Weeks had bled into the fabric of Steelhaven, a city unchanging in its industrial fervor. The factories still roared, spewing their emerald fog into a sky forever stained. Citizens trudged to their shifts, and beggars haunted the shadows—the relentless, grinding rhythm of the Iron Republic.
And amidst it all? Our hero?
No, let's be honest. Our survivor.
Something had fundamentally shifted in Amir Zen after the tannery. The man who once found the greatest peril in a malfunctioning spreadsheet now sought out danger with a grim determination. He went on missions with the Harmonic Inquisition religiously. If Johnathan Blake was assigned a case, Amir was there, shadowing the grumpy potion-user, learning the brutal grammar of this new world. The irony was not lost on him; the office lackey was now a part-time demon hunter. The universe, it seemed, had a vicious sense of humor.
But his efforts weren't solely physical. He'd become a familiar face in the dust-scented quiet of the Aetherspire archives. It was there he made a staggering discovery: he wasn't the only one. Buried in obscure historical texts was a passing reference to another "Outsider," a man named George the Great Knowledger, who had apparently introduced bizarre linguistic concepts centuries ago—concepts that bore a striking resemblance to English. The common tongue of Echogard, it seemed, was an evolution of the ancient Ouijae, but George's influence was a ghost in the machine, a secret handshake from another world.
His research had a more immediate goal: Frequency 2. The path was as brutal as the world itself. To ascend, a Tuner must find and consume not one, but two God Artifacts aligned with their Gear. The Veiled Truth demanded a steeper price for its deeper secrets.
Then, a tangible milestone arrived. His first salary: 1,000 Iron Republic sealed gold coins. A fortune compared to a Cog-Watcher's pay. The Inquisition, for all its perils, was the third-highest-paying government entity, a fact that offered a sliver of bitter satisfaction.
But the true victory was more personal. For 450 gold, he rented a small, modest apartment in a moderately clean district. It wasn't fancy, but it wasn't squalid. It had a door he could lock, a bed that was his own, and a silence unbroken by the snoring of other junior agents. It was the first real anchor he'd had since waking up to a cow's lick in another world. It was, against all odds, a home.
BOOM.
The sound tore through the industrial hum of Steelhaven, not a sound of industry, but of celebration. The sky, usually a ceiling of smog and emerald fog, was now painted with brilliant, transient flowers of red and gold fire.
Ah, but of course. How could we forget? Today was the King's Iron Triumph, the annual spectacle where the Iron Republic flexed its mechanical muscles for the masses. The streets, normally channels of grim commuters, were now a boiling river of humanity. They had poured in from every corner of the Republic—from the factory slums of Ashworth to the mining towns like Gearbrook—all drawn by the promise of a show and a fleeting glimpse of the man who ruled their lives.
For most, it was the only day they might ever see their monarch. The King and his bloodline were virtual prisoners in their opulent castle, their safety paramount in a nation where the financial chasm was wider than the Grand Foundry. The rich gorged themselves on progress, while the poor were ground into the cobblestones. The oppressive shadow of the Coin-Cogs loomed large—stories of brutal tax collections, of men beaten in the street, of daughters and wives violated as payment, were whispered in every queue and every pub. Not all who cheered did so with joy in their hearts. Many did so with fear, and a significant few did so with a silent, simmering hatred, praying for a royal death. Rebellions had sparked before, stamped out by the Cog-Watchers and the Iron Army, but the embers still glowed in the deep shadows, waiting for the perfect tinder to ignite.
The heart of the spectacle was Sovereign's View Plaza, a vast, circular expanse carved out before the immense, fortress-like walls of the Iron Keep. The plaza was a masterpiece of intimidating grandeur. At its center stood a towering Victory Column, topped with a statue of the Republic's first king shattering the chains of the old era. Radiating out from it were parade grounds of polished granite, now filled with ranked soldiers and steam-powered war machines.
But the true focal point was the Royal dais. It was not a simple stage, but a fortified, cantilevered balcony of black iron and bulletproof glass that projected from the Keep's main wall, twenty feet above the crowd. It was accessible only from within the fortress, a bastion of absolute security. Upon it, seated on a throne forged from the hull of the first Republic dreadnought, was King Valerius II.
From his vantage point, the King looked down upon his kingdom. The dais was a bubble of eerie quiet, the roar of the crowd and the marching bands below muted into a distant hum. To his right sat his wife, the Queen, her face a polite, practiced mask. And to his left, her posture regal yet her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation as she watched the fireworks, sat the reason the crowd's fervor was at its peak—the Crown Princess, Seraphina.
This was the scene. The pageant of power below, the isolated rulers above, and in the teeming, volatile crowd, a hundred different plots waiting for their moment to unfold. The King's gaze swept over his people, a display of strength to reassure the loyal, and a blatant challenge to those who wished him dead.
King Valerius II looked down from his fortified dais at the seething mass of his subjects. A smug smirk played on his lips as he accepted a glass of amber liquor from a bowing servant.
"Look at them," he said, taking a slow sip. "All of them. They have all gathered here to see me. To see the strength of my kingdom." He glanced at his daughter beside him. "Your grandfather was always so excited for the Iron Triumph, Seraphina."
Princess Seraphina nodded, her eyes on the crowd. "Yes, my King." But her reaction was a mix of awe and trepidation; a noticeable happiness was missing from her face, replaced by a quiet dread.
