The Land Crawler Mk.I was parked under the leeward side of a jagged rock face. Its massive hull acted like a steel city wall, shielding the passenger-laden sled from the biting midnight winds.
Through the cabin window, I could see several campfires flickering outside. The forty-two survivors—a crowd that felt much larger in the silence—huddled together, the only sound being the rhythmic pop-crackle of burning wood. They clutched tin cups of hot water and packets of compressed biscuits, their eyes finally reflecting a flicker of "hope" amidst the lingering trauma of the mines.
I spotted the small cat-eared girl Zayla had rescued. She was curled up in the arms of an elderly bear-kin, fast asleep with a few biscuit crumbs still clinging to the corner of her mouth.
Inside the cabin, the residual heat of the Aether-Steam engine turned the interior into a warm, temporary sanctuary.
“We’re rich... we’re actually rich...”
Lyn was hugging the heavy metal crate, which I had re-locked and reinforced to prevent it from launching us into the stratosphere again. The green light in her fox eyes was brighter than the dashboard gauges.
“The purity of this geode is a hundred times better than the black-market junk! And among these forty-two refugees, five are skilled goblin mechanics! Alex, do you know what this means? It means our production line capacity just doubled!”
She muttered to herself, scribbling furiously in her worn ledger, her tail swishing against the back of the passenger seat in excitement.
“As long as we don’t spend it all at once, we can—”
“Here.”
A massive hand suddenly appeared in front of Lyn, cutting off her calculations. Brad had just returned from distributing rations, bringing a gust of cold air with him. He was holding something small and dark between his thick fingers.
Lyn blinked, looking up at the man-mountain. “What? If you’re asking for a midnight snack, forget it. The wounded outside get priority.”
“Who wants snacks?” Brad gave a rough chuckle, tossing the object onto Lyn’s ledger. “I was bored, so I polished this little thing earlier.”
The object spun across the paper like a top, emitting a soft hummm. I looked closer; it was a ring fashioned from a hexagonal nut, polished to a mirror finish and wrapped in a thin coil of copper wire.
“Back in Rust-Water Port, I saw you drooling over that glass ring.” Brad sat down heavily on a nearby crate, grumbling. “I’m telling you, women have terrible taste. Those shiny rocks are as brittle as biscuits. One bump and they shatter.”
He pointed at the spinning nut-ring.
“Look at this. Made of Eternal Iron! Industrial-grade strength. It’s even got a non-slip grip texture.” Brad proudly made a fist. “This thing isn’t just durable; it’s practical. If some merchant tries to stiff you on a deal, or if you can't balance the books, this is basically a wearable knuckle-duster. One punch and they’ll stay honest. Better than that glass crap, right?”
I stared at the "industrial-chic" ring, nearly choking on a laugh. This was peak Brad logic—gifting jewelry for the primary purpose of physical battery.
Lyn seemed genuinely stunned, her high-speed brain stalling for a full second. She picked up the uniquely ugly nut and watched the light glint off its rough facets.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“...Brad.”
“Yeah?”
“You are dense as a brick, Brad.”
Lyn rolled her eyes, but she slipped the nut onto her finger anyway—it was a perfect fit. She held her hand up, letting the cold lamp light reflect off the polished iron. It had a certain hardcore, wasteland aesthetic.
“However... since it’s free Eternal Iron, it would be wasteful to refuse.” Lyn closed her ledger and tapped the cover with her ring-clad finger, producing a sharp clack. “Since this ‘knuckle-duster’ actually serves as protection, I’ll authorize one extra tin of luncheon meat for your midnight ration. Just this once.”
“Ha! I knew it’d work!” Brad whistled, completely unaware of how bizarre his gift was, and lumbered off to claim his prize.
...
The other side of the cabin was much quieter. Zayla was back in her "engine-hood seat," but she wasn't curled up asleep. She was staring through the fogged window at the campfire outside, her gaze fixed on the sleeping cat-eared girl.
“Still car-sick?” I walked over, holding a canteen of water.
“No,” Zayla’s voice was soft, carrying a trace of an uncharacteristic tremor. “Just... a little afraid.”
“Afraid?” I sat down beside her, offering the canteen. “Of the Storm Clan catching up?”
“No. I’m afraid of myself.” Zayla turned, her golden pupils lacking their usual sharpness, filled instead with a deep uncertainty. “That child... when she was awake, she called me ‘Sister.’ She wouldn't let go of my finger, asking if I was taking her home.”
She looked at her slender hand as if the child’s warmth was still there. “Alex, I used to think revenge was enough. Kill Garza, drive out the Storm Clan, and my mission was over. But today...” She pointed to the refugees outside. “I’m carrying forty-two lives. They aren't just numbers anymore. They’re people. If I lose, if Skyreach falls, they fall back into hell. That despair... is worse than death.”
She looked at me with a fragile curiosity. “Do you ever feel afraid, Builder? When you pull these innocent people into our mess?”
I was silent for a moment. I put the canteen down and did something that surprised even me. I reached out and gently, rhythmically scratched the soft fur behind Zayla’s ears—the ultimate "pacification point" for any feline.
Purrr...
I heard a low, instinctive vibration from Zayla’s throat. She immediately realized what was happening and started to puff up in indignation, but I kept my hand steady.
“It’s called Load, Zayla,” I said quietly. “The weight of the crown.”
“I studied civil engineering. I know that the higher a building goes, the more pressure the foundation has to bear. If you aren't afraid, it just means you’re an ignorant madman.”
I pointed outside. “The fact that you’re afraid means you finally understand. You’re no longer just an assassin with a blade; you’re becoming a Queen. Only a ruler feels fear for the sake of Protection.”
My eyes remained bright in the dim cabin. “We are the people building houses on ruins. Our foundation is concrete, our walls are chrome-vanadium steel, and our connections are...”
I looked over at Brad, who was happily eating his meat, and Lyn, who was still admiring her ring. “...our connections are Trust.”
“As long as those connections don't snap, I can brace the sky itself if it starts to fall. You just keep your blade sharp. The rest? Leave it to me.”
Zayla stared at me, frozen. Eventually, she slumped back onto the carpet, but her body was no longer tense. Her tail snaked up, almost invisibly, and gently hooked around my pinky finger.
“Hmph... humans and their big talk.” She closed her eyes, but I saw the corners of her mouth twitch upward. “I’ll believe you one more time. But... if the ride is that bumpy next time, I really will bite you.”
I smiled and didn't pull my finger away. The wind continued to howl outside, but inside the small Land Crawler Mk.I, there was enough heat to ward off the longest winter.
Question of the Day: What should be the first project for the new 42-person labor force?
(Click to choose)
?? A) The Forge: Construct a mobile industrial trailer.
Result: Manufacturing. Turn the Land Crawler Mk.I into a multi-car train that can manufacture weapons and parts on the go.
?? B) The Academy: Train them as a Combat Engineering Corps.
Result: Militarization. Give the refugees armor and tools. A group of engineers who can fight is every warlord's worst nightmare.
?? C) The Scout: Send the goblins back as deep-cover spies.
Result: Intelligence. The goblins know the mine tunnels better than anyone. They can strip the Storm Clan's resources from the inside out.
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!