Old Dunling in winter carried a sharper kind of cold. Steam rose and clung to metal skins, beading into dew that froze into pale rime. People moved through the streets wrapped in heavy coats, and beneath the lamps at night, faint white breaths bloomed and vanished with every exhale.
Yet beneath that chill surface burned a heat the city had never known before. Massive gates ground open, and the waters of the Thames roared through rust-choked conduits, passing layer after layer of filters before plunging dozens of meters underground. Torrents of water fed the blazing boilers; machinery thundered to life, and heat-laden gases surged through a labyrinth of pipes.
It was a web cast beneath the earth. Energy, bright as a hidden inferno, coursed along its paths and was finally driven into an inverted abyssal shaft.
In that lightless depth, darkness blushed to a molten red. There, the might of industry gestated. A moment later, steam hotter than a hundred degrees burst forth, racing along prepared arteries toward the surface of Old Dunling. Within minutes, scalding vapor drifted through the city streets.
It was a miracle of humankind. Any who beheld it felt an urge to kneel and pray, for such enormity seemed born of myth rather than mortal hands.
The Pillars of the Furnace System—the greatest steam engine complex in human history—lay rooted beneath Old Dunling, feeding power to the entire city. After decades of expansion, it had become like a tree of iron sunk into the bedrock, its roots spreading endlessly outward. Few alive knew the full shape of it.
Nikolai still wore his usual air of exhaustion, but this time a sterner gravity overshadowed it. The air tasted of rust. Overhead lights flickered dimly as his footsteps echoed along the metal corridor.
He stepped into an elevator. After a code was entered, rust-veined steel doors sealed shut. Cables groaned, and he descended into deeper dark.
Many secrets slept beneath Old Dunling. Not only the intricate Pillars of the Furnace, not only the vast subway arteries threading the city—but deeper still lay Ingervig's highest research institution: the seat of the Perpetual Pump.
Downward. Ever downward.
Then, in the murk, light spilled in. The elevator doors opened onto another world. Scholars in white coats moved briskly between instruments. Arcs of electricity leapt across the high dome, striking insulated barriers and exploding into dazzling sprays of sparks.
A serpent devouring its own tail coiled across steel structures—an ouroboros wrought in metal, the sigil of infinity.
That was the emblem of the Perpetual Pump. Established by its first Director-General, its ultimate ambition was simple, at least in name: a pump that never ceased, a divine engine of endless motion.
A wry smile tugged at Nikolai's lips. Everyone here knew such a machine could not exist—at least not outside myth. And yet, even knowing that, they still wanted to try. To carve a miracle out of science.
"Has it arrived?"
The staff nearby knew exactly what he meant.
"It was delivered from the Institute of Mechanics. Standing by in Test Field Three."
In truth, the Perpetual Pump was nested within the Pillars of the Furnace system. Beneath their feet, combustion chambers burned day and night. Hundreds of tons of coal fed the fires; boilers unleashed the power of steam to drive the colossal mechanical beast in their service.
Above the Perpetual Pump stood the Institute of Mechanics, officially under its authority. On the surface, the Institute owned vast industrial districts where automated factories ran without pause. Everything existed to serve the engine below. One might even say the Institute existed to disguise it.
A blast door along the corridor rumbled open with a world-shaking weight.
Nikolai did not enter Test Field Three at once. With assistance, he donned a heavy protective suit, seeing the world only through a thick visor. A hum of current filled his ears as the suit's internal communicator linked to the channel.
"I'm ready. Entering now."
His voice echoed inside the sealed helmet.
Moments later, a reply crackled back. "You may proceed."
He stepped inside.
Thick, reinforced glass sealed off the entire test chamber. Controllers watched from a high command platform, while soldiers with rifles stood alert in the corners in case anything went wrong.
The focus of the experiment lay directly ahead of Nikolai, motionless upon a steel operating table. Others in identical protective suits stood around it.
"How's the condition?"
"We just opened his chest cavity… well, more like a small slit."
The voice sounded directly in his helmet. Faces were hidden; identities were known only by the nameplates on their chests.
"Maxwell, what do you mean?"
"Take a look. Witch hunters are… very strange creatures."
Maxwell stepped aside, allowing Nikolai a closer view.
What lay on the table was scarcely recognizable as human. Flesh and holy silver had fused together into a grotesque mass, like steel and meat melted into one abhorrent form, radiating a power of hatred and chaos.
It was Ed. After the Ender Town operation, the Cleaners of the Purge Agency had recovered the body from the battlefield and sent it here, to the Perpetual Pump, for study.
From the savage force displayed by Lloyd, they had already seen that witch hunters drew on something inhuman. In essence, they too were a kind of monster. The Pump had spent days modifying Test Field Three to prevent any contaminating influence from spreading. The scholars, to shield themselves, could only work inside these heavy suits.
"This is a strange metal. We cut a small fragment for chemical analysis—results pending. But we've confirmed that this substance, called holy silver, exerts a suppressive and lethal effect on demonic matter."
A mechanical arm lifted a container. Inside, demonic flesh grew inert beneath the touch of holy silver. Once separated, it reacted as though burned by a strong acid, twisting and rotting violently.
Maxwell continued, "According to intelligence from Bolao and the others, the witch hunter Lloyd once explained holy silver like this: it's a blessed metal. During smelting, dying saints leap into the furnace, merging with the metal and granting it sacred properties."
Even hearing it secondhand, one could picture the scene: boiling metal, an aged saint murmuring prayers as he stepped into the molten glow.
"You believe that, Maxwell? Blessings of faith?"
Nikolai's tone dripped with disdain.
"The easiest way to hide a technology is to deify it. Foolish people cling to sacred doctrine, never considering that doctrine itself was once spoken by men."
He watched the violent reaction in the vessel, eyes alight not with wonder, but with the cool delight of reason.
"There are no gods. Everything can be reduced to formulas. If we can't yet, it only means we haven't grasped the essence of the knowledge."
He pulled a nearby lever, and the container slowly sank out of sight.
"I think we have a new objective. Use these samples to replicate holy silver. This will kill monsters more effectively than fire ever could."
Orders were transmitted to the control room, where clerks recorded every word of the experiment. Directives cascaded downward; new experimental sequences joined the queue.
At last, Nikolai turned his gaze back to the operating table, to the ruined body lying there—his expression heavy, yet unable to hide a deep, restless curiosity.
"Now then," he said quietly, "tell me about the peculiar nature of witch hunters."