The news brought by that team member was like a frigid gust from hell, sweeping through the entire geothermal terminal in an instant.
Public execution.
Those four words deadlier than the heavy footsteps of the Black Iron Guard, shattering the last shred of hope in everyone's heart with pinpoint precision.
Hope, extinguished completely.
The geothermal terminal sank into dead silence, more oppressive than ever. No one spoke. Only stifled, uncontrollable sobs rose and fell, mingled with the agonized groans of the wounded from inflamed injuries. Despair hung thick in the air, so dense it was suffocating, threatening to drown them all.
Jin Wanchao leaned against the icy wall, motionless. The sensation of the dying team member clutching his wrist still lingered on his skin—cold, seething with resentment and terror. He closed his eyes, and he could clearly "see" the more than three hundred clusters of life-flames flickering inside the terminal, now dimmed to the extreme, like guttering candles, ready to be snuffed out at any moment.
Guilt and remorse gnawed at his heart like two venomous snakes.
He had led them out of one cage, only to lead them into an even deeper abyss.
"Brother Wanchao…" Ah Huo's voice was hoarse, like a broken bellows. His eyes were bloodshot, his nails digging deep into his palms. "What… what do we do?"
What do we do?
Jin Wanchao did not answer.
He slowly straightened up, his gaze sweeping over every face—fearful, helpless, tear-streaked. Finally, his eyes settled on the massive, ancient mural depicting the God of Artisans.
Beneath the firelight, the deity in the mural held flame and gear, his expression stern, as if silently questioning him, questioning all of His descendants.
Silence.
After a long, heavy pause, Jin Wanchao took a step forward, walking toward the heart of the geothermal terminal—the small forging furnace that had been cold for who knew how many years.
His footsteps echoed in the lifeless hall, clear and heavy, drawing everyone's attention.
People lifted their heads, staring at him with numb eyes, unsure what he intended to do.
Jin Wanchao stopped before the furnace, turned around, and faced them all.
"Will crying help?"
His voice was not loud, yet it struck their hearts like a sledgehammer.
"Will despair bring our brothers back?"
He pointed at the team member's cold corpse, then toward the sewage outlet.
"They're dead! They died under the Black Iron Guard's blades trying to find us a way out! And what about us? Are we just going to stay here, crying, waiting, starving to death—or letting those bastards rush in and slaughter us like pigs?"
His words hit them like ice water, cutting short many of their sobs. They looked at Jin Wanchao, their eyes now tinged with shame alongside grief.
"What do they call us? Vermin. Fuel. Inferior goods!" Jin Wanchao's voice suddenly rose, burning with suppressed rage. "They lock our children in breeding factories, turn them into bags of 'nutrient solution'! They treat us like disposable parts!"
"Why?!"
He slammed his fist hard against the furnace shell beside him, producing a heavy thud.
"Because in their eyes, we only obey, only endure, only beg like dogs! We've forgotten who we are!"
Jin Wanchao held out his hands—calloused, scarred, the hands of a worker.
"Look at your hands! They weren't made for begging! They can bend steel, make steam roar! We are the creators! The true masters of this world!"
He spun sharply, pointing at the mural behind him.
"Look at our ancestors! The God of Artisans! He didn't build the world with prayers and tears! He did it with fire, with hammers, with the damned wisdom and strength in our hands!"
The faint flame in Jin Wanchao's chest was forcibly ignited by his own will, blazing fiercely. He could feel every eye fixed on him, those dim flames beginning to flicker with a faint spark.
"The Black Steel Council has powered armor—we don't! They have steam rifles—we don't! But we have this!" Jin Wanchao tapped his own temple. "We have all the scrap metal here, and the geothermal energy that's slumbered for a century!"
"If they have weapons, we'll build stronger ones! If they have armor, we'll forge gauntlets that shatter their turtle shells!"
"Our brothers are waiting for us to save them! They're going to be executed at the Scrap Iron Plaza at noon tomorrow! We don't have time to shed tears here!"
Jin Wanchao took a deep breath and roared with every ounce of strength in his body, a shout that shook the walls.
"Now, everyone—stand up!"
"Reignite this furnace!"
"We're going to show those sons of bitches in the Black Steel Council what color the wrath of creators burns!"
