The beast tide recedes as the sun rises above the eastern treeline, golden light spilling across broken walls and blood-soaked earth.
Smoke drifts upward from smouldering rooftops.
The forest, which had roared all night, grows quiet.
Rosalyn runs.
Her armour is cracked.
Cloth beneath it is soaked in blood, some hers, some not.
Bruises darken her skin.
A cut across her forehead has dried into a thin crimson line.
Her hair is dishevelled, strands clinging to sweat and dust.
But she does not slow.
Worry for Clive fills her head.
She had seen it.
Seen him on the wall.
Seen the sky split by lightning.
Seen the Tier Two Lightning Eagle descend like divine punishment.
She had wanted to run to him.
Had taken a single step.
But the Tier Two Iron Arm Ape had barred her path.
Its massive fists crushed stone.
Its iron-like forearms deflected her blade.
She had no choice but to fight.
Blow after blow.
Steam energy clashing against brute force.
She had thought Clive would die.
No one at his stage should survive that.
Yet he did not.
For a short moment, she felt his aura spike.
Rise.
Condense.
Advance.
Official Alchemist.
Briefly.
And then the lightning eagle fled.
The memory tightens her chest.
She reaches the medical station.
Makeshift tents stand near the inner courtyard.
The wounded lie on cots.
Groans fill the air.
The scent of herbs mixes with blood.
She moves from bed to bed, asking.
"Where is Clive?"
"An alchemist apprentice, young, dark hair."
A nurse points toward the far side.
She finds him.
He lies on a bed, unconscious.
Bandages wrap his torso, arms, and shoulders.
Burn marks peek from beneath gauze.
His breathing is steady.
Slow.
But alive.
Rosalyn exhales.
The tightness inside her loosens.
She stands there a moment longer than necessary.
Then turns.
Only when she walks away does she allow herself to feel her own injuries.
She sits on a stool while a nurse cleans the cut on her forehead.
Another binds her ribs.
As the bandage tightens, her mind drifts back to the sky.
To fur erupting from Clive's skin.
To claws.
To golden eyes.
His half-wolf form matches the wolf that ran from the Doll House.
The same silhouette.
The same feral aura.
Now she understands.
How Clive disappeared from the Doll House that night.
How he reappeared at home the next morning as if nothing happened.
He had not escaped as a man.
He had fled as a wolf.
The realisation settles heavily.
Before she can think further, a runner calls her name.
She is summoned to a meeting.
In a hall beneath the castle, officers gather.
Maps spread across a table.
Voices are tired but firm.
They discuss reinforcement patterns.
Rotations.
Supply shortages.
They speak of the Lightning Eagle.
The Crocodile Tiger is still leading from the deep forest.
They plan.
If the intensity remains constant, they can hold out for one more day.
If another Tier Two appears, the situation worsens.
After the meeting ends, Rosalyn returns to her residence.
The house is quiet.
She washes.
Change into clean clothes.
Then sits cross-legged upon the floor.
She closes her eyes.
In her spirit space, she visualises the Steam Heart.
A mechanical heart formed of condensed steam and rotating valves.
It beats steadily.
She synchronises its rhythm with her own heart.
Thump.
Steam.
Thump.
Steam.
Gradually, the boundary between imagination and reality blurs.
She enters deep meditation.
Loses sense of the outside world.
Steam element gathers around her.
Invisible currents drawn from air and earth.
They seep into her chest.
Into her heart.
Her physical heart begins transforming.
Veins widen.
Energy pathways shift.
The percentage of transformation increases steadily.
29.76%.
29.798%.
29.801%.
29.82%.
29.83%.
Time passes.
Breath slows.
A few hours later, it reaches 30%.
A few minutes more.
30.0001%.
The moment the threshold is crossed, something shifts.
Her cultivation halts naturally.
Her Steam Spirit emerges from her body.
A cloud of swirling vapour shaped vaguely like a human torso.
Spiritual energy swarms inside it.
The Steam Spirit trembles.
Then changes.
Within the cloud, shapes begin to form.
Stubs of human limbs push outward slowly.
Arms.
Legs.
Incomplete.
Growing at a snail's pace.
Rosalyn opens her eyes.
"I thought it would take another month to reach mid-official alchemist stage."
Her earlier calculation had been made days ago.
Before the beast tide.
But battle refines.
War tempers.
Fighting the Iron Arm Ape.
Forcing steam energy against brute force.
It purified her element.
She has already comprehended three Steam Mysteries.
Only refinement held her back.
Now, refinement advances.
To reach the Late Official Alchemist Stage, she must comprehend three more Steam Mysteries.
She rises.
From her luggage, she takes out a book.
Advanced Steam Transformation.
She sits near the window and begins reading.
Outside, the sun lowers.
Orange light washes over rooftops.
Long shadows stretch across the streets.
The forest darkens again.
Then,
A distant roar.
Another.
The cry of beasts rings across the plains.
Lanterns ignite along the walls.
The Spirit Beasts begin their attack again.
Rosalyn closes the book.
Rises immediately.
Grabs her weapon.
She runs.
Toward the Northern Western Well.
Outside the town, the beast tide surges forward like a living flood.
Dust rises beneath pounding paws.
Spirit beasts weave among ordinary creatures.
At the halfway mark between forest and wall, several figures leap from the ramparts.
Official Alchemists.
Official Knights.
They choose to fight in the open.
They charge toward the tide before it reaches the gates.
Steam bursts.
Blades flash.
The battlefield ignites once more.
From the wall, from rooftops, from the broken streets below, defenders surge outward to meet the tide before it crashes fully into the town again.
Rosalyn is among them.
