“Forgive me, friend.”

  Luken said it quietly, not as an apology to the enemy before him, but to the man behind him.

  Voss was barely standing now. His breaths came in shallow, broken pulls, each one rattling wetly in his chest. Blood stained his armor, seeping through gaps that no longer mattered. He knew it. Luken knew it.

  “Do me a favor,” Luken continued, voice steady despite the chaos around them.

  “Just buy me some more time.”

  The words carried a finality that made Voss’s eyes widen slightly. Luken didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

  “The most I can manage is a minute” Voss replied while coughing

  “I don’t need that much.” Luken said.

  He spoke like a man who had already decided how this fight would end.

  Like someone about to kill Piston in a single strike.

  For a brief, terrible moment, it almost felt true.

  Luken straightened, forcing his battered body upright. Pain screamed through him—bones cracked, muscles torn, blood loss threatening to pull him under—but adrenaline drowned it all out. His grip tightened around his sword, knuckles whitening.

  Piston moved.

  Not slowly.

  Not cautiously.

  He lunged.

  The metallic beast closed the distance in an instant, pistons firing in violent unison. His massive frame twisted mid-air, and his arm came swinging from the right with terrifying speed.

  Luken barely had time to raise his sword.

  The impact shattered his arm.

  Bone fractured with a sickening crack, pain detonating through his shoulder as the sword was knocked aside. Before Luken could even scream, Piston followed through—grabbing Luken’s own momentum, forcing his broken arm inward.

  The blade plunged into Luken’s gut.

  Sharp.

  Deep.

  The pain went off the chart.

  So did the adrenaline.

  Luken’s scream tore out of him, raw and unfiltered, as his body slammed into the ground. He hit hard, back crashing against concrete, breath ripped from his lungs. Blood poured freely now, warm and unstoppable.

  Above him, Piston loomed.

  This time, the machine did not hesitate.

  He raised his arm for the killing blow, pistons compressing, hydraulics screaming as full force gathered into a single strike meant to end everything.

  Luken didn’t think.

  He reacted.

  As the blow came down, Luken reached up with his bare hands and caught Piston’s arm mid-swing.

  Metal met flesh.

  Vibrations ran through his whole body.

  The impact should have crushed him.

  It didn’t.

  His fingers dug into cold steel, skin tearing, muscles screaming as he forced his grip tighter. Adrenaline flooded him again—harder, hotter—overriding every signal that told his body this was impossible.

  Piston tried to pull back.

  Luken roared and squeezed.

  Metal buckled.

  Not bent.

  Crushed.

  The reinforced plating around Piston’s arm caved inward under sheer grip strength, joints screaming as stress fractures raced through the structure. With a violent wrench, Luken tore the arm free from its socket.

  The severed limb came loose in his hands, sparks and fluid spraying everywhere.

  Without pause, Luken swung.

  He brought the broken arm down with everything he had, smashing it directly into the twin hydraulics running along Piston’s back—his makeshift spine.

  The impact was catastrophic.

  The arm shattered on contact, fragments exploding outward as the hydraulic systems ruptured. Pressure vented violently, sending Piston stumbling backward, balance completely destroyed.

  For the first time—

  The machine faltered.

  Luken didn’t let it recover.

  He surged upward despite the blade still buried in his gut, pain howling with every movement. Blood blurred his vision, but his focus narrowed to a single point.

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  Piston’s throat.

  Luken shoved his hand deep into the exposed mechanical neck, fingers forcing past metal and wiring, past heat and resistance, until he felt something give.

  Then he pulled.

  Hard.

  With a final, primal scream, Luken tore Piston’s head clean from his body.

  The sound was wet and metallic at once—cables snapping, metal tearing, systems screaming in their death throes. The massive head came free in Luken’s grip as the body staggered backward.

  Then the machine collapsed.

  The heavily armored corpse slammed into the ground with a deafening crash, lifeless at last.

  Silence followed.

  Luken dropped to his knees, breath ragged, vision tunneling. The adrenaline began to fade, and the pain surged back in full force. His hands trembled. Blood pooled beneath him.

  But he was alive.

  He looked up.

  Voss stood a short distance away, barely upright, leaning heavily against the wall. His breathing was shallow, every cough staining his mask red.

  Luken forced himself to his feet.

  He looked at Voss.

  And smiled.

  Then he raised his thumb in a shaky, unmistakable gesture.

  A thumbs up.

  Voss let out something between a laugh and a cough.

  The vibrations beneath the ground—constant, oppressive—finally went silent.

  Piston was dead.

  But the battle wasn’t over.

  Luken could still hear it.

  Above them.

  The fight in the furnace room raged on.

  And it was going badly.

  The furnace room had become a graveyard before anyone realized it.

  Iron Surgeon’s command still echoed inside the Rustwalkers’ fractured minds—eliminate the intruders—but now it no longer felt like control. It felt like rage given permission.

  The air burned.

  Heat rolled across the chamber in violent waves, warping vision and blistering exposed skin. Molten steel glowed behind reinforced glass, its light flickering like a dying sun, casting the shadows of broken bodies across the walls.

  Kael and Riven were still standing.

  Barely.

  They moved as one—instinctively, without words—each covering the other’s blind spots. Kael’s spear was bent now, its shaft scarred and cracked from repeated impacts. Riven’s sword edge had chipped so badly it looked serrated, but he still swung it with ruthless precision.

  Five Rustwalkers closed in on them.

  Kael wanted the Iron Surgeon.