The terminal remained silent after his words. But this time, it was not the silence of despair.
Numbness and grief were rapidly fading from their eyes, replaced by rage suppressed to the breaking point, and hope rekindled.
"Fuck it!" Ah Huo was the first to stand. He wiped the tears from his face, grabbed a wrench, and shouted, "Brother Wanchao's right! Stop crying! Let's fucking fight!"
Old Zhong rose shakily to his feet, a sharp light reigniting in his turbid old eyes.
"Yes! Light the furnace! We are descendants of artisans! We are not vermin!"
One, two, ten, a hundred…
Everyone stood up.
They cast aside their sorrow and picked up the tools on the ground. Each face bore a ruthless resolve; each eye blazed with the fire of vengeance.
In Jin Wanchao's "vision," those more than three hundred faint flames converged into a towering inferno, soaring into the sky!
"Old Zhong!" Jin Wanchao issued his first order. "You know this place best. Find the furnace's energy pipelines and ignition system!"
"Ah Huo! Take a few men and haul over every usable piece of scrap! Steel plates, gears, pistons—everything!"
"The rest of you, check your tools and clear the area!"
The geothermal terminal came alive.
Cries and groans vanished, replaced by the clanging of metal being moved, heavy breathing, and shouts full of drive.
Through his "Divine Insight," the furnace's intricate inner structure lay transparent before him. He directed the others with pinpoint accuracy, replacing damaged parts and clearing blocked pipes. Old Zhong unearthed a roll of dust-covered ancient blueprints and spread them on the ground. Jin Wanchao glanced once, and the three-dimensional energy map in his mind aligned perfectly with the drawings.
His finger traced a yellowed blueprint of the auxiliary system, then suddenly stopped.
In his "vision," hidden beneath the blueprint lay another faint, almost imperceptible layer of energy patterns.
"Acoustic suppression field…" The unfamiliar term and the lost technology it represented surfaced automatically in Jin Wanchao's mind.
He had no time to dwell on it and quietly tucked the blueprint away.
Boom!
A low, rumbling roar shook the air. The forging furnace, silent for a century, finally roared back to life under their combined effort!
Crimson-orange fire burst forth, illuminating every face and casting light upon the giant mural. The figure of the God of Artisans flickered in the flames, as if coming alive, watching His people with approval.
The clanging of hammers against anvils became the new anthem of the underground sanctuary.
Jin Wanchao stripped off his shirt, revealing a sturdy, scarred torso. He picked up a heavy sledgehammer and took his place at the forging station.
He tossed a piece of the hardest scrap steel into the furnace until it glowed red-hot, then clamped it with tongs and set it on the anvil.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
He swung the sledgehammer in a rhythm full of power and purpose, striking hard. Sparks flew. Every blow landed precisely on the steel's critical nodes. He was not just forging metal—he was channeling will, infusing that creative fire into the cold steel with his own "flame."
Guided by him, Ah Huo and several of the most skilled workers joined in. They moved in perfect sync, as if they had practiced a thousand times. Ordinary tools began to transform into strange, ruggedly steam-punked makeshift weapons.
An hour later.
A crude, ferocious yet brutally beautiful creation stood before them.
It was a steel gauntlet covering the entire forearm, connected to two small steam pistons and a high-pressure hose.
"Steam gauntlet…" Ah Huo muttered, awe blazing in his eyes.
Jin Wanchao slipped the gauntlet onto his right arm and attached the high-pressure hose to a temporary steam port beside the furnace.
Hiss—
With the sharp hiss of high-pressure steam, the pistons in the gauntlet contracted violently, and an explosive surge of power flooded his arm.
He threw a fierce punch at a half-meter-thick scrap steel plate nearby.
Boom!
A deafening crash. The thick steel plate was blasted into a deep, jagged crater, its edges spiderwebbed with cracks!
Everyone gasped, then erupted into thunderous cheers!
Fear was shattered by that single, brutal punch!
Jin Wanchao slowly lowered his arm, savoring the immense power flowing from the steam gauntlet. He lifted his head, his gaze piercing the darkness toward the surface.
Noon tomorrow. Scrap Iron Plaza.
His eyes hardened, his voice quiet yet carrying throughout the entire forging hall.
"We're going to save them."