Location: Barracks Block 4, The Iron Citadel.
Time: 04:00 (Two Hours Before the March).
The barracks smelled of gun oil, unwashed wool, and quiet desperation.
Five thousand men were waking up, strapping on riveted plate armor, checking steam-rifles, and writing letters they knew wouldn't be delivered. They were the gears of the Baron's war machine, preparing to grind against the golden walls of Sector 1. Most of them knew they wouldn't come back. The Bank's defenses—the Coin-Golems, the laser-grid arrays, the liquidation squads—were legendary.
Dante walked through the rows of bunks. He wore his Crimson Captain's Coat, the silver Wolf's Skull badge gleaming in the harsh electric light. The tracker in the badge hummed against his chest, a constant reminder of the leash.
He found Havoc sitting on the edge of his cot.
The mercenary with the rusted robotic jaw was sharpening a combat knife with a rhythmic shhhk-shhhk sound. He stopped when he saw Dante's boots.
"Captain," Havoc grunted, not standing up. "Big day. We finally get to see if money bleeds."
"Money doesn't bleed, Havoc," Dante said quietly, leaning against a locker. "It just buys better bullets."
Dante looked around. The other soldiers were busy polishing boots or praying to the Machine God. He lowered his voice to a subsonic whisper, letting the Silvergrin filter the sound so only Havoc could hear.
"You remember the hand I dealt you? The Ace of Spades?"
Havoc looked up. His mechanical jaw clicked as he chewed on the thought. "I remember. You said it was time we started aiming for ourselves."
"The Baron is marching on the Bank," Dante whispered. "He's going to throw this entire legion into a meat grinder just to spite Aurum. He doesn't care if you win. He just cares that you die loudly enough to distract them while he secures the border. You are chaff."
Havoc stood up. He was a big man, scarred from a dozen campaigns in the Ash Wastes. He towered over Dante, but he didn't look intimidating. He looked tired.
"And what's the alternative, Silvergrin? Desertion? The Baron has trackers in the vehicles. Snipers on the walls. We run, we die tired. I prefer to die shooting."
"We don't run," Dante corrected. "We redeploy."
He pulled a folded, grease-stained map from his pocket. It didn't show the Bank. It showed the North.
"I'm not going to Sector 1," Dante said. "I'm taking a team North. To the Spine of the World. There's a prize there worth more than the entire Financial District. An Origin Engine."
Havoc looked at the map. "The North? It's a radioactive ice-box. There's nothing there but Geo-Titans, frostbite, and the howling wind."
"There's freedom," Dante lied, mostly. "And I need a heavy weapons specialist. Someone who knows how to crack a mountain open like a walnut."
Dante extended his mechanical hand.
"You can march into the Bank and die for the Baron's ego. Or you can come with me, steal every piece of high-grade gear in the supply depot, and chase a fortune that actually pays."
Havoc looked at the knife in his hand. Then he looked at the soldiers around him—kids terrified of dying, old men tired of killing. He looked at the Baron's propaganda posters on the wall: SERVICE IS SACRIFICE.
He sheathed the knife. Click.
"I need five minutes," Havoc said. "I have a crew. Good men. They hate the Baron as much as I do."
"Grab them," Dante ordered. "And then hit the armory. I want winter gear. Thermal generators. Rations. And explosives. Lots of explosives. If it goes boom, I want it in the truck."
"How are we getting out?" Havoc asked. "The gates are locked until the march begins."
"We wait," Dante grinned, the Silvergrin flashing a predator's smile. "We join the vanguard. And when the first shot is fired... we take the left turn."
Location: Supply Depot 4.
Time: 04:45.
The theft was surgical.
Havoc and his crew moved through the warehouse like locusts.
There was Torch, a pyromaniac with burn scars covering half his face, grabbing crates of alchemical fuel.
There was Rook, a giant of a man who carried a portable heavy-stubber like a pistol, loading boxes of armor-piercing rounds.
And there was Skid, a twitchy tech-specialist with wire-rimmed goggles, sweeping shelves of electronic components and batteries into a duffel bag.
They didn't take the standard issue trash. They took the elite gear reserved for the Baron's personal Praetorian Guard.
- Thermal-Weave Parkas: Coats lined with alchemical heating coils that ran off body heat. Essential for the frozen North.
- Solid-State Fuel Cells: High-density energy blocks for the car and weapons.
- Bunker Busters: Heavy drilling charges meant for siege warfare. Or mining.
Silas was waiting at The Psychopomp, sweating nervously as he loaded the crates into the reinforced trunk. The suspension groaned under the weight.
"We are too heavy," Silas hissed, checking the tire pressure. "With the armor, the ammo, and the extra bodies... the engine is going to scream. We'll get three miles to the gallon!"
