It was evening.

  Not sudden, not dramatic—just the slow, tired descent of the sun as it slid behind broken factories and dead hills.

  The sky over the industrial land burned dull orange, filtered through layers of smoke and ash. Light reflected weakly off rusted pipes and collapsed towers, casting long, crooked shadows across the wasteland.

  At the checkpoint, far from the furnace and the screaming, Mira and Voss finally reached safety.

  They half-carried, half-dragged Luken through the last barricade.

  Blood soaked through his uniform. His breathing was shallow, uneven, his skin cold beneath Mira’s hands as she worked with frantic precision. Voss held pressure on a wound that refused to close, his own hands shaking from exhaustion.

  They laid Luken on a makeshift stretcher.

  Mira stitched, injected, sealed—methodically, silently.

  Minutes stretched into an hour.

  Then another.

  Slowly, painfully, his breathing steadied.

  The bleeding stopped. The lieutenant was stable.

  Hours later.

  Far beneath the industrial land, in a place where no sunlight had touched for years, Veyor woke.

  The first thing he felt was pain.

  Not sharp. Not sudden.

  A deep, spreading ache that ran through his head, as if gravity itself had doubled.

  The second thing he felt was restraint.

  Cold metal biting into his wrists.

  He tried to move.

  Chains rattled.

  Something pulled at his shoulders.

  His head lolled forward, then snapped back as the weight of his own body reminded him where he was.

  Hanging.

  He was hanging.

  Slowly, his vision returned.

  The chamber around him came into focus in fragments.

  Steel walls.

  Operating lights.

  Blood on the floor.

  Hooks. Tables. Tools.

  The air smelled of oil, iron, and something far worse.

  Through his blurred vision, he realized he was not alone.

  Poles stood in a wide circle around the chamber.

  On them—his teammates.

  Hanging.

  Restrained.

  Some unconscious.

  Some barely breathing.

  Some…

  Gone.

  His eyes moved left.

  Then right.

  Where there should have been soldiers, there were only remains.

  Limbs laid out on metal trays.

  Armor split open.

  Torsos dissected with surgical precision.

  Heads missing.

  Blood pooled beneath operating tables, already dark, already drying.

  His stomach twisted.

  Only a few were still alive.

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  Aera, Milo, Kael, Riven, and two snipers.

  All unconscious.

  All bleeding.

  All still in one piece.

  For now.

  A slow, steady sound echoed through the chamber.

  Metal scraping metal.

  Veyor turned his head.

  At the center of the room, on the main operating table, lay the director.

  Not bound.

  Not restrained.

  Relaxed.

  His coat had been removed, his shirt ripped open, his chest exposed—half of it already layered with implants, as if a war machine was being assembled piece by piece.

  Iron Surgeon stood beside him.

  Mechanical limbs moved with impossible precision.

  Thin tools slid into flesh.

  Parasites—alive, writhing—were lifted from trays and implanted into metal sockets embedded in the director’s body.

  The director noticed Veyor watching.

  “You certainly are one irritating fellow,” he said casually, without looking up.

  “Why can’t you just stay unconscious?”

  Veyor swallowed.

  His throat burned.

  “You… were working with him from the start?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice.

  The director smiled faintly.

  “No,” he said. “That would be the wrong statement.”

  He turned his head slightly toward Veyor.

  “He was working with me from the start.”

  Behind him, Iron Surgeon dragged a soldier onto another table.

  The man was still alive.

  Mouth gagged.

  Eyes wide with terror.

  The first cut was slow.

  Veyor strained against his cuffs.

  Metal bit into skin.

  He couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t help.

  Couldn’t even turn away.

  “Why are you doing this?” he shouted.

  “Why are you killing all these people?!”

  The director reached for a metal tray.

  He picked up a thick steel shard, inside which a parasite pulsed, veins glowing faintly.

  “They deserve to die,” he said calmly.

  He held it up, admiring it.

  “You know this,” he continued. “This is a miracle. A blessing from the heavens.”

  He looked at Veyor.

  “And this blessing is being wasted… in these stupid people who don’t know how to use it.”

  The Iron Surgeon opened the soldier’s chest.

  The scream was cut short.

  “They’re still weak,” the director said.

  “After getting such powers, they’re still weak.”

  He picked up another implant.

  A different shape.

  Different pulse.

  “You know this parasite gives total stealth ,” he said.

  His voice hardened.

  “But it was with a fucking peasant. Someone who didn’t even understand what he had.”

  He placed it back.

  Then lifted another.

  “And this…”

  He smiled.

