The forty–meter wall loomed like a slab of night, sheer steel reinforced with Magitium ribs, its surface scarred by old claw marks and embedded anchor points from decades of drills. Wind rushed along its face, howling just enough to make the height feel personal. Below, the training field buzzed with engines, voices, and the metallic thrum of Wardens preparing for ascent.

  Rhys’ Warden stood at the base of the wall, its four legs digging into the ground as the Magitium engine growled low and heavy, like a beast that wasn’t entirely happy with the idea of climbing straight up.

  Inside the cockpit, Rhys swallowed.

  “Okay. Okay. Okay,” he muttered, palms slick on the controls. “It’s just… walking. But vertical.”

  The Warden shifted its weight, one front leg lifting, claws scraping loudly as they searched for grip.

  A crackle burst through his intercom.

  “Stop hyperventilating, Rookie,” Guren barked. “It’s a wall, not the end of the world. Focus.”

  Rhys groaned. “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one about to fall forty meters and turn into scrap.”

  To his right, Elias’ voice chimed in, strained and pitched a little too high.

  “I can hear the engine thinking,” Elias said. “That’s not normal, right? Engines aren’t supposed to think.”

  “They’re not,” Amélia replied over comms, already halfway up the wall. “You’re just panicking.”

  Her Warden moved with sharp, confident precision, claws biting cleanly into the steel as she climbed. She didn’t even pause to look down.

  Rhys did. He immediately regretted it.

  “NOPE,” he yelped, snapping his gaze forward as his Warden took another step. The Magitium core whined louder, pistons hissing as the machine dragged itself upward. “I am not built for heights.”

  Another voice cut in, calm and maddeningly amused.

  “Rhys, if you don’t stop fussing, I’m revoking your right to complain for the rest of the day,” Guren said. “Move.”

  Rhys gritted his teeth and pushed forward.

  The Warden’s left leg slipped.

  Metal screamed.

  Rhys’ heart stopped.

  “AH—!”

  The machine lurched, claws skidding downward several meters before catching again with a violent clang. The cockpit shook hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  “I’M ALIVE,” Rhys shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking. “I’M STILL ALIVE.”

  “Barely,” Guren replied flatly. “Focus.”

  Across the field, Mara stood with her arms crossed, eyes never leaving the wall. Loran stood beside her, tracking data scrolling across his visor.

  “She’s nearly at the top,” Loran said, nodding toward Amélia. “Clean movement. No hesitation.”

  Mara’s gaze sharpened. “She adapts faster than anyone I’ve seen. Like she belongs up there.”

  Loran hummed thoughtfully. “Special, then.”

  Mara didn’t disagree.

  Back on the wall, Elias’ breathing came through the comms like a storm.

  “I do not like this,” he said. “I really, really do not like this.”

  “Just don’t look down,” Rhys said.

  “I already did.”

  “Oh.”

  Rhys swallowed again, memory flashing in his mind—If anything goes wrong, shoot the hooks. Don’t hesitate.

  At the top of the wall, two Wardens stood firmly anchored, silhouettes against the sky. Callen leaned casually in his cockpit, one hand resting on the hook launcher.

  “Easy day,” Callen said over open comms. “If anyone falls, we’ll just yoink you back up like a fish.”

  Beside him, Soren’s Warden shifted slightly, hook mechanisms humming, cables coiled and ready.

  “Try not to make it too exciting,” Soren added. “I just calibrated these.”

  “PLEASE DON’T SAY THAT,” Elias snapped.

  Amélia reached the top, hauling her Warden up with one final powerful pull. She turned and looked down, red hair whipping in the wind inside her cockpit.

  “You two are doing great!” she called. “Only—uh—thirty meters to go.”

  Rhys groaned.

  “Why did I agree to this?” he muttered as his Warden took another careful step upward, claws digging in, engine roaring in protest.

  Below, soldiers laughed, engines rumbled, and above them all, Guren’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

  “Climb,” he ordered. “Or I’ll make you do it again tomorrow.”

  That was somehow worse than falling.

  The climb went wrong in a single, awful second.

