The tour began, led by Jack Gerou's loose-limbed saunter, a contrast to Evander's formal stride and Caden's silent, ghost-like tread. They moved from the relative order of the docking bay into the roaring, chaotic heart of the Rust Belt itself.
Their first stop was a cavernous space that Jack called Sprocket's Bazaar. It was less a market and more a multi-leveled, roaring beast of commerce, housed within the gutted cargo hold of a colossal freighter. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling fungal-protein skewers, hot oil, and the distinct, coppery scent of freshly milled metal. Voices crashed together in a symphony of haggling, laughter, and the occasional shouted curse. Stalls were welded from shipping containers and old hull plates, their wares spilling out: stacks of servo-motors, bundles of color-coded wiring, and engine components still caked in the strange, crystalline grime of Jörmungandr's atmosphere. A vendor shouted about the "pure strain" of Glimmer-moss he was selling, the fungi glowing with a soft, steady light in jam jars. Another demonstrated a hydraulic claw by crushing a block of scrap, sending sharp echoes through the din.
Kuro's eyes, behind his spectacles, tracked everything with cold calculation. "A barter economy, I assume? The 'Scrap Code' in action," he noted, seeing a pilot trade a bundle of Minovsky reactor coils not for currency, but for a promise of future fuel and a hot meal.
"Something like that," Jack grinned. "Your reputation's your credit score here. Break a deal, and good luck finding anyone to spit on you if you're on fire."
Aurélie observed a different transaction: an old mechanic gently placing a cracked data-slate on a communal "offering" pile before taking a new power coupler. The cultural nuance was clear—a tribute to the community before personal gain.
They moved on, the path leading them onto The Gantry. This was not a street but a terrifyingly exposed network of narrow, grated walkways that spiderwebbed across a dizzying chasm between two massive hulls. Below was only darkness, dotted with the faint, soft glow of Glimmer-moss farms far, far below. A constant, deep vibration traveled up through the metal mesh into the soles of their boots, the groan of the entire settlement settling and shifting. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint, dry metallic taste.
Souta, peering over the edge, watched his ink tattoos writhe a little faster. "The structural integrity must be a perpetual nightmare," he mused. "One severe impact…"
"Then we all get to find out what's at the bottom," Caden said flatly, not breaking his stride. Evander shot him a look, but said nothing. The setting was doing the work for them—the constant, low-grade fear of the fall mirroring the precariousness of their own situations.
The Gantry opened into a vast, open deck plate called The Echoing Commons. The floor was scarred from countless impacts and welded repairs. This was clearly a gathering place. The most striking feature was the collection of massive, dented metal sheets and old engine blocks arranged in one corner, surrounded by an assortment of hammers, wrenches, and plasma cutters.
"This is where we get loud," Jack explained, patting one of the massive sheets. "End of a shift, loss of a friend, a big win… we come here and beat the hell out of this scrap. We call it metal-shrieking. Lets the emptiness know we're still here."
As if on cue, a group of returning scavengers, their faces smudged and tired, picked up tools and began hammering on the metal. The resulting cacophony was not random noise; it was a cathartic, furious, and strangely unified release of emotion that echoed through the vast space, a collective scream against the silence of space. Aurélie felt the sound in her teeth, a physical manifestation of the JFF's stubborn spirit.
Finally, they arrived at their destination: The Scrap Cathedral. It was the gutted remains of a CUA carrier's main hangar, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows where support beams twisted like the ribs of a great, metal beast. Stained-glass viewports, patched with welds and colored polymers, cast shattered rain of light onto the floor. And there, standing in silent ranks under the somber, multi-hued glow, were the Armored Frames.
They were a motley collection of machines, a far cry from the pristine Sentinels of the CUA. These were JFF Frames—the Rust Falcons and other, more heavily customized models. Their armor was a patchwork of colors and alloys, covered in welded-on scars, garish painted logos, and handwritten scrawl. Some were missing armor plates, revealing the complex musculature of hydraulics and wiring within. They looked less like military hardware and more like ancient, weary knights resting in a mechanical chapel.
"Welcome to the starting line," Jack said, his voice echoing in the vastness.
Kuro adjusted his glasses, his gaze analytical. "These are the tools you expect us to master?"
"These," Evander corrected, his voice firm with pride, "are the partners that keep us alive. They have history. They have souls. You will show them respect."
Caden stepped forward, his gold eyes sweeping over the four newcomers. The Cathedral's hushed atmosphere seemed to settle around him, the distant echoes of the Bazaar and the Commons nothing but a memory. "The theory is over," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet. "Now we see what you're really made of."
The silence of the Scrap Cathedral was broken by Evander's voice, ringing with the cadence of a formal address. "The Armored Frame is not merely a machine," he declared, one hand resting on the heavy shoulder of his own pristine 'Paladin.' "It is an extension of the pilot's will. You must meet its power with discipline, its purpose with honor. Every action in the cockpit reflects the soul of the warrior within. We fight with strength, but we win with virtue."