She stands with her back to the wall, boots planted firmly on churned earth still dark from the previous night's blood.
Steam curls faintly from her shoulders as residual energy escapes her pores.
The beasts charge.
Claws tear into soil.
Fangs glint beneath torchlight.
Their numbers are not endless, but they are relentless.
Behind Rosalyn, an alchemy array blossoms into existence.
Intricate circles interlock, gears etched in light rotating along their circumference.
Runes pulse in rhythmic sequence.
From the formation, two mechanised hands emerge.
Metallic.
Segmented.
Large as shields.
They extend outward over her shoulders like guardian constructs.
The fingers split open at their tips.
Caps rotate back.
From hollow chambers within the digits, bullets begin to fire.
Rapid.
Precise.
Each shot is propelled by compressed steam and alchemical ignition.
Beasts fall in rows.
Skulls rupture.
Chests collapse inward.
Scores die before reaching her.
The battlefield becomes a storm of fur, blood, and metal.
Yet within the chaos, something larger moves.
As bodies collapse and space clears, a Land Bird steps into the open.
It towers above the surrounding beasts.
It stands on two massive legs thick as tree trunks.
Its body resembles a heavy-bodied bird.
Short wings press tight against its sides.
A long, muscular neck rises upward, ending in a hooked beak capable of snapping bone.
It screams.
The sound pierces across the battlefield.
Then it flaps its short wings violently.
Dust lifts.
Soil swirls.
In seconds, a sandstorm forms.
Wind howls.
Particles whip through the air, blinding defenders nearby.
The storm spreads directly toward Rosalyn.
From behind her, the two mechanised hands detach from the array.
They shrink rapidly in size as they fly forward.
The array fades.
The constructs descend and fit over her hands like gauntlets.
Metal locks into place along her forearms.
Steam valves hiss.
Power flows from the mechanised gloves into her meridians.
Her aura intensifies.
The sandstorm engulfs her position.
Visibility drops to nothing.
Inside the storm, the Land Bird charges.
Its heavy legs thunder against the ground.
Through swirling dust, it emerges.
One massive clawed foot lashes outward in a devastating kick.
Rosalyn steps into it.
She punches forward.
The mechanised gauntlet roars with compressed steam release.
Metal and flesh collide.
The impact detonates the centre of the sandstorm outward in a shockwave.
From outside, defenders see only a dome of dust erupting violently.
Steam blasts echo within.
The storm rages for minutes.
Screams of beasts mix with metallic impacts.
Occasional flashes of steam burst through the swirling wall of sand.
The war across the town continues.
On the northern side, knights clash against charging horned beasts.
On the eastern wall, guards form a musket array to hold back climbing predators.
Throughout the night, roars and explosions overlap without pause.
Gradually, the sky lightens.
Black fades into deep blue.
Then pale gold.
As the first rays of the sun crest over the horizon, the sandstorm begins to subside.
Dust falls.
Wind weakens.
Shapes become visible again.
From the settling haze, Rosalyn steps forward.
Her body is covered in injuries.
Claw marks tear across her side.
Blood runs down her thigh.
Her left arm hangs limply at her side, dislocated or broken.
The mechanised hands flicker.
Then disappear into scattered steam as the energy sustaining them dissipates.
Before her lies the Land Bird.
Its neck twisted.
Chest crushed inward from repeated steam-infused blows.
It is dead.
Rosalyn takes a deep breath.
The fight is won.
But the tide has not ended.
She turns toward the wall.
Her steps are slower now.
Around her, defenders continue clashing.
Then gradually,
A shift.
The beasts begin to retreat.
One after another, they withdraw from the wall.
Some limp.
Some drag wounded limbs.
They disappear back into the forest treeline.
Rosalyn exhales in relief.
The beast tide has ended for the day.
She nears the wall and climbs back up.
Her eyes scan the damage.
Sections of stone are cracked.
One corner sags dangerously.
Impact craters mar the outer surface.
The wall will not hold for long if this continues.
She frowns.
They need reinforcement.
Supplies.
Time.
She returns to town and heads to the medical station.
Clive still lies unconscious.
Bandages unchanged.
Breathing steady.
She lingers only briefly before moving to have her own wounds treated.
A nurse begins binding her arm.
Another cleans deep cuts.
As cloth tightens around her ribs, she hears something.
A distant murmur.
Then shouts.
She blinks.
Snow.
Someone yells about snow falling.
She frowns.
Her ears must be ringing.
It is a summer afternoon.
How can snow fall?
She turns her head toward the window.
White flakes drift past.
Soft.
Silent.
Snow truly falls from the sky.
The nurse freezes.
They look at each other in disbelief.
Then the nurse hastens, finishing one bandage quickly.
Before the next can be secured,
A roar shakes the entire town.
The ground trembles as if struck by an earthquake.
Buildings vibrate.
Dust falls from rafters.
Rosalyn rises immediately, ignoring unfinished bandages.
She rushes outside the medical station.
The air is colder.
Unnaturally cold.
She hears multiple roars.
Feels powerful fluctuations of battle.
Different from before.
Sharper.
More controlled.
She runs toward the western wall.
Climbs swiftly despite injury.
When she looks beyond,
Riders in black armour charge across the open ground.
Their mounts leave frost where hooves strike.
In their hands are swords that release blades of ice with every swing.
Some carry guns, firing projectiles that explode into freezing mist.
They attack beasts hidden within the forest edge.
Organized.
Precise.
Then,
An explosion erupts from deep inside the forest.
The shockwave ripples outward, shaking the town again.
From within the trees, something rises.
A massive rose formed entirely of ice blooms upward into the sky.
Its petals unfold slowly.
Glittering.
Terrifying.