists, but metal tore his palms open, and only a wet gurgle escaped.
His limbs flailed — knees kicking air — until grip and cut together severed windpipe and arteries. The whole weight slumped sideways, heavy and limp.
The second had only time to widen his eyes.
Laura spun her body, arm extended — claws rose from abdomen upward, tearing tunic, muscle, ribcage, dragging upward until they emerged between ribs in a wide, bleeding opening.
He sank to knees, hands clutching his own gaping chest, before falling face‑down on packed dirt, exhaling in bubbles of blood.
The draconic boy shrank back further, back pressed tight to wall, whole body trembling.
His large, yellow eyes locked onto her — and for a moment, thin smoke in the shelter let his gaze catch her face: sharp features, fair‑brown skin, dark strands escaping a fringe, a cold, striking beauty contrasting sharply with the blood‑red sheen on her claws.
"I… thank you," he whispered, voice cracking, small horns trembling faintly. "I don't know who you are… but thank you so much."
Laura spoke no word in return.
She simply raised her free hand, pulling the cloak hood low until it shadowed her face — leaving only the silver glint of her fingers visible.
Turning her back, she slid out of the shelter as if part of the mist itself, mind already fixed on towers and remaining perimeter patrols.
They will never raise a hand against anyone today, she thought, stepping back into haze.
Running along the settlement's edge, she reached the first towers. Two watchmen leaned over rail, talking low, a dim lantern burning between them.
Laura crept close to the base, out of light's reach. With a quick burst, she scaled loose stones to the lower window, pulled herself up — and before either looked down, thrust arms inside. Silver claws slit one throat, then the other's neck, in equal, sure rhythm.
Bodies slid backward, out of yard view.
She repeated the process for second and third towers — always outside, using uneven ground and shadows, never touching main doors.
No firearms or electric spears were raised; no one ever reached the alarm bell.
Meanwhile, Arthur approached the building where massive iron doors sealed the entrance to the night‑shift barracks.
He sought no keys, no tricky locks. At the narrower, overlooked side door, he pressed only his thumbs against the center of a thick steel bolt.
Pressure built slowly, unhurried — until metal gave way in a short, muffled crack, no creak, no bang.
He pushed the door open with back of hand, gap just wide enough for his broad frame to slip through — gliding inside like a heavy shadow that never touches floorboards.
The hall lay in damp, heavy dimness, lit only by a hanging iron lantern. Its wavering flame painted sickly yellow rows of bunks where dozens slept — breathing rough and deep, scent mixing sweat, gun oil, coal smoke.
Far back, away from entrance, four men sat around a cracked table: earthenware cups, a worn deck of cards spread out. Long‑barreled rifles leaned against wall shoulder‑to‑shoulder — a silent fifth player.
"One more round and I quit," said one, tapping a spade card. "Tomorrow I have tower patrol — won't sleep standing up. Hope Charles didn't piss near there… smells terrible."
"Sleep's a luxury here," answered the man opposite, smiling tight and flipping a diamond card. "But not as good as crushing you in this game."
"All I want is month‑end," grumbled the third, spinning cup between fingers. "Word is Lord Tsukumo's castle holds a feast soon."
"And women there don't have tired eyes or scars," finished the fourth, flicking a card with a snap. "But before that, survive Vanki's moods — yesterday I heard him screaming at a captain over ten minutes' delay, right outside Forge 3."
"Ten minutes today — head tomorrow," muttered the first, gathering cards again. "Come on, finish this hand fast, man!"
Voices stayed low, mixed with faint floorboard groans and occasional cup‑against‑table clinks — the easy rhythm of men convinced nothing and no one could enter unseen.
Arthur could not walk on tiptoe; his colossal build and weight would make the floor groan, waking the whole hall halfway there.
Instead of crouching or retreating, he simply lifted from the boards — hovering barely one centimeter above, as if gravity no longer claimed him.
He moved floating, frictionless, unrushed — floor bearing not even a fraction of his weight.
Shadows deepened in the far corner, as if darkness itself rose to meet him.
He stood still, fully hidden in gloom — so near he could see wear patterns on cards held by the closest guard, who still smiled over his winning hand.
The second man, clearly losing, glanced casually over his friend's shoulder.