  Every instinct screamed at him to push forward, to end the source instead of fighting the symptoms—but the mechanized humans refused to let him pass. Each time he tried to break through, two more intercepted him, reinforced limbs slamming into his body with bone-crushing force.

  Kael blocked one strike and was immediately hit from the side.

  The impact lifted him off his feet.

  He crashed hard against the furnace wall, armor buckling, breath tearing out of his lungs. Before he could recover, another Rustwalker charged, metal claws raking across his chest, ripping armor open and drawing blood.

  Riven was there.

  He slammed into the Rustwalker’s side, blade plunging into exposed wiring, twisting hard until sparks erupted and the creature collapsed twitching. Riven didn’t pause—he couldn’t. Another Rustwalker was already on him.

  The sword rang against reinforced plating.

  Too slow.

  The Rustwalker’s fist smashed into Riven’s ribs, snapping something inside him. Pain exploded through his side as he was thrown across the floor, skidding through oil and blood.

  He rolled just in time.

  A steel foot crushed his left leg below the knee.

  “Riven!” Kael shouted.

  Riven forced himself up, vision blurred, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. He spat blood, wiped his mouth, and stepped back into the fight anyway.

  Around them, soldiers were falling.

  Not all at once.

  One by one.

  A gunner was slammed into the ground so hard the concrete cracked beneath him. A healer tried to reach him—only to be intercepted mid-run, thrown against a pillar, and crushed beneath a Rustwalker’s weight.

  Another soldier screamed as a mechanized arm pierced straight through his abdomen, lifting him off the ground before discarding him like scrap.

  The team was breaking.

  Holt saw it.

  The hammer wielder stood near the furnace controls, breathing hard, blood streaming down his forehead. He looked at Kael and Riven, then at the soldiers struggling to regroup.

  Then at the Iron Surgeon.

  Holt didn’t shout.

  He ran.

  Straight at the Rustwalkers guarding the Surgeon.

  His hammer came down with enough force to shatter metal plating, sending one Rustwalker staggering backward. Holt followed through, swinging again and again, drawing every ounce of attention toward himself.

  “MOVE!” he roared.

  Two Rustwalkers turned on him instantly.

  The third followed.

  Holt smiled.

  The first strike took his leg out from under him.

  The second crushed his shoulder.

  But Holt didn’t stop.

  He dragged himself forward, slammed the hammer into the furnace conduit behind him, rupturing it completely. Flames and pressure exploded outward, engulfing him and the Rustwalkers in a violent blast.

  The shockwave tore through the chamber.

  When the smoke cleared—

  Holt was gone.

  So were the Rustwalkers.

  The sacrifice bought seconds.

  Only seconds.

  But it was enough.

  Aera snapped, rushing toward Holt’s lifeless body as Milo ran after her.

  Veyor was already moving.

  He had lost his rifle earlier—crushed beneath falling debris—and now fought with a sidearm scavenged from a fallen soldier. Ammo was scarce. His breathing was ragged. Every step felt heavier than the last.

  He slid behind cover, reloaded with shaking hands, then sprinted forward again.

  Another soldier fell.

  Then another.

  Two remained standing near him—both wounded, both barely holding on.

  A Rustwalker lunged.

  Veyor fired, shot after shot, rounds glancing uselessly off reinforced plating. The creature slammed into him, sending him rolling across the floor. His weapon skidded out of reach.

  He scrambled, pain screaming through his body.

  Picked up another gun.

  Empty.

  Another.

  Two rounds left.

  He fired once.

  Missed.

  The Rustwalker raised its arm to finish him—

  And Kael impaled it from behind, spear driving through its torso and pinning it to the ground. Kael collapsed to one knee immediately after, blood pouring from multiple wounds.

  “Still breathing?” Riven rasped, staggering over.

  “Unfortunately,” Kael replied.

  Only two Rustwalkers remained.

  Both heavily damaged.

  Both still lethal.

  They advanced together.

  One broke off and leapt—straight toward Aera and Milo.

  Veyor saw it.

  Everything slowed.

  He raised his rifle.

  Something inside him gave way.

  Not pain.

  Not fear.

  Loss.

  The understanding that if he failed here—this would be the end.

  He pulled the trigger anyway.

  The frequencies rang through his spine.

  Energy surged.

  Not from the weapon.

  From him.

  The rifle screamed as power flooded through it, far more than it was ever designed to handle. The shot detonated outward, tearing through the Rustwalker’s skull in a violent explosion of metal and flesh.

  The recoil threw Veyor backward.

  Smoke poured from the rifle barrel, warped and glowing red-hot.

  The shot was nearly twice as powerful as any round he had fired before.

  It wasn’t an upgrade.

  It was Veyor.

  He stood there, stunned, breath shallow, hands trembling—not from fear, but realization.

  Awakening.

  “Kael,” he shouted. “Riven—now!”

  The last Rustwalker turned toward him.

  Too late.

  Kael forced himself up, spear shaking in his grip. Riven staggered forward, sword raised with both hands.

  They struck together.

  Kael impaled the Rustwalker and lifted it clear of the ground—Riven’s blade took its head.

  The Rustwalker collapsed, systems failing at last.

  Silence fell over the furnace room.

  Bodies lay everywhere.

  Soldiers.

  Rustwalkers.

  Metal and blood mixed into something indistinguishable.

  Kael dropped to one knee.

  Riven leaned heavily against the wall.

  Veyor stood in the center of it all, breathing hard, rifle still smoking in his hands.

  Wounded and barely holding together, they still stood tall enough to finish it.

  Only one remained—the Iron Surgeon.