Two hundred and eighty minutes of continuous fighting.
The VIP lounge was a demolition site. The velvet curtains were ash. The expensive mahogany bar was splintered. The bodies of Izan enforcers lay in heaps, some cut down by steel, others burned into charcoal statues by combustible bullets.
Kamina's breath came in ragged, heaving gasps. Sweat soaked his shirt, plastering it to his skin, and his grip on the katana was slick. His muscles screamed with lactic acid, burning as hot as the fire Imogen was raining down.
Opposite him, Franz looked more like he had been dragged through the trenches. His field tunic was slashed in three places, revealing a white undershirt stained with dust. His slicked-back hair had finally come loose, a few pale strands hanging over his forehead. He panted, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, disciplined cadence, but the fatigue was etched into the gray circles under his slate eyes.
CLANG.
They met again in the center of the ruin. Kamina's katana locked against Franz's combat knife and baton, a parrying dagger and truncheon combination the officer used.
They shoved off one another, skidding back over the debris-strewn floor.
"You possess," Franz said, straightening his spine with sheer will, "an irritating amount of stamina."
"And you," Kamina grinned, though it looked more like a snarl, spitting blood onto the carpet, "are really annoying to kill. Just die already!"
Kamina lunged. Franz side-stepped. It was a dance of exhaustion, two masters of their craft operating on fumes, waiting for the other to make the single, fatal error.
Behind them, the hallway leading to the inner sanctum was a corridor of hellfire.
Imogen stood near the elevator banks, her form blazing. The Crown of Blackened Wood upon her head roared with silent flame. The Barrett-11 in her hands forged of magma kicked against her shoulder with every shot.
CLANG. CLICK. BANG.
Molten tracers screamed down the hall, forcing a fresh squad of Izan enforcers to dive behind overturned tables and concrete pillars. The heat was intense enough to blister paint twenty meters away.
Franz glanced at the girl, calculating the logistics in his head even as he parried a strike from Kamina.
"Your office," Franz said, his voice tight with exertion, "must have deep pockets. That caliber... that rate of fire... sustained for three hours? You have fired enough munitions to bankrupt a small company."
Kamina laughed, a dry, barking sound. He swung his sheath to check Franz's baton, then followed with a thrust that grazed the officer's greatcoat.
"Rich? Hah! We're broke as a joke!"
"Impossible," Franz said, ducking under the blade and driving a knee toward Kamina's gut which Kamina blocked with his shin. "Specialized ammunition of that thermal intensity costs hundreds of thousands per round. She has fired hundreds."
"That's just her money! She's self-funded!" Kamina shouted, locking blades again. "Though if my accountant saw this, he'd have a stroke! He gives us a four-bullet limit! Four! She's fired about four thousand over that limit!"
Franz frowned, genuinely confused. "Self-funded? The logistics do not add up."
He didn't understand. He couldn't.
Imogen pulled the bolt back on her rifle. Steam hissed from the chamber. She reached into her burning robes, pulled out a magazine, and slammed it into the receiver.
Click-Clack.
The magazine was empty.
E.G.O does not require physical ammunition. It manifests the will of the user into reality. The bullets Imogen fired were made of her own psyche, her anger, her loss, her "Combustible" emotions. They were infinite, so long as her mind could sustain the fire.
But the mind is a fuel source.
To use E.G.O is to invite the bleed into the soul.
Imogen's hands trembled. The fire wanted to consume her. It wanted to make her stop thinking, stop feeling, and just burn.
Forget the reload. Forget the rhythm. Just let it flow.
She forced herself to go through the motions. Drop the mag. Grab a new one. Insert. Rack the bolt.
A grounding technique. It was the physical action of a sniper and a human being operating a machine. It reminded her that she was holding a gun, not becoming the gun. It reminded her that she was Imogen, the girl who didn't know fish nor knew how to cook, not the Queen of Ash.
Every reload bought her Sanity. Every mechanical click silenced for a few precious seconds.