  “This is from one of your snipers.”

  He glanced toward the dead man.

  “He had this, Perfect precision. He could have killed the surgeon the time he entered this room.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “But he couldn’t awaken it.”

  He looked back at Veyor.

  “Don’t you think that’s a waste?”

  Blood splashed onto the floor.

  “It’s always the same,” the director continued.

  “People who don’t respect anything… getting everything.”

  He pressed a hand against his own chest.

  “Whereas I—me—a landlord, a millionaire, someone who built empires…”

  His voice trembled, just slightly.

  “I got nothing.”

  He laughed softly.

  “Even a peasant gets miracles. And someone like me is powerless.”

  He spread his arms.

  “I am simply providing justice.”

  Veyor stared at him in horror.

  “If you wanted to kill us all,” he said, “why put up such a show? Why not just order the Lostbonds to kill us?”

  The director chuckled.

  “Well, where’s the fun in that?”

  “I wanted to test myself. And testing against the military was a golden opportunity.”

  He nodded toward the bodies.

  “And they would have eaten all of you alive. Then how would I get these parasites?”

  He leaned closer.

  “A parasite grown inside an intelligent being… a fighter… develops far better.”

  “For me, it couldn’t be better.”

  Veyor turned his head toward Iron Surgeon.

  “Why does he follow your orders?” he asked.

  “He’s more powerful than you.”

  The director smiled.

  “Once a slave, always a slave,” he said.

  “Just a tool.”

  He shrugged.

  “And come on. I’m a very cooperative leader. I give creative freedom to my workers.”

  He glanced at Iron Surgeon.

  “He’s doing what he loves.”

  The pole holding Veyor began to descend.

  At first, it was so slow he barely noticed.

  A faint metallic groan echoed from somewhere above, followed by the soft click of gears engaging. The chains at his wrists tightened, pulling his arms higher as the pole lowered inch by inch toward the operating floor.

  “Well,” the director said lightly, “I think it’s your turn now.”

  Veyor’s breath quickened.

  The Iron Surgeon turned away from the corpse on the table and faced him.

  Its mechanical limbs unfolded.

  Sparks flickered along rotating joints.

  A thin, spiraled drill extended from its forearm, humming with a rising whine.

  “I would have loved to continue this conversation,” the director said, almost regretfully, “but I think he’s irritated by your chitchat.”

  Veyor swallowed.

  “What are you planning to do with this army?” he forced out.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he said.

  “Now I know a military unit can’t even harm ten percent of my forces.”

  His eyes burned.

  “I may as well become an emperor.”

  The Iron Surgeon stepped closer.

  Its feet rang hollow against steel.

  “You think you’ll succeed?” Veyor whispered.

  “The lieutenant will kill you—”

  The drill struck.

  Lower.

  Precise.

  The tip pierced into the base of his spine.

  A white-hot surge exploded through his body.

  Every nerve ignited at once.

  Veyor screamed.

  His vision shattered into fragments of light as electricity tore up his nervous system. His body convulsed violently against the cuffs, muscles locking, jaw clenching so hard he felt teeth crack.

  The world tilted.

  “Hah,” the director said dismissively. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  The Iron Surgeon withdrew the drill slowly.

  Smoke rose from the wound.

  Veyor’s head sagged forward.

  His vision blurred.

  His breathing turned shallow, ragged.

  As the director continued speaking—boasting, planning, laughing—Veyor barely heard him.

  The Iron Surgeon leaned close.

  Its face hovered inches from his.

  A metallic whisper slipped through cracked speakers.

  “It is just yours.”

  Then darkness took him.

  “Hey,” the director said sharply, “don’t kill him now. Wait a bit.”

  “Your lieutenant can’t do anything to me,” he said, voice rising.

  “He almost died to a box full of scraps.”

  He laughed.

  “Are you listening? I am way more stronger than the thing you call “Piston”. More than ten-twenty times. He was just a Prototype.”

  He stopped.

  Turned.

  “No one is stronger than me.”

  His voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.

  “I am the strongest.”

  Behind him, Iron Surgeon resumed its work.

  The first sniper was dragged to the table.

  He woke just long enough to understand.

  Just long enough to scream.

  The blade fell.

  The scream cut off.

  Blood splashed across the floor.

  The second sniper twitched in his restraints.

  Iron Surgeon turned.

  Dragged him next.

  Metal cut flesh.

  Bone cracked.

  Silence followed.

  By the time Veyor’s body went completely limp, only one sound remained in the chamber.

  The steady hum of machines.

  And the furnace, still burning above.