10 HOURS LATER
Back at the cave the Combat assembly unit continued its cycle in the background as Darius pulled up the control interface feeling more uplifted. The calibration tab was still set to detonation, the same configuration he had used for the village attack, and the projected model reflected it—core instability, compressed frame, no regard for recovery or preservation.
— COMBAT DRONE ASSEMBLY —
Mode: Suicide Detonation
Output: 10 Units / Day
Materials: Sufficient
He moved directly to calibration menu.
— CALIBRATION —
• Mining Configuration — Resource extraction, low combat capability
• Suicide Detonation — High-yield, single-use (Active)
• Warfare Configuration — Plasma cannons, retractable plasma blade (Unavailable)
He switched it without hesitation. The model adjusted as the system recalibrated, limbs configuration restructuring into drilling tools while internal systems rerouted away from overload protocols.
"Mining configuration confirmed," the Nexus said.
That settled the immediate issue.
He shifted to the upgrade panel next, scanning only the relevant entries. Plasma infantry units were available—better frames, integrated plasma weapons, something that could engage and survive—but they would cost him half of what he currently had. The heavier siege variants sat further down the list, locked behind a price point that didn't justify itself yet.
— UPGRADES —
Available CC: 10,000
• Plasma Infantry Drones — 5,000 CC
Advanced units with plasma cannons and retractable plasma blades
• Heavy Combat Drones (Siege Units) — 15,000 CC
Large-scale units built for direct assault (Locked)
Production capacity was the real constraint. The system capped at ten units per day, and increasing that would cost more than unlocking better units altogether. Scaling too early would slow everything else down.
— PRODUCTION CAPACITY —
Current: 10 Units / Day
• Upgrade to 50 Units / Day — 15,000 CC
• Upgrade to 100 Units / Day — 50,000 CC
He closed the panel.
"*Sigh* lets just maintain current output, I'll just have to save my Conquest credits for later" he said.
The interface dimmed as the system returned to passive display. Behind him, the assembly arms resumed their steady motion, shaping another frame that would be sent deeper into the tunnels once complete.
Mining didn't solve the situation above ground, but it kept everything else moving, and right now that mattered more than forcing a confrontation he wasn't ready for.
For the moment, he let it run as it was.
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Over the next few days, the routine settled into something efficient.
The droids worked without interruption, cutting through the iron vein and transporting refined material back through the tunnels. Ingots were stacked in reinforced crates, each one aligned and sealed before being set aside in organized rows. Darius watched the process once, then made a small adjustment, a mark for distinction.
The droids began stamping it onto each crate—nothing elaborate, just a clear symbol pressed into the surface. Not for decoration but simply identification, something that could be recognized later without explanation. He didn't spend long on it.
The work continued.
When he finally left the cave, he didn't do it openly. The main entrances remained untouched, and the deeper paths stayed sealed behind him as he moved through a concealed exit that led away from the hill entirely. By the time he reached the surface, there was no visible connection between him and what lay beneath.
His appearance changed before he moved further.
Nothing extreme—just enough to avoid recognition. Different clothing, muted colors, a hood to break the outline of his face. He carried little, kept his movements natural, the opposite direction of druids.
"Nexus, I need one survey drone watching my six, " he said quietly.
The drone moved ahead of him, staying low and out of sight, feeding terrain data back in short intervals. It wasn't there to explore—it was there to warn him before he encountered a threat.
Darius followed at a measured pace in no rush, he already knew the region due to collected data, but anything is possible so caution was optimal.
After one Days on the Road, forest thinned gradually as he moved further from druid-controlled land. The density of patrols dropped first, then the subtle pressure that came from being watched.
He still didn't rush, only walked, rested, then walked again.
At one point, the drone flagged a narrow ravine cutting through the terrain ahead. Water ran shallow along its base, and small fish gathered in the slower sections.
He stopped there longer than usual. Catching them wasn't difficult. A simple tool, steady hands, and patience were enough. He ate without waste, then moved on once he had what he needed.
The second day passed much the same way with minimal movement and no unnecessary risk. By the time signs of structured roads began to appear, the forest had already given way to more open land. He had finally reached human territory — specifically a Outer Garrison
The garrison came into view near dusk. It wasn't a city, but it wasn't small either. Reinforced walls marked its boundary, with watchtowers placed at intervals and controlled entry points where guards checked those coming and going.
