Closed Workshop (Converted Granary) – Northreach. Two Days After the Attack – Midnight.
The remnants of the rain outside tapped a monotonous rhythm against the zinc roof, but inside the converted granary, the air was stifling—dry, heavy, and hot. Mana-crystal lanterns hanging from the timber rafters pulsed with a dim radiance, casting long, restless shadows that danced against the damp stone walls.
The stench of burnt oil, iron filings, and the sharp tang of ozone from short-circuiting mana-lines filled the lungs. At the center of the room, the steel skeleton of the Obsidian Crawler stood rigid, resembling a gargantuan fossil from a primeval era. Its organic components—the rotting flesh and the web of human nerves—had been stripped away and buried deep. What remained was a massive black metallic chassis, intimidating treads, and a complex network of hydraulic systems.
Sir Rianor stood before a blackboard cluttered with frantic chalk diagrams. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed by deep dark circles after going forty-eight hours without touching a pillow. His hair was a disheveled mess, and his white shirt, rolled to the elbows, was stained with ink and scorched grease.
"Failed again," Rianor hissed bitterly.
With a rough motion, he hurled his chalk against the wall. Snap. It shattered into pieces, dust settling onto the cold concrete floor.
At the neighboring workbench, Elara appeared equally exhausted. The mage was meticulously adjusting a series of brass gears with a pair of tweezers. However, a slight tremor in her hand betrayed a deep-seated doubt.
"Rianor, we have to be realistic," Elara said softly, setting her tools down. She approached the metallic frame, pointing to the hollow space in the cockpit where the human skull had once sat.
"This machine's stabilization system was designed to be controlled by a biological neural network. Nerves. A brain," Elara explained, her tone laced with grit. "Without that organic 'autopilot', this thing is just thirty tons of scrap metal. It might move on flat ground, but the moment it hits rocky terrain? It'll lose balance and flip in five seconds."
Elara fixed Rianor with a piercing gaze. "Unless... we use their method. We find a fresh corpse, or an animal, to act as the processor."
"No!" Rianor cut her off sharply. He turned to her, eyes flashing with a cold fury. "I won't use a human brain, Elara. We aren't Morvath. We aren't monsters who use souls as batteries."
"Then what do we use?!" Elara's voice rose, her frustration finally boiling over. "A standard crystal Golem? The response time is too slow! Unless you plan to drive this thing while calculating physics and calculus every second just to balance the treads manually!"
Rianor went silent. Elara's words struck his logic with the force of a hammer. He stared at the brass gears lying on the table; turning, interlocking, mechanical.
Calculating calculus every second...
Rianor's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. He remembered something from his old world. Before microchips existed, humans had already sent rockets to the moon. They had calculated the trajectories of artillery shells.
"Wait," Rianor murmured. He strode to Elara's desk, snatching up two gears of different sizes. "We don't need a brain to think. We just need something to calculate. Input A plus Input B equals Output C."
Rianor grabbed a fresh sheet of blueprint paper. His hand blurred as he sketched. It wasn't a magical incantation, but a mechanical diagram: Logic Gates. AND, OR, NOT. But instead of using silicon transistors, he arranged them as a sequence of levers, springs, and cogs.
"Rumina!" Rianor shouted.
From beneath the massive machine, Lady Rumina slid out on a wheeled board. Her face was smeared with black oil, and her hands gripped a wrench nearly the size of her own arm.
"Here, brother! Jeez, stop yelling, my ears are still ringing from the engine test!"
"Can you build a Differential Gearbox?" Rianor asked, thrusting the sketch at her. "A gear system that... if the left tread takes a heavy load, the power automatically shifts to the right?"
Rumina wiped sweat from her brow, scrutinizing the sketch. Her tired eyes suddenly ignited with interest. "Pure mechanics? No stabilization magic?"
"Pure physics," Rianor affirmed. "We replace nerves with gears. We replace the brain with mathematics. We're building an Analog Computer."
Rianor turned to Elara. "Your job is to create the trigger circuits. When this gear turns a certain degree and hits this lever, you fire a small mana-burst into the right piston. That's it."
Elara stared at the complex diagram, her mouth slightly agape in awe. "Making a machine think with metal..." she whispered. "You people are absolutely insane."
Then, a thin smile—a rare one—curled on Elara's lips. "But I like your style."
That night, in the cold workshop, the three brilliant minds didn't sleep for a second. They assembled thousands of metal shards into a "Mechanical Brain." A computer that was noisy, heavy, and drenched in oil, yet... profoundly human.
Iron Hearth Castle Dining Hall. Morning – Three Days After the Attack.
Breakfast this morning was the bleakest in House Sudrath's history. The long table, usually filled with warm bread and fresh milk, looked pathetic. There were only bowls of watery gruel and plates of scorched monster jerky that had begun to harden. Their stock of eggs and milk had vanished after the livestock pens were razed.
Duke Lucian sat at the head of the table, his arm still heavily bandaged. He ate in silence, his features hardened by an immense burden. Beside him, Duchess Aurelia was feeding Sir Riven.
The sight was heartbreaking. Riven, the titan of war, sat in a hollow silence, his gaze vacant. His right hand—the hand that swung the great-axe—trembled uncontrollably due to nerve damage in his shoulder. He chewed and swallowed like a machine that had lost its programming. There was no spark in his eyes. Only a deep, stagnant sense of worthlessness.
