The command did not echo through speakers.

  It rang inside their heads.

  A sharp, invasive pressure—cold and absolute—cut through thought and instinct alike.

  Eliminate the intruders.

  The Iron Surgeon’s will bled into every mechanized human in the chamber, tightening whatever remained of their fractured obedience. For the soldiers, the sensation was different. It wasn’t a command. It was resistance.

  Resolve hardened instead.

  They had come too far to fail now.

  They spread out instinctively,. The chamber glowed red-orange, molten steel flowing behind reinforced glass, casting long, shifting shadows that twisted every movement into something monstrous.

  Every soldier took a target.

  Metal clashed against steel. Gunfire cracked and echoed uselessly off reinforced plating. Sparks erupted where blades struck mechanical joints.

  Kael and Riven moved like anchors in the chaos.

  Where others fought one opponent at a time, they fought five.

  Kael’s spear became an extension of his body—thrusting, retracting, pivoting with ruthless efficiency. He targeted joints, neck ports, exposed conduits. Every strike was precise, controlled. He wanted the Iron Surgeon.

  He could feel him.

  Standing beyond the press of metal bodies. Watching.

  But the mechanized humans would not let Kael close.

  Each time he attempted to push forward, two more intercepted him—arms reinforced, movements unnervingly synchronized. One grabbed the shaft of his spear, grinding metal against metal.

  Another attack came from behind—teeth sank into his neck, tearing flesh.

  Kael twisted, severed the arm at the elbow, and kicked the body away, but another replaced it instantly.

  Riven fought beside him, sword flashing in sharp, economical arcs.

  He didn’t waste energy.

  He severed cables. Crippled legs. Cut through exposed power lines. When he couldn’t kill, he disabled. One mechanized human collapsed, twitching violently as its systems locked up mid-motion.

  Veyor stayed back.

  From the rear, he supported relentlessly, gunfire punctuating the chaos with controlled bursts. He didn’t aim for heads. He aimed for seams. Overloaded joints. Stress points already weakened by Kael and Riven.

  He watched patterns.

  Noticed timing.

  Every shot was calculated.

  Together, the trio moved like an unstoppable force.

  But, the Iron Surgeon remained just beyond reach.

  He did not intervene.

  He observed.

  “Push left!” Veyor shouted. “They’re compensating slower there!”

  Two soldiers obeyed instantly, shifting their weight and drawing fire. One was struck hard, thrown against the wall with bone-rattling force—but he stayed upright, gritted his teeth, and kept fighting.

  The sound was overwhelming.

  Steel against steel. Hydraulic hiss. Furnace roar. Screams—human and mechanical alike—blending into a single, suffocating noise.

  Then, amid the chaos—

  “Ah,” Milo said calmly.

  Veyor froze mid-burst.

  “What?!” he shouted, finger still tight on the trigger.

  Milo stared at the advancing mechanized humans, eyes distant, almost thoughtful.

  “It fits them perfectly,” Milo said.

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  Veyor turned sharply toward him. “What are you talking about?!”

  “Rustwalkers,” Milo continued. “The name. It fits.”

  Veyor stared at him in disbelief.

  He shook his head sharply and moved away from Milo, rejoining the firing line without another word.

  The battle shifted.

  Slowly—but unmistakably.

  The number of active Rustwalkers dropped.

  Eighteen became twelve.

  Twelve became eight.

  By the time the count fell to six, the battlefield looked unrecognizable.

  The remaining Rustwalkers stood amid wreckage—some immobilized, limbs locked in place, power cores flickering uselessly. They weren’t dead. Just… stopped.

  Soldiers leaned heavily on weapons, blood streaking armor, breath coming in ragged pulls. Most were wounded.

  But they were still standing.

  For the first time since entering the chamber—

  They had the upper hand.

  Then the Iron Surgeon moved.

  He raised one hand.

  The furnace answered.

  The roar deepened, dropping into a lower register that vibrated through bone and teeth alike. Heat surged outward in a violent wave, forcing everyone back a step.

  The air shimmered.

  One of the immobilized Rustwalkers convulsed.

  Its body arched unnaturally, joints locking, cables glowing white-hot. A sound escaped it—not a roar, not a scream of rage—but something fractured.

  He grabbed his head tightly and screamed at a piercing pitch, a fractured blend of flesh and metal.

  Then—

  It burst apart.

  Molten fragments sprayed across the chamber, splashing against walls, floors, bodies. A soldier cried out as burning metal grazed his shoulder, flesh searing instantly.

  The Iron Surgeon did not look away.

  Limiters disengaged.

  The remaining Rustwalkers straightened.

  Something had changed.

  They moved differently now—faster, heavier, unrestrained. Reinforced joints screamed under the strain, but they didn’t slow. They charged with a violence that shattered the illusion of control.