Jack let out a sharp bark of laughter, leaning against a rust-streaked leg of a nearby Frame. "Virtue doesn't patch a hull breach, Evander. Winning keeps you breathing. Save the poetry for the memorials." He winked at the newcomers. "Just try not to smash anything too expensive. Or yourselves."
Caden said nothing. He stood beside his sleek, non-reflective 'Wraith,' his head tilted slightly as if listening to a distant conversation. His gold eyes narrowed, flicking towards a gutted transport ship welded into the Cathedral's wall. A faint, cold pressure built behind his temples—the psychic residue of the crew that had died there, a silent scream of panic and vacuum that only he could perceive. The ghost-echo passed, leaving only the familiar, dull throb of a coming headache.
"Let's begin," Caden said, his quiet tone cutting through the debate.
The question of Ember immediately arose. She was practically vibrating, staring up at the Frames with a manic glee that promised property damage.
Kuro sighed, the sound full of weary resignation. "The child is… unpredictable. Perhaps observation would be more prudent than active participation."
"Nonsense!" Jack countered, grinning. "Chaos is the best teacher. Besides, if she's going to be wandering around our home, I'd rather she knew which end of a plasma torch not to point at the life support."
Kuro's lips tightened into a thin line. He turned to Souta. "Very well. But you are responsible for her."
Souta's scowl was immediate and profound, the tattoos on his arms coiling into frustrated knots. "Why am I tasked with minding the feral one?"
"Because your strategic mind is currently being wasted," Kuro replied smoothly. "And it will teach you patience." Reluctantly, with a glare that could curdle milk, Souta gave a single, sharp nod.
The groups split, the cavernous hangar echoing with the groaning of metal and the hiss of pressurized hydraulics as cockpits sealed.
Evander teamed with Aurélie.
Inside the cockpit of a stripped-down 'Rust Falcon,' Aurélie's hands rested on the control interface. Evander's voice was a calm guide in her ear. "Basic mobility. Forward thrust, lateral shift. Feel the Frame's weight, its center of gravity."
Aurélie moved. The massive machine responded not with the lurching stagger of a novice, but with a smooth, almost graceful shift. She piloted as she fought—with an innate sense of balance and economy of motion. The Rust Falcon took a step, then another, its movements carrying the ghost of a dueling fencer's advance.
"Good. Your balance is exceptional," Evander noted, his voice betraying a hint of surprise. "Now, activate the hydraulic crusher in the right arm. Strike the designated scrap pile."
The Frame's arm lifted, but the movement that followed was a controlled, almost gentle push, not a brutal strike. The scrap heap shuddered but remained largely intact.
"You are pulling the blow," Evander observed. "This is not a sword, Aurélie. It is a tool of immense power. You must commit."
Through the cockpit canopy, he could see the hilt of her black blade, Anathema, resting on her hip. It seemed to watch him, a silent judge of his methods. She was treating the Frame like an extension of her body, but refusing to grant it its own, savage strength.
Caden trained with Kuro
From the cockpit of his 'Wraith,' Caden observed Kuro's Frame moving through a debris field. It was methodical, calculating. Kuro wasn't just navigating; he was cataloging. His Frame would pause, its sensor array scanning a collapsed girder not as an obstacle, but as potential cover. He mapped escape routes along the Cathedral's walls, his movements efficient and devoid of flourish.
Caden opened his Echo Sense, allowing the emotional texture of the room to wash over him. From Evander, he felt a steady, focused determination. From Aurélie, a tightly controlled intensity, like a coiled spring. From Jack and Ember, a chaotic, sparkling frenzy. But from Kuro… there was nothing. A flat, silent emptiness where emotional noise should have been. It was as if the man was a ghost, or a machine. It wasn't a lack of feeling, Caden realized; it was a wall, so absolute and impenetrable that it was more disturbing than any scream of fear or rage he had ever sensed.
Jack trained Souta and Ember
"Okay, firebrand," Jack's voice crackled in Ember's comms. "See that wrecked engine block? The hydraulics in those claws are strong enough to peel it open like a can. Gentle pressure. This is salvage, not a slaughter."
Ember's Frame, a lanky model with mismatched arms, lurched forward. The claws snapped shut on the engine block, but instead of carefully prying, she gave a violent, jerking twist. Metal shrieked. A moment later, she was using the claw's pincer to detach a small, pressurized fuel canister from the wreckage.
"Ooh! Can I rig this to blow?" her voice chirped over the open channel. "It would, sparkle with the bigger debris so much faster!"
Jack's laughter was rich and genuine. "I like the way you think, kid! But big booms have a downside. They ring the dinner bell for things with too many teeth and not enough patience. We call that 'Typhon attention.' So, maybe save the fireworks for a real special occasion."
From his own Frame, Souta watched in mounting horror. "This is a catastrophe in the making," he snapped, his voice tight. "She is treating a multi-ton war machine as her personal toy box."
"Relax, ink-blot," Jack retorted. "She's got spirit! You could use a little. Now, why don't you try using that big brain of yours to actually help her instead of just complaining? See if you can calculate the optimal leverage point on that block she's mangling."