He saw no face, no clear outline — only a towering, broad silhouette filling space between wall and lantern glow. A presence that should not exist.
His eyes widened, mouth fell open, breath rising to form a shout — yet sound never reached air.
Arthur's giant hands burst from shadow like stone talons. He seized both first men by skull sides, fingers digging hard into temples and jaws.
In one short, brutal motion, he smashed heads together — hollow, wet, dry crunch, like ripe fruit crushed against rock.
Skulls fractured instantly; bodies went limp before impact even registered in brains. Cards and cups scattered across table.
The other two leaped from chairs, hands grabbing weapons — but Arthur already clamped fists tight around their necks, iron against soft flesh.
Without pause, with minimal effort, he twisted — clear snap of vertebrae — and resistance vanished instantly.
Both dropped like broken puppets, no cry, no single shot fired.
Three seconds sufficed.
Lantern flickered, throwing dancing shadows over four fallen bodies. Silence returned heavier, as if air itself had been crushed.
Without losing pace, the colossus turned toward the aisle between bunks — but passing a table, it wobbled slightly, and an earthenware cup tipped over the edge, striking floor with a dry thud.
TOCK.
The noise seemed to echo everywhere inside.
A guard in the lower bunk rolled over, eyes still fogged with sleep — saw scattered cards, bodies slumped far end, and above it all, the giant shadow hovering in air.
His mouth opened in ragged panic.
"Shit… shit! Shit!" he cried, voice cracking, sitting up in a rush.
The shout shattered silence like a blow. Four others woke at once, sitting bolt upright, weapons in hand — confused, alarmed.
Domino effect triggered — and Arthur did not slow. He surged across the room like an avalanche, determined no gunfire or alarm would ring out.
First to raise a sword had its hilt crushed between his fingers; next instant, both hands clamped over his face, pushing backward until neck snapped and skull thudded hard against headboard.
Second vaulted bunk with knife — Arthur caught his wrist with sharp motion, hearing it snap like dry twig, then lifted him by belt and slammed him spine‑first into iron pillar — impact caved chest before feet touched ground.
Third and fourth charged together, one each side. He drove fingers into one's neck side, spun body, used the man as weight against the other — heads collided temple‑to‑temple, both falling writhing; Arthur finished each with quick throat grip, never letting go of either.
Fifth bolted toward back door — Arthur hurled a wooden bench so hard it struck his back, knocking breath away completely. Before he could inhale again, a hand closed over jaw, twisting until angle gave way.
Sixth still leveled rifle — but barrel was seized and bent upward like soft lead; guard took elbow strike to nose, falling backward, steady pressure on windpipe sliding him into dark — unconscious, then dead.
Seventh and eighth arrived, short spears in hand. Arthur ducked low, letting spearpoint pass safely overhead, grabbed attacker by waist, lifted him fully extended, and drove chest down onto his raised knee — sharp crack of spine splitting rang through barracks.
Without releasing the body, he swung weight and hurled it straight at second incoming foe — collision sent both men reeling backward. Arthur closed two long strides, gripped first by hair, smashed face into iron shelf corner; then seized second by throat, hammering back against wall until limbs went slack.
He glanced over shoulder — realized several more still remained.
Outside the building, nothing was visible — only muffled sounds through thick walls: cries cut short, dull thuds, and the clear, cruel snap of breaking bone.
Noise lasted minutes, then faded — leaving only heavy silence drifting down with the mist.
Then the door opened slowly.
Arthur appeared in frame, massive silhouette outlined against faint light leaking from within.
Forearms and chest smeared dark red, thick drops dripping from fingertips.
Breathing steady, as if finishing a calm walk.
He looked out into surrounding dark and murmured to himself: "Now only one barracks left."
Deep inside the Main Forge, I became the wind itself — sliding down one of the huge upper exhaust vents, landing softly on a maintenance walkway.
Heat below was hellish; first beads of sweat rolled down my forehead and neck. With one quick, silent motion, I pushed hood back to lift damp fabric from skin.
Rivers of molten metal flowed through floor channels, bathing the foundry in oppressive orange glare.
No slaves worked here — only heavy machinery running mechanically, and dozens of guards patrolling the inner perimeter, heavily armed between furnaces.
"Their armor's different… thicker, reinforced plates, narrower joints," I murmured. "Built to take this infernal heat without warping."