Queen Anya's reaction was cold and calculative, her gaze sweeping over the populace as if assessing livestock. "I think you are old enough, Seraphina," she stated, without looking at her daughter. "You should get married soon. After the Iron Triumph, I will start looking for a suitable groom. Your declination will not be accepted. You have been declining since you turned eighteen. Thus, 'no' is not an answer."
"I have seen quite a few noble families' sons," Seraphina replied, her voice tight, "but none have managed to catch my eye."
"But one did," Queen Anya countered, finally turning her sharp gaze on Seraphina. "The Veyronson family has caught my interest. They hold very powerful positions on the Factory Council. Most importantly, they hold decent business in The Aetherian Dominion. You know that the Iron Republic and the Aetherian Dominion are always in political tension. We are in a constant cold war. If things go on, war is permanent."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping, though the King seemed unbothered, still smirking at the crowd. "Recently, the Republic is going through a financial crisis. The Factory Councils are refusing to pay us the authentic amount because the cost of running the nation has increased due to the cold war. The Factory Council is the main backbone of the Iron Republic. They are the reason we are still sitting on these thrones. If they stop paying us... the Republic will fall."
Seraphina finally snapped, her composure breaking. "Why the Veyronson family? Their noble prince is a pervert! He sleeps with a different woman every night! The last banquet, he tried touching my thighs, and you saw it but didn't say anything! I understand it's for the kingdom, but do I look like a sacrificial lamb to you? I AM NOT MARRYING THAT ALCOHOLIC PERVERT!"
Queen Anya's expression remained impassive. "I saw it. But I couldn't do anything. I am sorry, my daughter, but it is for the kingdom. It is for the people. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the kingdom." She gestured toward Valerius, who looked at the crowd, utterly unbothered by the heated conversation. "Your father is old now. He deserves rest. You can't handle political matters alone. I know that noble prince is a pervert, but he is extremely disciplined when it comes to politics."
Seraphina stared at her mother, shocked into silence by the cold, political calculus. Gritting her teeth, a single tear of betrayal tracing a path down her cheek, she stood and left the dais without another word.
Queen Anya sighed, thinking her daughter needed time to accept her fate.
Inside a dark, secluded chamber within the BLACK IRON, far from the parade's fanfare...
The only light came from a single, flickering gas lamp, illuminating the determined, grim faces of two Royal Guards. But these were no loyal sentinels. One, a man named Kael, was meticulously loading a custom long-barreled rifle, its stock carved from dark ironwood.
"Damn," Kael muttered, a bitter smirk on his face. "They really paid us too much to kill this king? Man, if they'd told me earlier, I'd have done it for free."
The other guard, Roric, checked the mechanism on his own sidearm, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "That motherfucker Valerius... his Coin-Cogs killed my sister and my father. Just because we were unable to pay our taxes on time." He looked up, his gaze steely. "I became a Royal Guard for this one special moment."
The air crackled with more than just the residual energy of the fireworks. On the signal of a steam-whistle that cut through the din, the King's Iron Triumph began in earnest.
The ground itself seemed to tremble as the Iron Army commenced its march. They came in perfect, terrifying unison, row upon row of soldiers in polished, grey-steel armor, their faces obscured by gas-mask helmets with glowing red eyepieces. Their boots struck the granite in a single, world-shaking THUMP… THUMP… THUMP that vibrated through the very souls of the spectators. They carried not simple rifles, but Aetheric Resonator Rifles, whose barrels hummed with a low, dangerous pitch, capable of firing superheated bolts of energy or solid slugs with equal, deadly efficiency.
Following them came the land behemoths. Armored Steam-Wagons, looking less like vehicles and more like mobile fortresses, rumbled past. Their hulls were riveted iron, stained with soot and scorch marks. Massive, multi-barreled Rotary Cannons powered by hissing steam engines sat in turrets on their roofs, while mounted on their fronts were Siege Rams and Demolition Piston-Drills, designed to tear down city walls. The air around them shimmered with heat and the smell of coal smoke and hot oil.
But the true awe, and terror, was reserved for what came next.
A shadow fell over the plaza. The crowd looked up, and a collective gasp rippled through them. Drifting silently through the smoggy sky were the Leviathans of the Republic – the military airships.
These were not simple balloons. They were colossal, rigid-hulled warships, their frames forged from dark ironwood and reinforced steel. Their envelopes were made of treated, lighter-than-air beast-hide, emblazoned with the stark emblem of the Iron Republic. From their gondolas hung batteries of Aether-cannon projectors, which glowed with a malevolent blue light. Propellers, powered by complex internal steam-turbines, allowed them to maneuver with a surprising, predatory grace. Some of the smaller, faster scout ships, known as "Hornets," zipped between the larger vessels, their decks lined with sharpshooters and harpoon launchers designed to tear through wing membranes or enemy rigging.
The display was overwhelming, a calculated show of force designed to inspire loyalty in the citizenry and sow fear in the hearts of enemies. It was the iron fist of the Republic, polished and presented on a velvet pillow of celebration.
Yet, in the shadows of a narrow, grimy street that fed into the plaza, a different kind of calculation was taking place. A group of figures, their faces hidden by deep hoods and scarves, watched the fortifications of the Royal dais with cold, clinical eyes. They did not cheer. They did not marvel.
One of them, a lean figure with a face crisscrossed with old scars, lowered a collapsible brass telescope.
"Get ready," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper yet cutting through the distant roar of the parade. "It's almost time."