The exit from the Furnace District was sealed tight, but the squad led by Jin Wanchao acted like a wedge, tearing a brutal gash through the iron curtain of the Blacksteel Parliament.
The moment they burst through the gate, Jin Wanchao nearly collapsed. The "flame" inside him felt like a torch gutted by a gale, reduced to a faint glimmer. His legs went weak; he could barely stand, propped up only by Ah Huo and Old Zhong.
Outside was no wide, open sky.
Waiting for them was the Underdistrict — vaster, deadlier, and under the direct thumb of the Blacksteel Parliament.
Above them loomed a gray dome of reinforced concrete, blotting out every star. The air reeked of spoiled cheap food, sewage stench, and an indescribable numbness and despair that clung to the district's lowest inhabitants. There was none of the Furnace District's roar, only a deeper, heavier silence. The occasional bark of a stray dog or the wail of a distant siren cut through it like a knife.
"Quick! This way!"
Despite his exhaustion, Old Zhong's spirit burned bright. He pointed to a narrow, damp alleyway almost choked with garbage, his voice hoarse but unshakable.
Jin Wanchao did not hesitate.
Following Old Zhong's lead, he led hundreds of workers straight into this labyrinthine underworld. They moved like frightened birds, weaving through tangled alleys, abandoned warehouses, and crumbling residential blocks. Every nerve was stretched tight, terrified that at any second, Blacksteel Guards would emerge from the shadows.
All along the way, Jin Wanchao's "flame" — though dim — still guided him. He could "see" how, within every awakened worker, a newfound fighting spirit and will to survive blazed. They were no longer numb slaves. They were warriors now, willing to risk everything for freedom, for their families, for the faintest spark of hope.
Little Axing stayed close behind Jin Wanchao, his small face dust-covered, his eyes shining brighter than ever before. He clutched his crowbar to his chest. It was no weapon — yet it was their first "tool" for breaking free and reclaiming their lives.
They walked for what felt like an eternity.
When many in the group could go no farther, collapsing gasping to the ground, Old Zhong finally stopped at an entrance boarded up with rotting planks and sheet metal.
"We're here."
He shoved aside the debris, revealing a rusted iron door.
Jin Wanchao's "vision" pierced through it.
Beyond lay a bottomless passage, crisscrossed with energy veins — old, yet still pulsing with a mighty, rhythmic power.
"Where is this place?" Ah Huo panted. His own flame was nearly spent, his body swaying.
"The Geothermal Main Station." Old Zhong's voice held a flicker of pride. "The Blacksteel Parliament sealed off most geothermal veins to monopolize energy. This was the city's original power core, centuries ago — then abandoned."
He pushed the door open.
A wave of warm air washed over them, carrying a sharp mix of sulfur and rust. Deep in the tunnel, the faint hum of machinery echoed — like a slumbering beast breathing softly.
"In! Everyone inside!"
Jin Wanchao's command sent the hundreds of workers surging into the passage like a tide.
Inside the Geothermal Main Station, it was far more spacious than they'd imagined.
Gigantic pipes twisted like coiled dragons, stretching into the distance. Walls were lined with dense control panels and valves. Though thick with dust, the core area was strangely clean — clearly maintained by special means.
"We can sustain ourselves here!" Old Zhong exclaimed, pointing ahead. "Independent water supply. Geothermal power enough to keep everything running. Most importantly — it's hidden, and there's more than enough space for all of us!"
Jin Wanchao's gaze swept over those tired, hopeful faces. A crushing sense of duty welled up inside him.
This was no longer just his escape.
This was the future of hundreds of lives.
He walked toward the station's center, where a massive wall stood.
In the glow of flashlights, the faded mural on its surface slowly came into view.
It was a grand, epic painting.
In it, a towering god stood amid chaos, wreathed in flame, holding a gear. He disassembled and reshaped all things. Mountains were His bones; rivers, His blood. And humanity gathered around Him, forging the world with tools and wisdom. The style was ancient and rough, yet radiated an indescribable solemnity and holiness.
"The God of Artificers…" Jin Wanchao whispered.
The "flame" within him raged, resonating with the mural's overwhelming energy.
"The legends… they're true…"
Old Zhong knelt before the mural, his voice trembling. "The God of Artificers never abandoned us!"
Ah Huo and Little Axing knelt too. Behind them, hundreds of workers followed suit.
They stared at Jin Wanchao, then at the mural, their eyes blazing with fanaticism and reverence.
Jin Wanchao stepped slowly toward the wall. He reached out and gently touched the burning fire and spinning gears painted upon it.
He felt it.
This was no myth.
This was history.
He turned to face the workers.
His exhausted body seemed to drink new life from the mural's power. The flame inside him, though drained, burned steadier than ever.
"We have been oppressed. Exploited. Used as fuel!"
Jin Wanchao's voice was hoarse, but every word struck like a hammer on steel.
"They want to snuff out the fire in our hearts, to chain us in darkness forever!"
He raised his hands high, like the god in the mural.
He pointed to the blazing fire on the wall… then to the unyielding flame beating in every chest.
"But we will not be broken!
The God of Artificers gave us wisdom and strength — the power to see the truth of machines, to reshape this world!"
"From today onward, we are no longer scattered fugitives.
We are… the Fire Cult!"
"Fire Cult!"
"Fire Cult!"
"Fire Cult!"
The deafening chant echoed through the vast Geothermal Main Station.
At that moment, the flames inside hundreds of workers erupted in unison, merging into an unprecedented, overwhelming force. In Jin Wanchao's vision, it blazed like a tiny sun, glowing brilliantly in the depths of the earth.
Jin Wanchao watched, his gaze hard as iron.
He knew this was no longer his war alone.
This was the holy war of all who suffered under the yoke.
He turned back to the mural.
The God of Artificers seemed to come alive, His eyes shining with wisdom and power. Jin Wanchao's flame resonated with Him. He began to "see" details hidden in the painting — not just myth, but a precise structural blueprint, holding ancient technology and secrets.
Secrets that might be the key to overthrowing the Blacksteel Parliament.
He was lost in the mural's mysteries when a faint tremor jolted up from beneath his feet.
Then came a sound, growing clearer by the second — a steady, rhythmic thud… thud… thud.
Like something heavy, something colossal, marching across the ground.
The sound was uniform, cold, and unforgiving.
The elite force of the Blacksteel Parliament —
the Blacksteel Guards.
They had begun sweeping the Underdistrict.
The real threat…
had only just arrived.