The launch of the Iron Sovereign was not marked by fanfare or speeches. It was marked by the seismic groan of twelve massive tank treads crushing concrete.
The blast doors of Station Zero, welded shut for weeks, were cut open by Scrap-Jack's thermal lances. As the massive slabs of steel fell outward with a thunderous crash, the air of the tunnels shifted.
The stale, recycled air of the station was replaced by a draft. A cold, wet, living draft coming from the deep.
"Engine Output: 85%," Scrap-Jack announced from the bridge. The bridge was located in what used to be the conductor's cabin of the steam train, now reinforced with Union-grade blast glass and surrounded by monitor screens. "The Geothermal Core is stable. We are green."
Varian sat in the Captain's Chair—a salvaged leather seat bolted to the floor. He looked at the main screen showing the forward camera view.
"Take us out," Varian ordered.
The Sovereign lurched forward.
It was a monstrosity of engineering. A hundred meters long, three stories high, covered in iridescent green Roach-Shell armor plates and black steel spikes. It looked like a castle built on the back of a centipede.
Inside the belly of the beast, three thousand refugees held onto straps and bunks. They felt the vibration of movement—the first time many of them had moved more than a mile in years.
"We're leaving," Elian whispered, looking out a side porthole at the receding lights of the station.
Echo didn't look. She pressed her ear to the wall of the ship. "The station is crying. The metal is cooling down. It misses us."
Varian watched the monitor as the station disappeared into the darkness behind them. He felt a pang of loss. That hole in the ground had been the first place he had ever felt safe.
"Don't look back," Silas said, leaning against the navigation console. He was peeling an apple with a knife. "Nostalgia is a heavy anchor. We have a ravine to catch."
Silas pointed a pale finger at the map.
"Turn 15 degrees East. Follow the fault line. The Obsidian Ravine is twenty klicks down-tunnel."
The journey through the Deep Tunnels was a slow, grinding crawl. The Sovereign crushed rocks and flattened small fungal forests effortlessly. The few beasts they encountered—Tunnel-Wurms and Cave-Stalkers—fled from the rumbling iron giant.
Two hours later, the terrain changed.
The limestone walls gave way to black, volcanic glass. The tunnel widened, then ended abruptly.
"All stop!" Varian ordered.
The Sovereign hissed to a halt, steam venting from its flanks.
Varian walked to the viewport.
Ahead of them lay the Obsidian Ravine.
It was a crack in the world. A chasm so wide and deep that the lights of the Sovereign couldn't find the bottom. Spanning the gap was a natural bridge of black stone, narrow and treacherous, barely wide enough for the land-ship to cross.
But the bridge wasn't empty.
In the middle of the span, illuminated by the ship's high-beams, sat a figure.
It was a man.
He sat cross-legged on a flat rock, his back to the abyss. He wore robes made of woven gray fibers, tattered and stained with moss. His hair was long and white, tied back in a severe knot.
Across his lap lay a sword. It was six feet long, a slab of rusted, pitted iron that looked more like a tombstone than a weapon.
[Genetic Archivist Scan.][Subject: Human (Unmodified).][Age: Unknown (Bio-readings suggest Pre-War lineage).][Threat Level: Unknown. Energy Signature: Null.]
"Null?" Varian frowned. "He has no energy signature? Is he dead?"
"He's not dead," Silas whispered, his usual arrogance gone. "He's The Exile. And he's waiting for you."
"Run him over," Gorgon grunted over the comms from the gunnery deck. "If he won't move, the treads will move him."
"No," Varian said. "Silas said he cut a Behemoth in half. If we attack the bridge, he might destroy the span. Then we're stuck."
Varian stood up. "I'm going out."
"Alone?" Lady Venom asked.
"Alone. If this is a duel, numbers won't help. Onyx, stay low."
Varian walked to the airlock.
The air on the bridge was freezing. A wind howled up from the ravine, carrying the scent of pine and decay—the scent of the Wilds.
Varian walked along the black stone. His boots clicked loudly.
The figure didn't move. He didn't look up. He sat perfectly still, like a statue carved from the rock itself.
Varian stopped five meters away.
"We need to cross," Varian said. His voice was swept away by the wind, but he knew the man heard him.
The Exile opened his eyes.
They were gray. Not the milky gray of the blind Architect, but the sharp, steel gray of a storm cloud.
"Need," the Exile spoke. His voice was quiet, dry, yet it cut through the howling wind effortlessly. "A heavy word. You carry a lot of 'needs', boy. You need shelter. You need power. You need revenge."
He looked past Varian at the massive, smoking Iron Sovereign.
"And now you need to bring your metal infection into my garden."
"It's not an infection," Varian said, resting his hand on the Sun-Piercer strapped to his back. "It's survival. The surface is burning. We have nowhere else to go."
"The surface burns because your kind forgot how to live," The Exile said. He stood up.
He didn't use his hands to push off the rock. He simply rose, the massive sword lifting with him as if it weighed nothing.
"I am the Filter," The Exile stated. "The Wilds are the last pure place on Ouroboros. No machines. No Symbiotes. No politics. Only the strong eat the weak."
He pointed the rusted tip of his sword at Varian.
"You bring three thousand souls. You bring noise. You bring war. If I let you pass, you will poison the jungle."
"I'm not asking for permission," Varian's eyes narrowed. "I'm telling you we are crossing."
The Exile smiled. It was a sad, tired smile.
"Then prove you are not a disease. Prove you are worthy of the food chain."
He shifted his stance.
"Draw your weapon, Parasite Monarch."
Varian didn't hesitate. He grabbed the Sun-Piercer.
[Catalyst: Magma-Core.]