"Let it scream," Dante said, lifting a crate of grenades with his mechanical arm effortlessly. "We aren't racing; we're tanking. If we hit a blockade, we go through it."
Valerius stood guard by the door. He wasn't carrying a weapon, but he had found a heavy iron pipe that he was currently testing the balance of, swinging it with terrifying speed.
"Patrol coming," Valerius warned without turning his head.
Two MPs walked around the corner, flashlights cutting through the gloom. They saw the open trunk. They saw Havoc stacking crates of C4 next to a box of beef jerky.
"Hey!" one MP shouted, reaching for his radio. "What are you doing? That's restricted ordnance! You can't just take the bunker busters!"
Dante stepped out of the shadows.
"Captain Silvergrin," Dante said, flashing his silver badge. "Special requisition order from the Baron. We need extra boom for the Bank vault. The standard charges won't scratch the paint."
The MP hesitated. "I didn't see a req-form, Sir. The Quartermaster didn't authorize this."
"Do you want to wake the Baron up and ask him?" Dante asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. He stepped closer, letting the MP see the glowing runes on his arm. "He's in a bad mood. He might decide to use you as a battering ram to test the door."
The MP paled. He looked at the badge. He looked at Valerius holding the pipe like a sword. He looked at Havoc, who was casually holding a detonator.
"Carry on, Sir," the MP gulped, saluting. "Give the Bank hell."
They hurried away.
"You are a terrifying liar," Silas noted, slamming the trunk shut.
"It's a gift," Dante said. "Mount up. The sun is rising."
Location: The Iron Gate.
Time: 06:00 (Dawn).
The sun rose over New Babel like a bloodshot eye, casting long, angry shadows across the city.
The Iron Legion was assembled. Thousands of engines idled, creating a cloud of smog that choked the horizon. At the front stood the Baron's personal command tank, The Red Leviathan—a fortress on treads the size of a city block, its main cannon pointed at the glistening spires of Sector 1.
The Psychopomp sat in the rear guard, engines rumbling deep and low. Inside, the air was thick with tension and the smell of unwashed men.
Silas drove, his hands shaking on the wheel. Dante sat shotgun, map in hand. Valerius, Havoc, Torch, Rook, and Skid were crammed in the back, sitting on crates of high explosives.
"LEGION!" The Baron's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, distorted by static. "TODAY, WE BREAK THE SHACKLES OF DEBT! TODAY, WE BURN THE LEDGER! FORWARD!"
A cheer went up—half-hearted, forced, but loud enough to shake the ground.
The massive iron gates opened with a scream of rusted metal.
The army surged forward. A river of steel.
"Stay in formation," Dante ordered Silas. "Look boring. Don't draw attention."
They rolled out into the streets, part of the convoy flowing toward Sector 1.
For an hour, they marched. The brutalist concrete buildings of the War District gave way to the pristine white borders of the Financial District.
Ahead, they saw it. The Golden Wall.
It was a barrier of hard-light and gold plating, manned by Aurum's automata—thousands of glistening machines standing in perfect phalanxes.
The Baron didn't negotiate.
"FIRE!"
The Red Leviathan's main cannon fired. A shell the size of a car slammed into the Golden Wall.
BOOM.
The impact was blinding. The wall shimmered, cracked, but held.
That was the signal.
Chaos erupted. Thousands of guns opened fire. Gold Golems marched out of the wall, firing beams of concentrated sunlight. Mercenaries screamed as they were vaporized. Tanks exploded.
"Now!" Dante shouted over the roar of battle.
"Breaking formation!" Silas yelled.
He slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel hard to the left, and drifted The Psychopomp. The heavy hearse groaned, tires squealing, as it tore through a chain-link fence marked RESTRICTED AREA.
"Where are you going, Section 4?" a voice crackled on the dashboard radio. "Return to the line! You are drifting!"
Dante grabbed the mic.
"Flanking maneuver!" Dante screamed, faking panic. "We're cutting through the alley to hit their rear guard! The main road is blocked! Cover us!"
"Copy that! Give 'em hell, Silvergrin!"
Dante threw the mic out the window.
"Hit the nitrous, Silas! Get us out of the city before they realize we aren't turning back!"
Silas punched the red button.
Alchemy Engine: Overdrive.
Blue flames shot from the exhaust pipes. The heavy hearse surged forward, the sudden acceleration pinning Havoc and his crew against the crates of C4.
They tore through the empty streets of the industrial outskirts, heading away from the gold, away from the fire, and toward the grey, silent horizon of the North.
Behind them, the sky lit up with the fires of a war Dante had started just to cover his exit.
Dante watched the explosions in the side mirror. He saw The Red Leviathan trading blows with a massive Golden Colossus.
"Havoc," Dante called back.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"Open a bottle. We're officially fugitives."