I released my aura — not a wild blast, but shaped precisely: pressure around Kazekiba contracted, creating a zone where sound barely formed.
I pushed off the railing, falling soundless toward the casting floor.
Heat intense; orange‑red furnace light now streamed behind me.
An armored guard, forged for fire resistance, turned at the movement — but could not pick out my face, only a dark silhouette.
"Hey, you!" he called, stepping heavy, helmet catching furnace glow. "What are you doing standing there, slave?"
He advanced, raised an energy whip, signaled companions ahead.
"Bring two more over here," he shouted aside, never taking eyes from my shadow form. "Looks like we've got one who thinks he can do whatever he wants. Let's crush that laziness right now."
Two others, also thick‑plated and heat‑fitted, broke stride — approaching with heavy short spears.
"Make it quick — I'm already ticked off nobody reported to me yet," said the second, sharp with anger. "Kill him, then I'll go sort things in the barracks."
I ran as a blur the eye could not track — first time drawing Kazekiba, and the motion hummed low, keen, unlike any steel.
First guard barely lifted whip — wind‑blade sliced forearm then chest in one fluid, clean, devastating stroke.
Arm fell free; dark blood sprayed hot plates. He collapsed before understanding death had come.
Second guard charged with heavy spear, armor clinking against heat — confident iron would hold.
I drifted sideways like air pushing me, drew Kazekiba, traced a low curved line.
Cut through greave and knee joint cleanly — skin, muscle, bone parted in one stroke.
Leg buckled outward unnaturally; he toppled sideways, cry lost in furnace roar.
Before he could brace or shout, I was above him — downward strike slipped through the tight gap between helmet and gorget, piercing neck and exiting nape.
Body twitched once, then lay still, facing the fire meant to protect him.
Third rushed forward, weapon raised — but I never fully re‑drew the blade.
Just held open palm toward him, as if pointing the way.
I shaped air around me — an invisible wall‑dense blast struck his chest before another step could land.
Impact lifted him backward violently. He clawed at railings, shouted something swallowed by noise — but wind current never faltered.
Carried him straight to open furnace lip — and the shape vanished in the orange blaze of molten metal.
Brief crackle of leather and cloth burning reached me; then only heavy silence I brought back with me.
"Time to kill the rest," I told myself, pulling blade free from guard's throat.
Thick, black blood ran down steel, hissing and steaming where it dripped onto overheated metal floor.
I looked upward.
The Forge was a vertical abyss. Above the casting floor, a chaotic web of walkways, suspended stairs, exhaust pipes climbed dozens of meters to a smoke‑choked roof.
Dozens more soldiers patrolled upper rings.
They would be next.
I bent knees, channeling storm power into legs — metal floor buckled slightly under boots as I rocketed upward, boosted by compressed air jets.
Heat stung nostrils crossing the void; I touched Level 2 with predator‑light grace.
Two armored guards spun at the sound.
Before their eyes could register the blur, my sword split the air.
Diagonal cut — left shoulder to right hip — wind‑driven edge met no resistance; sheared through armor, bone, organs in a wet, sickening tear.
Upper half slid away, collapsing on grating in a pool.
Second guard raised electric spear — I did not retreat.
Stepped inside his guard, used sword pommel to hammer visor full force.
Metal crumpled inward with brutal crunch, crushing his face. He fell instantly dead — and I climbed higher.
Leapt to a support beam, used red‑hot pipes as springboards to reach Level 3.
But stench of slaughter and dripping blood finally alerted them.
"INTRUDER!" a commander roared, voice distorted behind helmet. "ON WALKWAY THREE! SOUND THE ALARM!"
A heavy soldier sprinted desperately down metal corridor toward a panel with horn‑like speaker, hand outstretched.
Fingers millimeters from the iron that would doom our mission.
I unleashed Kazekiba's silence‑vacuum and shot forward like a missile — blade flashing in orange dimness.
One seamless, unyielding motion: severed his arm clean at shoulder. Limb dropped with dull thud; blood sprayed over alarm panel — yet device stayed intact.
Mouth gaped wide to scream agony — but I spun mid‑air and drove sword straight through center of his face, silencing forever.
Pulling blade free, tore away part of helmet and jaw in visceral drag.