Souta fell into a sullen silence, his Frame standing rigidly as Ember's continued its joyful, destructive dance. The Scrap Cathedral, a sanctuary for dead ships, was now filled with the sounds of new life—the grinding of metal, the thrum of reactors, and the first, tentative steps of strangers learning to wield the giants of the Typhon Cluster.
*****
The salt-tinged air of Ohara, heavy with the ghosts of burned knowledge and the chill of finality, began to recede as the group filed towards the waiting submarine. One by one, they descended the hatch into the vessel's cool, metallic belly.
The interior was a study in organized chaos, a labyrinth of pipes, conduits, and reinforced viewports. Galit Varuna, his long neck already angled in concentration, slid effortlessly into the pilot's chair, his fingers dancing across the console with an innate familiarity. The rest of the crew found their places, the familiar clatter and click of safety harnesses filling the space. Jax, Emmet, and Zola were already a memory, left standing on the ashen shore.
Without a word, Marya moved past them, her combat boots echoing softly on the grated floor. She disappeared through a reinforced bulkhead into a hidden compartment, the heavy door sighing shut behind her. Within the shielded darkness, she secured the Tideglass Fragment in a cushioned vault. The prism, humming with captured starlight, seemed to pulse once before she sealed it away. When she emerged, she carried a long, weathered tube of aged leather.
Returning to the command deck, she uncapped the tube and slid out a heavy parchment scroll. She spread it across the control panel, partially covering the glowing holographic displays. The map was a beautiful, treacherous thing, depicting not just the blues of the sea, but swirling, layered cloud formations and archipelagos floating in the white voids of the sky.
"Set a course for these coordinates, Galit," Marya said, her voice calm. Her finger, marked with those permanent black void veins, tapped a spot on the map where a stylized island, wreathed in perpetual dawn, was illustrated among the clouds. "That's Lumenara."
Galit's emerald eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned the intricate markings. "Lumenara? The script is… archaic. A sky island?" His head tilted, a subtle S-curve of curiosity. "How do we even get up there?."
From a reclined seat in the corner, where he had seemed to be dozing, a low, rumbling voice cut through the hum of the engines. "We don't."
Every head turned to Aokiji. He hadn't moved, his eyes still closed, but his presence now filled the room.
"We take the Path of the High West," he stated, as if mentioning a local market street.
Jannali, strapped in beside a wobbly Jelly, let out a low whistle, the sound cutting through the sudden silence. "The Path of the High West? Sounds like a fairy tale you tell naughty kids. 'Be good, or the High West will get ya.'" Her twang made the threat sound almost cheerful.
Aokiji's eyes opened slowly. He regarded them all with a lazy, yet deeply knowing gaze. "It's no fairy tale. It's a permanent storm of cloud and wind that sits like a silent mountain in the western sea. A natural pathway, where the White Sea dips low enough to touch the Blue Sea, if you know where to look."
He shifted, the seat groaning under his large frame. "Most who try it don't come back. The air is so thin it plays tricks on your mind, makes your lungs burn. The winds aren't just strong; they're sharp enough to slice rigging to ribbons. And the path itself… it's not a road. It's a fluid maze of cloud valleys and aerial rivers that change with the moon and the mood of the sea below. One wrong turn and you sail right out into open air."
Atlas, already looking bored with the technicalities, cracked his knuckles. "So it's a fight. Good. I was getting tired of all this quiet archaeology."
"It's not a fight you can win with your chui, you overgrown house cat," Galit retorted without looking up from the map, his fingers already flying across his tactical slate, cross-referencing Aokiji's description with navigational charts. "It's a fight you win with patience, a good ship, and the right technology. Jet Dials for propulsion, Breath Dials for air… we'll need to find Kairouseki to properly fuse the ship with the cloud matter."
"Oh, is that all?" Jannali drawled, rolling her eyes. "Just a quick trip to the shops for some mythical snail-tech and forbidden sea-stone. No worries."
Marya listened, her golden eyes moving from Aokiji's resigned certainty to Galit's frantic calculations. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips at Jannali's sarcasm. She leaned over the map, her raven hair falling forward. "Then our first step is clear. We find an island. Somewhere we can resupply, sleep in actual beds for a night, bathe, regroup, and plan." She paused, then added dryly, "And get some more money. Ancient vaults are notoriously light on operational funding."
Galit nodded, a focused intensity in his expression. "On it." He input a new series of commands, and the main viewer flickered to life, displaying a holographic star chart of nearby islands. Data streams scrolled alongside each one: population, known affiliations, resource availability. "Filtering for neutral territories with robust shipyards and… discrete markets."
As the Glacial Advent began to pull away, its engines a deep thrum that vibrated through the deck plates, Marya took a seat near the viewport. Outside, the ruined silhouette of Ohara slowly shrank, a dark scar on the horizon. She didn't watch it fade. Her gaze was forward, on the shifting hologram and the vast, unpredictable sea ahead, her posture that of a woman who had shed one burden only to willingly shoulder another, far more impossible one. The future they had chosen was not just ahead; it was above.
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