  Rhys’ Warden reached up—claws scraping, searching—

  —and found nothing.

  The leg slipped.

  Then the second.

  The entire machine gave way.

  “WAIT—NO—!”

  The world dropped out from under him.

  Metal shrieked as the Warden tore free from the wall, gravity yanking it down. Rhys’ stomach slammed into his throat, alarms screaming in his cockpit as the wall blurred past.

  He fell.

  Past Elias.

  “RHYS—!”

  Elias didn’t think.

  His hands moved on instinct, yanking the turret control hard as his Warden twisted sideways, claws screeching as they barely held. The turret snapped toward the falling machine.

  FIRE—!

  The hook launcher thundered.

  A steel cable screamed through the air and caught.

  The hook bit into Rhys’ Warden’s frame with a brutal CLANG.

  Rhys’ fall snapped into a violent swing, his machine slamming against the wall and sliding downward in a shower of sparks.

  He gasped, clutching the controls like a lifeline.

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  “I’M—! I’M CAUGHT—!”

  “I GOT YOU!” Elias shouted, laughter bursting through his panic. “I GOT YOU—!”

  But the cable went taut.

  Too taut.

  Elias’ Warden jerked forward.

  Its claws began to slide.

  “No—no—no—wait—!”

  The wall screamed again as his machine started to lose purchase, metal grinding, gravity pulling at both of them now.

  Rhys saw it happen in horrible slow motion.

  “El—Elias—LET GO—!”

  “I CAN’T!”

  Elias’ Warden slipped another meter.

  The cable dragged both machines downward.

  Above them—

  “On it!”

  Amélia didn’t wait for permission.

  Her Warden snapped around at the top of the wall, turret already rotating as her finger slammed the trigger.

  The hook fired.

  Faster than Callen.

  Faster than Soren.

  The cable struck Rhys’ Warden dead-on, embedding deep.

  Amélia braced, engines roaring as she reeled in.

  Rhys’ fall stopped hard.

  The strain transferred—Rhys’ machine now hanging between two cables.

  He looked down.

  Saw Elias still sliding.

  “Elias—grab me—!”

  “I’M TRYING—!”

  Rhys fired his own hook downward.

  The cable shot out and latched onto Elias’ Warden, locking them together in a trembling, tangled mess of steel and screaming engines.

  Three Wardens hung from the wall like badly tied knots.

  Then—slowly—the motion stopped.

  Silence.

  Then laughter crackled over the comms.

  Callen’s voice came through, barely contained. “Well, that was creative.”

  Soren snorted. “I blinked and suddenly they invented cooperative suicide.”

  From the ground, Guren stared up at the disaster with his arms crossed.

  “…Idiots,” he said flatly into the radio.

  “Rhys. Elias. Pull yourselves together right now.”

  “Yes sir,” Rhys wheezed, still shaking.

  “And you,” Guren snapped, switching channels, “let go, Amélia. That’s Callen and Soren’s job.”

  Amélia hesitated. “But—”

  “Now.”

  She complied, disengaging her hook as Callen and Soren finally fired theirs, securing both Rhys and Elias properly and hauling them upward with practiced ease.

  On the ground, Loran exhaled, shaking his head.

  “…Still,” he said quietly, watching them ascend, “they didn’t hesitate. Not once.”

  Mara followed the tangled Wardens with her eyes, expression unreadable.

  “They support each other instinctively,” she said. “That’s rare.”

  Guren looked away, clicking his tongue.

  “Rare doesn’t mean smart,” he muttered.

  But as Rhys and Elias finally reached the top—laughing breathlessly, shouting thanks at Amélia—Guren didn’t miss how tightly they stayed connected.

  Even when the danger had passed.

  And despite himself, he sighed again.

  The Ironford Gate loomed like a wall of judgment.

  Steel plates the size of buildings overlapped one another, scarred by old impacts and dried scorch marks, floodlights washing everything below in cold white. Mounted cameras whirred softly as they adjusted, lenses focusing on the mass gathered at the base of the gate.

  A horde of people.