Darius didn't approach the main gate. He watched first for patterns and predictable movements and optimizing his timing.
Guards rotated, but not perfectly. Some checks were thorough, others rushed depending on the flow of people. Supply wagons entered more freely than individuals, and side access points existed for internal movement rather than formal entry.
He chose one of those entry points which were flawed. When the moment opened, he moved, with little hesitation he slipped in with a small group moving along the outer structures, blending just enough to avoid drawing attention while keeping his path separate. No one stopped him, and no one looked twice.
Inside, the atmosphere changed immediately as noise replaced silence. Voices, trade, movement, all coming from what seemed like the Market
The market section was active even at this hour. Stalls lined the paths, some temporary, others more permanent, and the air carried the mixed sounds of bargaining, metalwork, and conversation layered over one another.
Darius moved through it without stopping at first. He observed what was being sold. What people valued. What moved quickly and what sat untouched.
Then he shifted toward a more specific area, the blacksmiths. The sound led him there before the sight did. Repeated strikes of metal against metal, steady and practiced, each one slightly different depending on the work being done.
Forges burned along one side of the section, with smiths working in open view while others handled transactions nearby. Weapons, tools, raw materials—it was all there, organized by function rather than display.
Darius slowed slightly as he entered the space. This was what he needed to understand. Not just what they made—But what they were willing to buy.
----------------------
The rhythm of the hammer had settled into his bones years ago. A pattern clear yet sophisticated. Strike turn, strike again.
The metal responded the way it always did—slow at first, then more willing as the heat settled into it. He didn't need to think about it anymore. His hands moved on their own, shaping the blade while his attention drifted elsewhere, half on the fire, half on the weight of materials left in storage.
They were not enough. He'd already adjusted his orders twice this week. If the next shipment didn't come through, he'd have to start turning work and contracts away, and that wasn't something he liked doing.
As of right now, he still had a pending order for 150 swords and 1500 components like bolts and nuts for siege weapons' on top of the already ongoing orders for 50 armored chest plates, but he had little choice as the income was much needed, especially with competition at every corner.
A shadow fell across the forge. He didn't look up immediately.
People came and went all the time—buyers, idiots, and those who thought watching a forge meant understanding it. Most of them talked too much.
"Clean work," a young man said finally, stepping in like he'd been invited. His voice carried easily over the hammering. "You keep the edge straight even at that temperature… not many can do that."
The hammer paused mid-air.
It came down once more—clang—before the old man set it aside and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were sharp despite the age etched into his face.
"Flattery's cheap," he muttered. "Doesn't buy steel."
The young man smiled faintly, unbothered, already moving closer—too close for a stranger. He leaned slightly, peering at the glowing blade like he belonged there.
"Not flattery," he said, tilting his head. "Observation. There's a difference." A small pause. "Balance is good too… you're not overcompensating the spine."
The old man snorted, though there was something quieter beneath it—attention, maybe.
"You always walk into a man's forge and start judging his work?"
"Only when it's worth looking at." the young man straightened, brushing a bit of ash off the workbench with absent fingers. "Otherwise I'd have left already." The old man's gaze lingered on him now, slower, measuring.
"And you are?" the lad didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced around the forge, taking in the tools, the stacked materials, the subtle signs of shortage.
"Someone who appreciates good craftsmanship," he said at last, almost casually. Then, with a small, easy shrug, "And someone who might be able to make it easier for you to keep doing it."
The old man's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"Ah," he said, voice flattening. "There it is." the young man exhaled a quiet breath through his nose, like he'd expected that reaction.
"Relax," he said, a hint of amusement slipping through. "If I wanted to cheat you, I wouldn't start by complimenting your work. I'd insult it and offer a 'solution.' which would have been much faster."
That earned him a proper look. Suspicion didn't leave the old man's face—but it shifted, just slightly.
"And what is it you want, then?"
Daruis met his gaze, calm, almost conversational.
"For now?" he said. "Just a conversation. And maybe a chance to prove I wasn't wasting your time with the flattery."
Still, the tone gave him away. "You're wasting your breath," the old man said, striking the metal again without slowing. "If you want something, say it."