Three more rushed me together down narrow corridor, spearpoints crackling with electricity.
Summoned swirling wind currents around blade, charged straight ahead — ducked under first thrust, sliced both knees of front‑runner.
He fell screaming, only to lose head on my return swing.
Second tried overhand stab.
I knocked weapon shaft aside with back of left hand, gripped chest‑plate joint, lifted him off ground.
With violent wind boost, hurled him over railing.
His shout echoed through factory until abruptly swallowed by thirty‑meter‑deep river of molten iron — armor sizzling, bubbling as he melted alive.
Yet these were just the beginning. Noise and half‑cries drew the rest of the guard from all levels.
They came by dozens — pouring down upper walkways, pouring from sentry posts, fully armed.
I advanced in a spiral of death, rising floor by floor, turning Forge into a true meat‑grinder.
Kazekiba was a silver blur in superheated air — shearing legs before stance set, tearing chest plates before fingers reached triggers, piercing dozens of throats opening to call reinforcements.
Black rain fell endlessly through grating gaps, dropping into molten channels and vanishing in sickly hissing steam.
Am I smiling… enjoying this? I wondered.
Every conquered level left trails of dismembered armor, split skulls, spilled entrails.
Stair metal grew smooth and slippery, painted red by death.
They fired, tried to surround me in tight corridors — but wind‑spins deflected electric bolts while blade sliced air and spines alike.
I was a predator loose in a slaughterhouse, collecting with interest every life Ruitan had lost.
Reaching second‑to‑top level, floor already carpeted with bodies.
More than forty of Tsukumo's men lay at my feet — their resistance shattered.
Last commander, trembling before the butchery, turned back and fled up iron stairs toward exhaust tower.
I bounded steps four at a time.
When he finally glanced back, I was already there.
Without slowing, I drove Kazekiba deep through his back — impact so fierce tip punched through chest, pierced armor plate, and ripped into the chimney wall before us.
I pinned him to steel like a writhing insect; his black blood streamed down my knuckles, steaming in extreme heat.
Yanked sword free with sharp jerk, kicked body loose — let it roll lifeless down stairs.
I stood at the Forge's peak.
Breath came fast, burning throat; whole body splattered with kill‑work.
I cleaned blade with sharp flick — sound of blood striking iron ringing around me.
The entire factory now operated under terrifying silence.
From above, I watched main doors slide quietly open on ground floor.
Laura and Arthur stepped in — both breathing calm, marked with their own kills from outside.
As furnace orange flooded the interior, Laura's eyes swept the true sea of broken armor, cracked skulls, black blood painting stairs and dripping into molten channels.
She stopped amid corpses and let out a long, sharp whistle — ringing surreal through silent plant.
"Quite a mess you made in here, huh!" she called, looking upward with predatory grin. "Come down, Suki! Sun's almost up!"
I remained silent on the high walkway.
Raised hands, stared at dark blood soaking skin, dripping slow from fingertips.
Waited for shock to hit — for revulsion or weight of dozens of lives ended so brutally to settle.
But there was nothing — only absolute, cold emptiness.
In that hollow moment, memory struck — voice of my own corrupted self whispering inside: "Be careful… Suki… I don't want you to become like me."
I let out heavy sigh, pushing thought away along with toxic smoke.
"You won't… Suki. This was what had to be done," I murmured…
Stepped forward and dove from chimney top — wind cushioning fall last meters, landing softly on foundry floor.
Laura moved toward me.
"Excellent work," she praised, lifting blood‑soaked hand in closed fist — offering a bump to seal perfect slaughter.
But I did not stop.
Walked straight past her and Arthur, face locked in unreadable mask.
Without looking back, subtle precise motion of free fingers — razor‑sharp air currents swept instantly over us all.
In a blink, pressure blast stripped every drop of black blood, soot, grime from my skin, from Laura's clothes, from Arthur's heavy plating — erasing traces of butchery in hot factory air.
We stood clean, as if never having touched those lives at all.
"Let's go…" I murmured, heading for exit, gaze fixed deep into dark. "Let's bring these people some good news."
Laura let her raised hand drop — smile fading.
She narrowed red eyes, staring at Suki's back with strange quiet look — as if trying to decipher exactly what was happening there.