  There were only five left.

  It didn’t matter.

  They tore into the soldiers with terrifying efficiency.

  One slammed into a defensive line, breaking it instantly. Another ripped a weapon from a soldier’s hands and crushed him into the ground. Formation collapsed.

  “Hold!” Kael shouted.

  He and Riven intercepted two of them immediately.

  Kael braced, spear buried deep into reinforced plating as he used his entire weight to halt the charge. Riven slashed low, severing a knee joint, then pivoted to block a strike that would have crushed Kael’s skull.

  But the other three—

  They overwhelmed the rest.

  Soldiers fell back under the onslaught, struggling to regroup as armor buckled and bodies hit the ground. Veyor fired until his weapon overheated, smoke curling from the barrel.

  This wasn’t a battle anymore.

  It was a countdown.

  And somewhere beneath their feet—

  Another fight raged.

  The sewer trembled with every impact.

  Water sloshed violently against the concrete walls as Piston advanced, each step sending ripples through the filthy channel beneath his feet. The ceiling above groaned, freshly sealed concrete cracking faintly under repeated shock.

  Luken stood his ground.

  Blood ran freely down his arm, dripping into the water below, but his grip on the blade never loosened. His breathing was controlled, measured—not calm, but disciplined. His body burned with pain, yet something else burned hotter.

  Adrenaline.

  Pure, relentless, unfiltered.

  Piston’s gun-arm whirred, damaged cables sparking erratically as energy leaked from the severed connections. Even impaired, the weapon hummed with lethal intent.

  “Threat persistence detected,” Piston intoned, voice distorted without the speaker, vibrating directly through the metal in his body.

  “Escalating force application.”

  He fired.

  A bolt of unstable energy tore through the sewer, carving a glowing line across the wall where Luken had stood moments earlier. Luken rolled forward instead of away, sliding through shallow water and coming up close—inside the weapon’s effective range.

  The energy blast also burned into him, but he pushed through without hesitation.

  He reacted instantly.

  A piston-driven punch slammed into Luken’s ribs, crushing armor and sending him skidding backward. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, pain exploding across his chest.

  Luken hit the wall hard.

  For a split second, darkness crept in.

  Then his heart surged.

  Adrenaline flooded him again, sharper this time, louder. His muscles screamed, but they obeyed.

  He pushed off the wall just as Piston’s foot came down where his head had been.

  Concrete shattered.

  Water sprayed.

  Luken rose low and fast, slashing upward at the damaged cables feeding into the gun-arm. His blade bit deep this time, severing more lines. Energy vented violently, scorching both of them as sparks rained into the water, causing it to hiss and steam.

  Piston staggered.

  Only a fraction.

  Enough.

  Luken pressed the advantage, chaining strikes together—short, brutal cuts aimed at joints, ports, anything that looked like it shouldn’t be exposed. Metal screeched as the blade scraped across reinforced plating.

  Piston adapted.

  His pistons pumped harder, compensating for damage. He seized Luken mid-motion and hurled him down the sewer channel with terrifying force.

  Luken skidded across concrete, armor scraping, skin tearing beneath it.

  He didn’t stop.

  He rolled, planted a foot, and launched himself back in.

  They collided again.

  Blade against steel.

  Hydraulics against muscle.

  Will against system.

  Piston slammed his gun-arm into the ground, releasing a shockwave that lifted Luken off his feet and threw him sideways. Luken twisted mid-air, crashing shoulder-first into the wall but staying upright.

  Pain flashed white.

  He laughed.

  Not loudly.

  Just once.

  Piston paused for half a second.

  “Emotional response detected.”

  Luken wiped blood from his mouth.

  “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  He charged.

  Piston met him head-on.

  They exchanged blows faster now—Luken ducking under piston-driven strikes, countering with precise slashes, Piston responding with brutal efficiency. Each hit Luken landed slowed the machine just a fraction. Each hit Piston landed threatened to end the fight outright.

  They were evenly matched.

  The damaged gun-arm sparked wildly as Piston fired again—less controlled this time, energy bleeding from ruptured conduits. The blast clipped Luken’s leg, burning through armor and flesh alike.

  Luken collapsed to one knee.

  Piston raised his arm.

  “Termination imminent.”

  Luken’s vision blurred.

  Then—

  He heard it.

  Coughing.

  Wet. Painful.

  Human.

  “Lieutenant—”

  Luken’s head snapped toward the sound.

  Voss was hunched over behind cover, blood staining his mask as he coughed again, barely staying conscious.

  “Why aren’t you listening?” Voss gasped. “We’re out of time.”

  Voss was barely holding on, close to collapse.

  Luken lost track of time—and it was about to cost them dearly.