She fired again. The magma bullet struck a pillar, spraying liquid rock over the enforcers huddled behind it. They screamed, breaking cover.
"Clear!" Imogen shouted, her voice distorted by the heat.
Kamina didn't hesitate. "Move!"
He broke the lock with Franz, spinning away and sprinting toward the elevator. Franz moved to intercept, his baton lashing out, but Imogen shifted her aim.
BANG.
A shot landed right between them, melting a crater into the floor. Franz was forced to leap back, his greatcoat singed.
"Damn it," the officer said, patting out a smoldering patch on his sleeve.
Kamina reached the elevator doors. They were reinforced steel, locked down.
"Brat! Open it!"
Imogen turned. Her eyes were two pools of white-hot plasma. She leveled the rifle at the seam of the doors.
Click-Clack. Reload. Breathe.
BANG.
The shot hit the metal dead center. It superheated the steel instantly. The doors glowed cherry red, then white, then liquefied, sloughing away to reveal the shaft beyond.
The cables were cut. The car was gone, likely at the bottom, where Shmuel was.
"Down!"
He grabbed the cables with his bare hand, ignoring the grease and grit, and slid into the darkness.
Imogen followed, her robes trailing sparks as she jumped into the shaft, floating down on a cushion of rising heat.
Above them, Franz stood at the edge of the melted doors, peering down into the dark. He holstered his baton and straightened his tunic, regaining his composure.
"Stubborn," he muttered, adjusting his collar. "But the descent only leads to the grinder. Let us see if you burn as brightly in the dark."
Franz holstered his baton and turned his back on the glowing, melted ruin of the elevator doors. He did not look at the scorched walls or the ash piles that used to be his men. He looked only at the remaining Enforcers who were scrambling to regain their formation.
"Section Four," Franz shouted, his voice cutting through the smoke. "Establish a perimeter around the shaft. Shields up. If they attempt to ascend, you force them back down."
The Enforcers, bruised and hesitant, stiffened at the command.
"Section Five," he continued, striding past them. "Clear the debris. Triage the wounded. Anyone unable to hold a blade is to be moved to the rear. The rest of you, sharpen your edges. We hold this floor until the threat is neutralized."
"Sir," one Enforcer said, gesturing to the melted metal. "The heat... the structural integrity..."
"Did I ask for a damage report?" Franz said. "I asked for a perimeter. Execute."
"Yes, sir!"
Franz walked to the shattered remains of the VIP bar, stepping over broken glass to find a relatively quiet corner. He reached into his tunic and withdrew a heavy, encrypted communication handset. He keyed in the frequency for the Main Force, Team 1 and Team 2.
The line hissed with static before connecting.
"This is Officer Franz, Research Facility Security," he spoke, his tone clipped and formal. "We have a Code Red breach. Two intruders with high combat capabilities. One is a Psychoment user. The other is a Grade-5 equivalent swordsman. Our defensive line is compromised. Requesting immediate reinforcement from the Main Force."
There was a pause on the line. Then, a voice returned calm, dismissive, and overlaid with the sound of wind and paper.
"Negative, Franz. Reinforcement is impossible."
Franz's brow furrowed slightly. "Impossible? The facility houses the Successor. If the Queen Piece is destroyed, the project fails. This is a priority asset."
"The asset is secondary," the voice replied. "The objective has shifted."
"Explain."
"We have received an Invitation."
Franz went still.
"An Invitation?"
"From the Library," the voice confirmed. "It arrived at the main headquarters ten minutes ago."
Franz listened as the voice on the other end read the text of the card that had appeared out of thin air, a white envelope sealed with wax.
"Dear Guest
I formally invite you to the library. The Library's books can provide you with all the wisdom, wealth, honor, and power you seek. However, an ordeal will await you in the library. If you cannot overcome this ordeal, you will be converted into a book yourself.