  Men, women, children—gaunt, exhausted, wrapped in torn coats and makeshift bandages. Some leaned on others to stand. Some knelt. Some simply lay on the ground, too tired to beg anymore.

  Those who still had the strength shouted.

  “Please—!”

  “Open the gate!”

  “We’re dying out here!”

  “We’re human—please!”

  Hands slammed weakly against the metal, the sound dull and hopeless.

  Inside the control chamber, a young UF soldier stared at the monitor, his jaw tight.

  “Gate Control to Command,” he said into the console mic. “We’ve got… at least fifty civilians. Maybe more.”

  On the screen, a man with a bloodied forehead looked straight into the camera, eyes sunken but burning.

  “Where did you come from?” the soldier asked, voice amplified through external speakers.

  The man swallowed. “From Silverspire. It’s— it’s not far. Two days east.”

  The soldier frowned.

  “That’s impossible,” he muttered, before speaking up again. “Silverspire fell weeks ago. You wouldn’t have made it through Schreitpanzer territory alive.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “We hid,” someone cried.

  “We ran at night!”

  “They’re gone—please, you have to believe us!”

  The soldier hesitated, then glanced sideways.

  Standing beside him was a man in a pristine white UF coat, insignia heavy on his shoulders. His posture was rigid, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the screen with detached calm.

  UF High Command.

  Older now. Sharper. His hair streaked with gray, his expression carved into something immovable.

  “Sir,” the young soldier said carefully, “orders?”

  The High Command officer didn’t look away from the screen.

  “Open the outer checkpoint,” he said. “Not the gate.”

  The soldier nodded. “And the refugees?”

  “We inspect them.”

  The officer’s voice hardened.

  “Vorl?ufers don’t always look like monsters. Infection isn’t always obvious.”

  He turned slightly, addressing the room.

  “Deploy a screening unit. Full inspection. Skin, veins, eyes. Anyone who resists is detained. Anyone infected is terminated.”

  The soldier swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  Outside, the gate didn’t open—but a smaller armored checkpoint slid aside with a grinding scream of metal.

  UF soldiers stepped out, rifles raised, visors down.

  “Form a line!” one of them shouted. “One by one! You will be inspected!”

  Fear rippled instantly.

  A woman clutched her child tighter.

  A man backed away, shaking his head.

  Another dropped to his knees, sobbing.

  “Please,” someone whispered. “We’re clean. We’re clean.”

  They weren’t given a choice.

  One by one, refugees were pulled forward.

  “Open your coat.”

  “Lift your shirt.”

  “Turn around.”

  Gloved hands prodded skin, forced arms up, traced along necks and ribs, searching for blackened veins, hardened patches, anything wrong.

  Some cried in shame.

  Some trembled in silence.

  Some stared blankly, already broken by the journey.

  The cameras watched everything.

  All except—

  Near the back of the crowd, partially hidden by two taller figures, a woman sat crouched beneath a dark, tattered cloak.

  She kept her head bowed.

  Her hair—dark blue, matted with dirt—spilled just enough to obscure her face. One hand clutched the fabric tight around her shoulders, the other pressed gently against her thigh, fingers twitching.

  A UF soldier approached her.

  “Hey. You. Stand up.”

  Slowly, she rose.

  Her movements were careful. Controlled.

  “Open your cloak,” the soldier ordered.

  She obeyed—just enough.

  Pale skin. Thin arms. Visible veins.

  The soldier leaned closer, scanning her neck, her wrists.

  “Turn your head.”

  She turned—keeping her face angled away from the cameras above. Always away.

  The soldier hesitated, then straightened.

  “…Clear,” he said, already moving on.

  Behind the glass, the High Command officer never noticed her.

  The woman lowered her head again as the line shuffled forward.

  Beneath the cloak, something pulsed—deep, slow, unnatural.

  Her lips moved soundlessly.

  Not a plea.

  Not a prayer.

  A smile.

  The radio crackled.

  “Checkpoint to Command. All civilians screened. No visible infection. No Vorl?ufers detected.”

  Inside the control chamber, the UF High Command officer finally moved.

  Colonel.