The spear ignited. The golden blade dripped with lava.
Varian charged.
He used Void-Step. He vanished into a cloud of smoke, reappearing instantly behind the Exile, thrusting the spear at his back.
CLANG.
Varian's eyes widened.
The Exile hadn't turned around. He had simply moved his sword behind his back, blocking the spear with the flat of the blade.
"Too loud," The Exile whispered.
He spun. The rusted greatsword swept horizontally.
It wasn't fast. Varian could see it coming. But it was perfect. It cut through the air with zero resistance.
Varian raised the Sun-Piercer to block.
BAM.
The impact threw Varian backward. He slid ten meters across the bridge, nearly falling off the edge.
"How?" Varian gasped. "He has no Symbiote. No strength enhancement."
"I have Technique," The Exile said, walking slowly toward him. "You rely on your parasite. You borrow power. Without the sludge on your arm, without the fire in your gut... what are you?"
Varian stood up. Anger flared.
"I am the one who killed an Angel."
"An Angel is just a machine," The Exile scoffed. "A machine breaks when you hit it hard enough. Life is different. Life adapts."
Varian growled. "Onyx. Armor up."
The Abyssal Armor flowed over him. The black plates locked into place. The Hydra Heart thumped.
Varian felt invincible.
He flew at the Exile, a blur of shadow and gold. He unleashed a flurry of strikes—Void slashes, Magma thrusts, Gravity crushes.
The Exile dodged them all.
He moved like water. He stepped aside by inches. He deflected world-ending blows with a flick of his wrist.
He was reading the intent before the muscle moved.
"Sloppy," The Exile critiqued, ducking under a magma slash. "You fight like a beast. All instinct, no discipline."
The Exile saw an opening. Varian had overextended on a thrust.
The rusted sword lashed out.
It didn't cut Varian. It tapped him on the chest, right over the Hydra Heart.
THUMP.
A shockwave of Ki—pure physical force—penetrated the armor.
Varian gasped. His heart skipped a beat. The Vitality Loop stuttered. The armor flickered, momentarily deactivating.
Varian fell to his knees, wheezing.
The Exile stood over him, the sword raised for a decapitating strike.
"You are strong," The Exile admitted. "But you are hollow. You carry the tools of dead kings, but you do not know why you fight."
Varian looked up at the rusted blade.
Why do I fight?
He thought of the blood farm. He thought of Iron-Jaw blowing himself up. He thought of Echo listening to the hum of the station.
"I don't fight for kings," Varian whispered.
He dropped the Sun-Piercer.
The Exile paused. "Yielding?"
"No," Varian said. He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the Prism Scale.
The clear, diamond-like shard caught the light of the Sovereign's headlights. It split the beam into a rainbow.
"I fight," Varian said, holding the scale up, "to break the cycle."
The Exile lowered his sword. He looked at the Prism.
"The Leviathan's Scale," The Exile murmured. "You didn't kill it. You bargained with it."
"It gave it to me," Varian said, standing up slowly. The armor retracted, leaving him in his human form. "Because I told it the truth. I am a parasite. I consume. But I also... adapt. I change."
Varian looked the Exile in the eye.
"You say civilization is a disease. Maybe it is. But diseases evolve. We aren't the same humans who broke the world 300 years ago. We are the survivors. And we deserve a chance to live."
The Exile stared at the Prism Scale. He saw his own reflection in it—old, tired, alone on a bridge.
"Transparency," The Exile whispered.
He sheathed his massive sword on his back.
"The Dragon King will not be impressed by philosophy," The Exile warned. "He is an apex predator. He respects only the food chain."
The Exile stepped aside, clearing the path.
"Pass, Sovereign. But know this: The Wilds do not care about your revolution. In there, you are not a King. You are calories."
"I know," Varian said. "That's why I brought a big fork."
He signaled the ship.
"Cross!"
The Iron Sovereign rumbled across the bridge. The tracks barely fit. Rocks crumbled into the abyss as the massive machine passed the lone swordsman.
Varian stood on the deck, watching The Exile until he disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.
"He let us go?" Silas asked, joining Varian. "Just like that?"
"He saw something," Varian said. "Or maybe he just got tired of waiting."
Ahead of them, the tunnel ended.
A blinding green light flooded the viewport.
They emerged from the Obsidian Ravine.
Varian gasped.
They were hanging on a cliffside, looking out over a cavern so massive it had its own weather system. Clouds drifted below them.
And below the clouds lay the Core Jungle.
It was a world of green. Trees the size of skyscrapers rose from the misty floor, their canopies interlocked to form a second ground. Vines as thick as trains draped between them.
Massive, flying shapes—pterodactyl-like beasts with four wings—soared in the distance.
The scale was impossible. The Sovereign, a hundred meters long, felt like a toy car in a forest of redwoods.
[Location Discovered: Sector 8 - The Wilds.][Atmosphere: 40% Spore Content. Filter Warning.][Gravity: 1.2x Standard.]
"By the Machine God," Scrap-Jack whispered over the comms. "Look at the size of that fern. It could eat the train."
"Welcome to the bottom of the world," Varian said.
He felt the Abyssal Armor vibrate. It recognized this place. This was where the monsters were born.
"Set a course for the dense canopy," Varian ordered. "We need cover. If we stay in the open, something bigger than us will snatch us up."
The Iron Sovereign tilted forward, engaging its descent thrusters. It rolled down the steep incline, crushing rocks and small trees, plunging into the Green Hell.
As they descended, a roar echoed from the deep distance.
It wasn't a mechanical roar. It was biological. Deep, resonant, and hungry.
The Dragon King knew they were here.