The dining hall door swung open roughly. Sir Roland entered with hurried steps, his face tense. He dropped a stack of newspapers and several scrolls onto the table.
"Bad news from the Southern border," Roland reported without preamble. "Morvath has officially blockaded the trade routes. He's posted notices at every border crossing declaring Northreach a plague quarantine zone. No grain merchant dares come near us."
Roland let out a long breath, his frustration spilling over. "The black market price for grain surged five hundred percent this morning. Our emergency reserves will only last two weeks. After that... the people in the village will start starving."
"What about Draconia?" Lucian asked, his voice heavy.
"Seraphina sent a letter." Roland slid a red envelope marked with a dragon crest across the table. "It's short and biting: Where is my Mithril? I hear you're busy feasting while my investment sits idle."
"Tch, dammit," Lady Rhea cursed, slamming her spoon down. Her bandaged leg was propped up on another chair, making her even more irritable. "That snake-woman doesn't know we're dying here?"
"She knows," a voice said from the threshold.
Rianor walked in. He still wore his workshop clothes, stained and reeking of oil. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with a sharp intensity behind spectacles he had crudely repaired with tape.
"She's just testing us," Rianor said, grabbing a piece of tough jerky and biting into it. "She wants to see if we're worth having as a powerful ally, or just a burden to be discarded."
Rianor swallowed his food and looked at his father and mother. "Father, Mother. I need permission."
"Permission for what, Rianor?" Aurelia asked worriedly.
"To launch a Logistics Expedition. We have to retrieve the Mithril stockpile held at the Southern mines, sell it to Draconia, and use the gold to buy grain from their black market."
"The roads are blocked, brother," Roland reminded him. "Morvath's riflemen are guarding every turn. A standard horse-drawn wagon will be shredded in five minutes."
"We won't be using horses," Rianor smirked—the weary grin of a mad scientist. "Project Titan is live."
Rianor walked over to Riven's chair. He looked at his brother, who was still staring blankly at his gruel. "That machine needs a pilot," Rianor said softly. "A pilot whose instincts are faster than the machine. A pilot who knows no fear."
Riven slowly raised his head. His vacant gaze met Rianor's sharp eyes.
"Brother Riven," Rianor called, his voice gentle but firm. "Your hand might tremble when holding a spoon. But when gripping a control lever... I believe you are still the best in this family."
Rianor placed the ignition key—a heavy piece of worked iron—on the table in front of Riven. "Care to take it for a little joyride, brother?"
The Back Courtyard – Testing Track. Midday.
Nearly every inhabitant of the castle gathered in the back courtyard to see the "New Hope" Rianor had spoken of. And that hope... was hideously ugly.
The vehicle was boxy, sharp-edged, constructed from blackened steel plates scavenged from the monster's hide and crudely welded together. There was no paint, no ornament. It didn't use tires, but rather intimidating iron treads. Atop it sat an experimental railgun turret. There were no glass windows, only narrow observation slits in the thick steel.
TITAN MK-1 (Prototype).
Riven stood before the side hatch of the vehicle, staring at the iron beast with hesitation. "This... is for me?"
"Try it, brother," Rumina encouraged enthusiastically. "I designed the seat with double springs so it won't hurt your back. The steering uses a hydraulic system, so it feels incredibly light. You can drive it with just your left hand."
Riven swallowed hard. He climbed into the narrow, hot cockpit that smelled of grease and metal. He sat in the pilot's seat. Before him, there were no reins. Instead, there was a series of levers, pedals, and steam pressure indicators with needles that pulsed with nervous energy.
"Right pedal for the throttle. Left for the brake. The two levers on the left are for steering," Rianor instructed from outside.
Riven placed his healthy left hand on the steering lever. He pressed the throttle pedal slowly.
VRRROOOOM...
The mana-engine in the rear roared to life. The sound was low, heavy, and vibrated through his very chest. It was like the growl of a predator that had just awakened. The vibration traveled through the seat, into Riven's back, and down to his hands.
For some reason... the vibration calmed him. His right hand, which usually trembled violently, went dead still, as if synchronized with the engine's frequency.
"Move," Riven whispered. He pushed the throttle deeper.
CLACK... KLANG...
The iron treads churned, biting into the muddy earth. The Titan MK-1 lurched, then began to crawl forward. At first, it felt stiff, but second by second, Riven began to find the rhythm. He could "feel" the machine's weight. He felt as one with the steel.
There was a massive boulder in the path of the test track. Instead of avoiding it, Riven smirked. He floored the throttle.
CRUSH.
The granite, hard as it was, crumbled into dust beneath the grinding weight of the Titan's treads. The impact was barely felt inside the cabin. Riven laughed. It was his first laugh since the funeral. A wild, unbridled laugh.
"Hahaha! Incredible! This thing is an iron rhino!"
Riven yanked the left lever hard. The thirty-ton tank drifted over the mud, spraying black earth in every direction—including onto Roland's clothes as he stood too close.
"Hey! My clothes!" Roland yelled, wiping away the mud, but he too smiled to see his brother alive again.
Riven popped the top hatch, sticking his head out. His pale, depressed features were gone, replaced by a burning fire of spirit.
"Rianor! When do we move out?!" Riven roared.
Rianor smiled with relief, adjusting his glasses. The Lion of War had returned. "Two days, brother," Rianor answered. "ita retrieve that Mithril. We're breaking Morvath's blockade."
Riven patted the Titan's steel body with genuine affection. "Anyone who dares block our path... will be ground into the dirt."