I stood beside Harke as he counted the survivors gathered near the entrance of Qordos. His quill scratched against parchment, marking names and numbers.

  "Eighty-seven survivors," Harke said, lowering his book. "Most of the casualties were from the adult p-pens."

  My mechanical fingers clenched. Those brave souls had charged the slavers with nothing but crude spears and shivs. They'd known the risk, but fought anyway. Better to die standing than live in chains.

  Through Mind Speech, I asked Harke, Children?

  "Th-three died." His voice cracked. "The youngest was eight."

  I watched the long procession of people heading to the burial grounds, carrying their dead wrapped in whatever cloth they could find. Mallie walked among them, her bow slung across her back, helping a limping woman transport a body.

  The morning sun cast long shadows across the blood-stained ground of Qordos. Bodies of slavers lay scattered where they fell, sprawled in doorways, slumped against walls, face-down in the dirt. Already flies buzzed around them.

  None of us wanted to bother burying the scum. Let the carrion birds feast.

  Must burn. This place. I told Harke. Will take supplies. Leave rest. To flames.

  He nodded. "The food stores alone c-could feed everyone for weeks. And there's coin, weapons, clothing..." He paused, looking at the corpse of a slaver nearby. "What about them?"

  What about them?

  The sound of singing drifted from the burial grounds, a mournful dirge in a language I didn't recognize. Yet something about the melody stirred fragments of memory, like ashes rising from a dying fire. I'd heard songs like this before, long ago. Songs of grief. Songs of war.

  My three remaining arms, one flesh and two mechanical, hung loose at my sides as I listened. Fifty-three dead. Fifty-three lives ended in violence, their last moments spent fighting for freedom in this cursed place.

  They deserved better than shallow graves in the Hellzone. They deserved to be remembered.

  Please. Write down. Their names. I told Harke. Must be remembered.

  He looked up from his book, eyes red-rimmed. "I-I will. I already started a list."

  The singing continued, carried on the wind. I remained still, my asymmetrical helmet turned toward the sound, letting the mechanical body I'd built stay motionless in respect for the dead.

  Fifty-three names. Fifty-three stories ended here in Qordos. I would remember this number, carry it with me wherever I went next. Their sacrifice had bought freedom for the others. The least I could do was ensure they weren't forgotten.

  After the burial, people scattered through Qordos like ants, gathering supplies for the long trek to Weath. It had been decided that Mallie's home would be our destination. The Kingdom of Aspiration was the nation bordering the Lodrik Hellzone, and Weath was the closest town to us.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Packs were filled with dried meat, water skins, clothes; anything that could help them survive the journey through the Hellzone.

  I walked the perimeter, scanning for useful materials. My fourth mechanical arm hung loose, recently reattached after the battle. The copper wiring needed adjustment, but it would hold.

  Mallie fell in step beside me, her new bow clutched tight. Her usual bounce was gone, replaced by dragging feet and slumped shoulders.

  You fought well, I told her through Mind Speech.

  "I gained two levels." Her voice was flat, empty of pride. She kicked a rock, sending it skittering across blood-stained dirt.

  Are you not. Pleased?

  She stopped walking, staring at the ground. Her shoulders trembled. "I don't... I don't think I want to go to the War Academy anymore."

  I turned to face her, waiting.

  "The fighting..." Tears rolled down her freckled cheeks. "I hated it. Being scared. And then... and then not being scared, which was worse. The killing." Her voice cracked. "I knew him. Tommy. He was from two farms over from mine."

  She wiped her face with a grimy sleeve. "I gave him one of the knives. Told him to stay close to me during the escape. But he... he..." A sob tore from her throat. "He's dead because of me."

  I knelt, bringing my flesh hand to rest on her thin shoulder. The contrast between my pale, invulnerable skin and her tear-streaked face made something ache in my broken chest.

  Not your fault, I told her. He chose. To fight. Died. So others could live. So children. Could see parents. Again.

  She threw herself against my mechanical chest, crying harder. I kept my real hand on her shoulder, letting her grief pour out. Around us, the camp bustled with preparation, but we remained still: a strange monster comforting a young warrior who'd learned the true cost of battle far too soon.

  Smoke billowed into the morning sky as Qordos burned behind us. The flames devoured wood, cloth, and flesh; everything we couldn't carry or I couldn't store in my Depository. The acrid stench followed our procession as we trudged northeast across the broken landscape.

  My mechanical legs carried me up and down the line of former captives. Four arms held weapons ready: two spears and two swords. The survivors gave me a wide berth, their eyes darting away whenever I passed. Even after fighting together, they couldn't forget what I was. A monster. The System's designation burned in my status screen like a brand.

  Harke walked at the front, consulting a worn map he'd found in Chanos's quarters. The other freed prisoners naturally gravitated towards him. His gentle voice and healing hands had been their only comfort during their imprisonment. Now they looked to him for guidance through the Hellzone's dangers.

  I caught movement in the distance; a pack of those dog-rat hybrids were stalking our group. My mechanical joints whirred as I changed direction, heading to intercept. The beasts attacked at my approach, their bestial rage blinding them to the danger I posed. They'd learned too late, the price of their folly their lives.

  The monsters' deaths had finally propelled me to level up.

  "Water break!" Harke's voice carried down the line. The procession halted, people dropping to rest on broken ground.

  I continued my patrol, scanning the horizon. The mountains which I had worked so hard to get to was now at my back, their jagged peaks piercing the tattered clouds. Something about those peaks tugged at my fractured memories, but like always, the thoughts slipped away before I could grasp them.

  A child's cry split the air. I whirled, weapons ready, but it was just a little boy who'd stumbled. His mother helped him up, shooting me a fearful glance before hurrying away. I lowered my arms, that familiar ache in my chest growing stronger.

  The wind carried the smoke from burning Qordos across our path. Good. Let it burn. Let nothing remain of that place of suffering. In my Depository, I felt the weight of salvaged supplies: cloth, metals, broken weapons. Even medicine was in there; for some reason the System counted it as a form of material. Everything else would feed the flames, ensuring no other slavers could use the camp.

  We moved on, a ragged line of humanity threading through the desolation. I kept watch, a monster protecting those who feared me, while behind us Qordos burned to ash.