- Angela"
"The Fury has spoken," the voice on the comms continued. "The knowledge of the fallen L Corp lies within those books. To conquer District 12, we require that technology. Team 1 and Team 2 are mobilizing to enter the Library immediately."
"You are diverting the main force for an Urban Plague?" Franz asked, his voice low.
"We are diverting for power. Hold your ground with what you have, Officer. [The Fury] expects results."
Click.
The line went dead.
Franz lowered the handset slowly. He stared at the device for a moment, then slid it back into his tunic.
The Library. Lured by the promise of their deepest desires. [The Fury] was gambling everything on a fairy tale, leaving the rear guard to rot.
Franz looked up. His Enforcers were watching him, waiting for the news of salvation. Waiting for the elite squads to burst through the doors and save them from the monsters in the basement.
Franz adjusted his collar. He smoothed his gray tunic.
"Reinforcements are occupied with a higher directive," he announced calmly. "We are the final line of defense."
He drew his combat knife in his left hand and his baton in his right.
"Prepare for descent," he ordered. "If they wish to burn in the dark, we will meet them there."
Boots slammed against the corrugated steel roof of the elevator car.
The impact rattled the cage, swinging it slightly in the dark shaft. Kamina landed in a crouch, one hand steadying himself on a greasy cable. Imogen dropped beside him a second later, the soles of her shoes hissing as the residual heat of her descent met the cold metal.
She let out a long, shaky breath.
The Crown of Blackened Wood flickered and dissolved into gray smoke. The ceremonial robes of ash peeled away like burning paper, revealing her usual coat and dress beneath. The spectral magma of the Barrett-11 cooled instantly, solidifying back into heavy, scarred steel.
She slumped against the cable housing, her legs sliding out from under her. The rifle clattered to the roof. She wiped a smear of soot from her cheek, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
"That," she wheezed, "was cheap."
Kamina didn't laugh this time. He stood looking down at the hatch, his expression shadowed by the gloom of the shaft.
"You okay, brat?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Just... give me a second. My head feels like someone shoved a grenade inside."
She pulled a fresh magazine from her pouch, a real one this time, filled with physical rounds and jammed it into the rifle. The click was loud in the silence.
It seemed to center her.
Kamina rapped his knuckles against the locked hatch, once, twice. The metal rang dull and unhelpful.
"Tch." He rolled his shoulder, wincing. "Figures."
Imogen stayed slumped where she was, back against the cable housing, breathing like she'd just sprinted a marathon uphill. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat. She didn't look up.
"Hey," Kamina said, lighter than he felt. "We keep moving."
Imogen let out a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. "You're joking, right?"
"It's already like this," he replied, shrugging with one shoulder. "We're in the middle of the mess, place is on fire, people want us dead. Stopping now doesn't magically make it better."
Imogen fumbled into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit the elevator roof with a soft blue glow—custom gold-edged casing, spiderwebbed with tiny cracks from heat stress. Still worked perfectly, of course.
She squinted at the display, thumb swiping sluggishly.
"…Four hours," she muttered.
Kamina glanced back. "Huh?"
"Four hours and forty minutes," she corrected, voice flat. "Since we started the raid."
He whistled low. "Wow. No wonder everything hurts."
"That's not a flex," she snapped, then sighed and let her head thunk back against the steel. "That's insane. I'm not built like you. I'm not supposed to fight for almost five hours straight. I'm a newbie, remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," Kamina said. "Newbie with a walking artillery complex and a bank account that could buy a district."
"Hey! Money doesn't give you stamina!"
"It buys really nice shoes," he shot back. "Those count."
She huffed despite herself, then went quiet again, eyes drifting to the dark shaft below. The joking tone slipped.
"…We should check on Shmuel," Kamina said, more serious now. "Fast."
Imogen's jaw tightened. "I know. I just… give me, like, one minute. Sixty seconds. That's nothing."
Before Kamina could answer, the world lurched.
A deep, concussive BOOM thundered up the shaft. The elevator car jolted violently, cables screaming in protest as the entire cage swung sideways. Dust and rust rained down. Imogen yelped, grabbing the nearest handhold as her phone clattered across the roof.