  The insignia on his collar marked him as such—far above the captains barking orders on the field, far removed from blood and screams.

  “Understood,” Colonel Varrik said evenly. “Open the gate. Escort them inside.”

  The young UF soldier hesitated. “Sir… protocol says—”

  “—that survivors are humanity’s responsibility,” Varrik cut in coldly. “Place them in the refugee district. Observation period: seventy-two hours. If symptoms appear, we act.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Ironford Gate groaned.

  Locks disengaged. Steel plates shifted. Ancient mechanisms screamed as the massive doors slowly parted, revealing the city beyond—lights, walls, towers, safety.

  Hope.

  The refugees cried out as one.

  Some laughed. Some collapsed in relief. Some wept openly as UF soldiers pushed them forward, weapons raised but no longer aimed to kill.

  “Move! Keep moving!”

  “No stopping!”

  “Single file!”

  They poured into Ironford’s main street like a river breaking through a dam.

  Citizens watched from windows and balconies, faces tight with fear and resentment.

  “Why are they letting them in?” someone hissed.

  “Are they insane?”

  “We can’t even feed ourselves!”

  The refugees didn’t hear—or didn’t care.

  They looked at the buildings like miracles.

  At the lights like stars brought down to earth.

  At the city like salvation.

  Among them, Sera walked quietly.

  Her cloak still wrapped tightly around her, she lifted her head for the first time.

  Her eyes fixed on the heart of Ironford.

  At the city’s center, rising like a buried spine piercing the skyline, stood a massive cylindrical structure—reinforced steel, layered plating, humming faintly even from this distance.

  The Shield Coil.

  The spine of Ironford’s defense.

  Buried deep underground.

  Alive.

  Sera tilted her head slightly.

  “Found you,” she whispered.

  Inside the control chamber, a sudden alarm blared.

  One of the external gate cameras went black.

  The feed dissolved into static.

  “What—?” the young soldier leaned forward. “Camera Seven just went offline.”

  The screen flickered again.

  Text replaced the image.

  YOU HAVE MADE A MISTAKE.

  The room went silent.

  The soldier’s breath hitched. “Sir…?”

  Colonel Varrik stared at the message.

  He didn’t blink.

  “…So,” he said calmly. “It’s already inside.”

  The soldier turned, eyes wide. “Sir, what does that—”

  “Seal internal sectors,” Varrik ordered. “And issue a kill command.”

  The soldier froze.

  “K–kill command?” His voice cracked. “Sir, those are civilians.”

  Varrik finally looked at him.

  Cold. Empty.

  “They were dead the moment they reached the gate.”

  The soldier shook his head. “Sir, I— I can’t—”

  “DO IT,” Varrik snapped, slamming his hand onto the console.

  The soldier’s hands trembled as he grabbed the radio.

  “…Escort Unit,” he said weakly. “Command orders… lethal action. All refugees are to be terminated.”

  On the street, the escorting UF soldiers stopped.

  “What?” one whispered.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “There are kids—”

  “Orders,” the radio repeated. “Do it.”

  Rifles were raised.

  Slowly. Hesitantly.

  A soldier at the rear swallowed hard, finger tightening on the trigger.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  A hand rested on his shoulder.

  Warm.

  Gentle.

  He turned.

  Sera stood beside him, looking up with soft, understanding eyes.

  “Could you do me a favor?” she asked kindly.

  Before he could answer, black liquid bloomed from beneath her skin.

  It flowed—not splashed—like ink poured into water.

  It crawled up his arm, under his armor, into his neck.

  The soldier gasped.

  His eyes went black.

  His finger pulled the trigger.

  Gunfire erupted.

  Bullets tore through his fellow UF soldiers at point-blank range.

  One dropped.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  Screams shattered the street.

  Civilians ran in every direction.

  Children fell.

  People were trampled.

  The infected soldier turned, body jerking unnaturally, weapon swinging toward the crowd.

  Sera stepped back, her cloak falling away as black veins spread across her skin.

  She smiled.

  Ironford screamed.

  And far beneath the city, something ancient and mechanical stirred.