Morning in Kael’s camp began quietly. No farewells, no grand promises to meet again. Professionals don’t do that. We simply packed our things while the fog still clung to the pine roots.

  Kael stood by the dying fire, sipping from a tin cup something that smelled suspiciously of pine and alcohol. His shoulder was tightly bandaged, but he moved with growing confidence.

  “East, to the main outpost,” he called as Zeno and I approached to say goodbye. “Need to file a report and patch up Bram. He’s got second-degree magical exhaustion.”

  “We’re headed the other way,” Zeno replied, slinging his worn bag over his shoulder. “Unfinished business.”

  Kael nodded shortly, glancing at me. No pity in his eyes—just dry acknowledgment.

  “Take care, Iron. If you ever get serious about sector clearances, look me up at the ‘Northern Node.’ Brains like yours are rare there.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  We turned and pushed deeper into the forest. Kael’s group stayed behind, quickly fading into the gray morning haze. A logical end to a short alliance: we helped them, they helped us not die on day one. Accounts settled.

  We walked for about three hours. Zeno led me along trails barely visible under layers of fallen needles. The forest felt old… abandoned somehow. The further we went, the stranger things became: rusted rebar jutting from tree trunks, or flat concrete slabs overgrown with moss.

  “Here we are,” Zeno said, stopping at a small rocky hill.

  At first glance, it was just a pile of rocks. But Zeno approached one slab, brushed off the dirt, and pressed a barely noticeable protrusion. A dry, grinding click sounded, followed by the heavy sigh of hydraulics. Part of the rock slowly, with an unpleasant scrape, slid inward, revealing an opening.

  The air smelled of dry warmth, machine oil, and stagnant ventilation.

  “Welcome to the Lower Horizon,” muttered the old man, stepping inside first.

  I followed, and behind me, the slab slammed back into place with a heavy thud. Dim lamps flickered behind protective grates. This was no magical underground lair with crystals. It was a bunker. Old cables bundled with plastic ties, copper pipes slick with condensation, and the steady, barely audible hum of ventilation.

  “Everything here… is technical,” I whispered, running a hand over the cold wall.

  “Magic is just energy, Iron. And energy is easier to push through pipes than prayers,” Zeno said, marching across the metal floor grating that echoed under his boots.

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  We descended three flights. The walls thickened, the hum grew louder. We reached a small workshop where two men in grimy coveralls fussed over control panels. One, short and stocky, looked up and wiped his hands on a rag.

  “Zeno? Only send for you when it’s death or worse. Brought the stabilizers?”

  “Brought them, Gil. And a helper. What’s going on here?”

  Gil spat on the floor and pointed toward a dark tunnel spewing steam.

  “Fourth cooling block. The pipe blew, flooding the distributor. If we don’t close the valve manually, the mana background will spike—teeth’ll start falling out. My guys won’t touch it—temperature’s near seventy, and the field’s nasty.”

  Zeno glanced at me. No pomp, no “are you ready?” Just the assessing gaze of an engineer on a tool.

  “You in? Your armor’s thermo-insulated, I saw.”

  I looked into the dark tunnel. My body still ached from yesterday, but this was clear work. Mechanical.

  “I’m in. Give me a wrench and gloves.”

  Gil raised an eyebrow at my height but didn’t argue. They handed me a heavy adjustable wrench and thick rubber gloves.

  The tunnel was narrow. Very narrow. Hot steam hit my face, dripping onto the armor plates. I felt the heat creeping under my skin. [Will to Live] stirred immediately, offering to “cut off” the discomfort.

  “Not now,” I whispered. “Just physics.”

  I activated the skill at minimum—just enough to reinforce my arm muscles and avoid slipping on the wet plates. I felt the flow: thin as a trickle of water, but enough. I moved forward, weaving around hissing pipes. Water reached my ankles, hot and copper-scented.

  There it was—the valve. Jammed by a piece of debris.

  I pressed the wrench. Metal grated. My muscles tensed; [Will to Live] tried to push extra power, seeing I struggled. A temptation flared: just force it, full power.

  “Calm. The lever is the arm. Strength is a vector.”

  I didn’t rip it. Bracing my feet against the opposite wall, I pressed smoothly, all my weight on the wrench. [Will to Live] at 10%—just enough to keep my ligaments intact.

  The metal gave. The valve groaned and turned, steam hissed down. Water stopped surging.

  I stayed in that puddle a few minutes, breathing hard. Sweat stung my eyes, armor felt unbearably heavy. But this was good fatigue. Real fatigue.

  Back in the workshop, Gil was already flipping switches.

  “It’s alive!” he shouted without looking. “Pressure’s dropping. Kid, you’re just in time.”

  Zeno handed me a flask of water. My hands trembled as I took it. Fingers burned, shoulder ached, but no tremor. I rationed the strain. I didn’t let the skill burn me out for a single valve.

  “Let’s go,” Zeno patted my shoulder. “Gil will assign us a room in the living sector. A proper night on mattresses.”

  We passed through another airlock into the living area. It looked like a dormitory: rows of iron beds, communal tables, the hum of fluorescent lamps. They fed us a thick stew from concentrates—tasted like salty paper, but filling.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, taking off my boots. Legs were buzzing. My body felt heavy, filthy, completely drained.

  “So, how’s civilization treating you?” Zeno asked, settling on the bed next to mine.

  I looked at my hands. Burn on the palm, a couple new scratches.

  “Easier than the forest. You know what breaks and how to fix it.”

  “Things break the same everywhere, Iron. Just the tools are different here.”

  I lay on the hard mattress, feeling my muscles relax. [Will to Live] sank into deep sleep, not offering help anymore. It knew I had managed on my own.

  We returned from technical hell to the relative safety of the hub. Sleep came quickly, free of shadows or magic. Only the steady rhythm of working machines.