Kamina's instincts screamed.
"That wasn't us," he muttered.
Another shockwave rippled through the shaft, weaker but closer. Kamina felt it in his teeth. In his bones.
Something was very wrong.
He didn't hesitate.
Steel flashed.
Kamina drew his katana in and slashed upward. The blade screamed as it bit into the corrugated roof of the elevator cabin. Sparks cascaded like fireworks as he carved. He kicked the weakened metal, tearing it open with a shriek of bending steel.
Cold air rushed in from above.
"Up," he said, already moving. Then he glanced back at her, eyes sharp. "No, down. Follow me."
"Wait what?" Imogen scrambled to her feet. "You're not even checking…"
Kamina sheathed the blade halfway, then vaulted through the opening he'd made, grabbing a cable and disappearing into the darkness below in one fluid motion.
His voice echoed up the shaft. "Trust me. Whatever's making that noise? I don't want it reaching Shmuel first."
"Oh great…"
She snatched her phone, shoved it back into her pocket, and slung the Barrett over her shoulder. Her hands were still shaking, her head still pounding.
"…No better options," she muttered.
She stepped into the torn opening, heat flickering faintly around her boots as she dropped, catching herself on the cable a second later.
"I'm blaming you if I die," she shouted downward.
"Get in line!" Kamina shouted back.
Imogen exhaled, then followed him down into the shaft, because she was tired and because she was scared.
The lab was in ruin.
Walls were punched through like paper. Entire sections had collapsed inward, cables hanging, sparking weakly. Machinery lay twisted and half melted, consoles crushed into the floor. There were drag marks everywhere, deep furrows scored through steel and concrete.
Water pooled in strange places, ankle deep in some spots, rippling without any clear source.
They followed the destruction down a long corridor until it opened into a massive chamber.
Inside, machinery dominated the space, towering scaffolds and feeding rigs stretching up into shadow. Thick tubes pulsed slowly, pushing something red and wet through transparent conduits. Flesh. Muscle. Organs in various stages of assembly.
All of it fed toward the center.
Bruno.
She was suspended in a vertical cradle of metal and glass, partially formed, partially restrained. Machines pierced and supported her at the same time, threading nerves, pumping fluids, forcing growth that should have taken months into minutes. Her chest rose faintly. Alive. Barely.
Imogen felt sick.
Then something moved between them and the machinery.
A shape rose from the flooded floor.
At first it looked like a building standing up.
Its frame was massive and industrial, encased in cold, rivet-studded armor plates layered like the hull of a broken ship. The metal was uneven and scarred, dented and gouged, patched together with visible seams. It did not look forged. It looked repaired. Again and again.
Rust-colored stains and oil-sheen patterns rippled across the surface, like steel soaked too long in seawater.
From the gaps between the plating, dark brine leaked constantly. It poured from joints, vents, seams. The air filled with the smell of salt and deep, stagnant pressure. Water pooled beneath it, spreading outward as if the ocean itself was bleeding through the floor.
Its torso resembled an engine housing or shattered keel, thick and reinforced, venting steam through exhaust slits. Where a heart should have been, layered metal sealed the cavity. No blood. Just a low, constant hum, pressure held barely in check.
The right arm was a colossal hydraulic claw, pistons and cables flexing as crushing plates opened and closed, easily capable of folding armor into scrap. The left arm retained a humanoid outline, but only barely, fingers of metal scarred and blunted from repeated impacts.
Its legs were pylons. Offshore rig supports masquerading as limbs. Every step cracked the floor, water surging outward as if displaced by a sinking vessel.
From its spine extended a long, segmented tail like a rusted anchor chain. Heavy. Serrated. It dragged, coiled, lashed, smashing through debris with the inevitability of gravity.
Where a face should have been was a solid helm of metal. One vertical red visor slit glowed faintly, like a lighthouse seen through fog. No human features remained. Just the suggestion that something was sealed behind armor too thick to ever open.
