The hatches hissed open just enough for the barrels of long-range firearms to slide through. The Diesel Engineers opened fire first, the thunderous bang of their rifles echoing through the frozen forest. Each shot sent a plume of fire and a lead slug tearing into the oncoming swarm, the sheer concussive force stunning the Scoia'tael fighters who had never heard such mechanical fury.
But the guerrillas recovered quickly. They stepped to the firing slits, drawing back the high-tension cables of their new compound bows. As they loosed their first volleys, they realized these bows were far more accurate, possessed a significantly longer range, and hit with much greater power than any wooden bow they had ever carried. Despite this superior physics, the veterans still felt the metal frames could not truly replace an enchanted wooden bow, as the compound bow itself lacked any inherent special effects or supernatural spark.
That doubt remained only until they saw the devastating effects of the four types of arrows they had been issued.
First, they loosed the carbon arrows—razor-sharp and forged from an unknown material. While they lacked silver, they possessed enough power to severely harm a monster, slicing through thick hides with ease. Then came the thermite arrows; once one stuck to a target, it hissed for three seconds before exploding into a chemical inferno, effective in taking down an entire crowd even if the bow hadn't hit every beast directly.
"Watch the stream!" an elven archer shouted.
He loosed an electro arrow into the shallow water where a pack of drowned anomalies was emerging. The moment it hit, a web of lightning arced through the water, electrocuting everyone in the water instantly. Finally, they tested the frag arrows. Similar to the thermite but built for immediate impact, they exploded the moment they hit, creating a devastating blast without the lingering flame.
The guerrillas looked at their new quivers, their skepticism entirely gone. They realized that with arrows like these, the bow itself needed no enchantment. The technology of the ammunition provided every special effect they could ever need.
"Who needs to enchant the bow," one veteran muttered, watching a frag arrow dismantle a charging beast, "when these arrows are enough?"
The Steam Mechanic watched from the center of the bay, his exoskeleton hissing with satisfaction. "I told you. In the Empire, we don't wait for miracles. We build them."
******
The convoy ground to a halt as the temperature outside plummeted. From the dense, frost-choked thicket, a Leshen emerged. But as the Scoia'tael fighters peered through the firing slits, they recoiled in confusion. This was not the wooden, antlered spirit of their forests; it was a hulking, biological nightmare of calcified bark and oily, black muscle, its form twisted by the unique evolution of the Far North.
"That... is not a Leshen," a guerrilla whispered, his hand trembling on his compound bow. "It looks like a demon of rot and winter."
"To you, maybe," the Steam Mechanic grunted over the intercom in common speech. "To us, it's just another oversized weed blocking the road. We deal with these specimens every week."
The Mechanic stepped toward the rear hatch. He reached into a weapon rack and pulled out a massive, heavy-duty pyro axe. As he gripped the handle, the internal heaters ignited; the specialized alloy of the blade began to glow a violent, incandescent red, as if it had been pulled straight from a master's forge.
"Wait here," the Mechanic ordered the Diesel Engineers and the elven fighters. "I'll handle the gardening."
The hatch slammed open, and the Mechanic charged. His steam-powered exoskeleton hissed with every stride, his hydraulic legs punching deep into the permafrost. The Leshen shrieked, a sound like grinding stones, and lashed out with roots that moved like whip-cracks.
The battle was fierce. The Mechanic moved with surprising agility for a behemoth, his exoskeleton's servos whining as he dodged the lashing vines. He swung the pyro axe in a wide, devastating arc. When the red-hot blade bit into the Leshen's trunk, it didn't just cut—it cauterized and vaporized the ancient wood on contact. Sap boiled and hissed into steam as the Mechanic delivered a flurry of overhead strikes, his machine-assisted strength shattering the creature's calcified armor.
With a final, earth-shaking roar from his steam vents, the Mechanic brought the glowing blade down through the Leshen's core. The creature erupted into a pillar of smoke and charred remains, its "supernatural" presence silenced by the sheer force of technology.
The Mechanic stood over the smoldering pile, his axe still humming with heat. He looked back at the APCs and signaled for the convoy to move.
"Path cleared," he said simply. "Let's get these people home."
******
The tactical red light faded, replaced by the steady, warm glow of the internal lamps as the APCs returned to normal mode. The heavy shutters slid back, revealing the scorched clearing where the Leshen had stood. As the convoy rumbled forward once more, the Scoia'tael who had witnessed the skirmish through the firing slits began to speak, their voices filled with a frantic, rhythmic energy.
They spoke of the swarm that had been dismantled in seconds and the strange, long pipes of the Diesel Engineers that spat fire and lead. They described the iron compound bows and the terrifying magic-less arrows—the infernos, the lightning, and the explosions. But mostly, they spoke of the Steam Mechanic, the armored behemoth who had charged an ancient forest spirit alone, his heated blade turning the monster to ash.
"It was no forest spirit we knew," one guerrilla whispered to a group of terrified elven mothers. "It was a nightmare of bark and oil, and that man... he cut it down as if he were merely clearing a path through dry brush."
The discussion rippled through the non-humans for the remainder of the journey, a mixture of fear for the power they had seen and a growing, desperate hope.
Finally, after three days of trekking through the frozen Wilds, the horizon changed. The jagged ice gave way to a colossal, shimmering wall of steel and basalt. The Great Gates of the Empire swung open with a silent, hydraulic grace, and the convoy passed through.
The refugees stepped out of the APCs and were instantly struck by a sensory overload. They had expected a cold, metallic fortress; instead, they found a mechanical utopia. Though the city was a masterpiece of gears and towers, the air was miraculously clean. Trees, vibrant plants, and exotic flowers grew in structured tiers along the buildings and sky-bridges, their green leaves contrasting beautifully against the polished brass.
The elves wept at the sight, their hearts eased by the presence of nature woven into the urban geometry. The dwarves knelt to touch the pavement, their fingers tracing the seams of superior metal alloys they couldn't name. The gnomes stood frozen, their eyes nearly popping out of their heads as they watched automated lifts and silent, lightning-powered carriages zip across the skyline.
"Is there... is there any land left?" a halfling asked, clutching his bundle of seeds, his voice small. "For farming? Or has the steel taken it all?"
Before he could even finish his sentence, a Diesel Engineer—now relaxed with his helmet off—chuckled and pointed toward the shimmering horizon.
"There is plenty of land in the rural sectors," the Engineer assured them in common speech. "Don't let the towers fool you. Thanks to our technology, we have specialized fertilizers that can turn any empty patch of dirt into a garden. You'll have more crops than you know what to do with."
The halflings cheered, their worries vanishing at the prospect of fertile soil. For the first time in centuries, the non-humans of the south didn't just feel like they had escaped a predator—they felt like they had come home to a future.