When morning finally broke over Scrapveil, the town was still half-asleep — except for Rayan, who was standing in front of a twenty-meter-tall war relic wondering how he hadn't been vaporized yet.
The mecha loomed above him, kneeling like an ancient knight. Steam hissed from vents along its chest. Its single red eye flickered dimly.
Rayan rubbed his head.
"Okay… so you're real. Not a hallucination. That's progress."
"Confirmed," the mecha rumbled. "You are conscious, biological integrity stable."
"Great. Now can you explain why a legendary death machine thinks I'm its master? Because, full disclosure — I don't even own a wrench set."
"Core resonance established. Your touch activated my binding sequence. Until the link is broken, I serve you."
Rayan groaned. "Fantastic. I can't even keep a cactus alive, and now I'm responsible for a 40-ton killing machine."
He decided to call the mecha Rustfang — mostly because it sounded cooler than 'The Giant Scary Thing That Talks'.
As the day brightened, Rustfang's armor revealed streaks of copper and black steel under layers of dirt. Faint engravings ran along its limbs, pulsing like veins of light.
"Rustfang," Rayan said, walking around it, "what were you, exactly?"
"Combat unit of the Ardentian Vanguard. Designed to guard the Core Citadel. My pilot… perished."
The mecha paused. Its voice softened.
"You are… different. We share a pulse."
Rayan hesitated. "That's… kinda poetic for a tank."
"I learned from my first pilot."
That silenced him for a moment. He didn't know what kind of bond could exist between man and machine — but the way Rustfang spoke, it almost sounded human.
Rayan barely made it back to town before trouble found him.
Three men in oil-stained coats stood outside Grim's workshop — the local debt collectors from The Gearhound Syndicate.
"Well, look who crawled out from the junkyard," the leader sneered. "Rayan Tarsa — got our credits yet?"
"Good morning to you too, Boltface," Rayan said, forcing a grin. "Listen, funny story—"
They grabbed his collar. "Not laughing. You've got twenty-four hours before we start collecting parts. Human or otherwise."
Then, as they turned to leave, the ground trembled.
The men froze.
A metallic shadow loomed over the rooftops.
BOOM.
Rustfang stepped into view, each footstep shaking the street.
Rayan raised his hands quickly. "Whoa, whoa! Easy, big guy! They're—uh—just leaving!"
The collectors screamed and ran for their lives, tripping over scrap piles.
Rustfang's eye dimmed to a soft glow.
"Threats eliminated."
Rayan sighed. "Yeah. But so is my social life."
Later that night, as Rayan sat on the workshop roof eating instant noodles, a voice startled him.
"You really don't know what you've done, do you?"
He turned — and nearly dropped his bowl.
A girl stood there, barely older than him, with short white hair and eyes that shimmered silver like liquid light. She wore a mechanic's jacket patched with old insignias.
"Uh… hi?" he managed. "Are you one of the people I owe money to?"
She ignored the joke, glancing at Rustfang in the distance.
"That relic shouldn't exist. The Vanguard mechs were destroyed centuries ago."
Rayan shrugged. "Guess this one didn't get the memo."
She stepped closer, her expression serious. "That thing is linked to the Core Pulse — the energy that keeps Ardentia alive. If it's awake, something's changing."
"Great," Rayan said dryly. "I wake up one ancient machine and suddenly the world's ending."
The girl extended her hand. "Name's Lyra Vale. Engineer… and maybe the only one who can help you not explode."
He shook her hand. "Rayan Tarsa. Professional disaster."
That night, under the glowing clouds, Rayan looked at Rustfang — half-asleep beside the cliffs — and then at Lyra, who was scribbling blueprints on a tablet made from salvaged crystal.
For the first time, he felt something different.
Not fear.
Not hopelessness.
But purpose.
Maybe Grim was right.
Maybe under all the rust, there was something worth fixing.