Water droplets hung suspended around it, trembling, pulled into strange orbits by internal pressure. When it moved, the sound was not footsteps. It was grinding metal, straining pistons, and the mournful hiss of steam from a breached hull.
In front of it lay three figures.
One was barely recognizable. The Rook lay crumpled, armor shattered, chest barely rising. Blood mixed with water around him, already going still.
The Knight was on one knee, sword bent, armor cracked and dented deep. Breathing ragged. One arm hung useless.
The Bishop stood last.
Ernst.
He was barely upright, one leg dragging. His staff shook violently in his hands, its light flickering and unstable. His face was pale, eyes wide, fixed on the monster in front of him with something that was no longer confidence. Just calculation stretched to its breaking point.
The monster turned its helm slightly.
Kamina felt it before he thought it.
"…Shmuel,"
"What?"
Kamina was already drawing his katana.
Steel rang sharp in the ruined chamber as the blade cleared its sheath.
"That's him."
The red visor shifted.
The suspended water trembled harder.
Imogen felt it then. The same pressure. The same wrongness she had felt when she herself had slipped too far, when her thoughts had narrowed and sharpened.
Her hands shook.
"Shmuel!" he shouted, voice cutting through steam and grinding metal. "Snap out of it!"
The monster responded by moving.
The hydraulic claw flexed. The anchor chain tail dragged back, coiling with terrible weight.
Kamina tightened his grip and lowered his center of gravity, blade angled forward.
Imogen stayed where she was.
She didn't ignite her E.G.O.
Part of it was she was exhausted both mentally and physically
She couldn't.
She just watched, heart hammering, as she realized with sick certainty that Shmuel had crossed the same line she once had.
Imogen sucked in a breath and forced her hands to stop shaking.
Shoulder set. Cheek to stock. Eye down the scope.
The world narrowed.
The hydraulic claw came down, pistons screaming, water compressing into a killing arc aimed straight at Kamina's spine.
Imogen fired.
The Barrett thundered.
The round punched through the arm mid-swing. Metal burst outward. Pistons shredded. Cables snapped and recoiled like severed tendons. Brine and hydraulic fluid detonated in a violent spray.
The claw froze inches from Kamina.
He didn't waste the gift.
Kamina ducked under the stalled limb and carved upward, blade screeching along exposed inner plating. Sparks fanned out. He twisted, kicked off the torso, and landed running as the damaged arm slammed uselessly into the floor.
[Remains of a Metal Ship.] reeled.
The anchor chain lashed.
Kamina slid beneath it and cut again, fast, precise, relentless.
Another shot rang out.
Imogen shifted aim and fired into the elbow joint. More metal tore free. The arm sagged, pressure venting in a furious hiss.
"Don't thank me," she muttered, already cycling the bolt. "You still owe me lunch."
Kamina barked a laugh and charged again.
Behind them, Ernst moved.
Slow. Careful.
He reached the fallen Rook and knelt with a sharp inhale, fingers shaking as he closed the man's eyes. Then he hooked his arms under the corpse's shoulders and dragged him up, step by step, toward the towering machinery.
Each movement cost him.
His leg buckled. He caught himself on his staff. Teeth clenched. Breath shallow.
The grinder loomed ahead, massive gears turning, flesh-fed conduits pulsing as they drew material toward Bruno's suspended form.
Ernst reached the base and leaned the Rook's body against the railing.
He looked back once.
Kamina and the monster collided again.
Steel flashed. Water burst. The tail smashed down. Kamina vaulted over it, slashed across the visor, sparks bursting like flares against fog.
Imogen fired again, this time into the tail's base. The chain screeched and recoiled, tearing chunks from the floor as it withdrew.
Ernst turned back to the machine.
Hands trembling, he gripped the Rook's armor and began the climb, dragging the dead weight upward toward the grinding jaws, every step a quiet, desperate theft of time.