The frenzy in the forge workshop gradually ebbed, leaving only the tangerine glow of the furnace burning quietly, casting light on taut, strained faces. The newly forged steam gauntlets and assorted crude weapons exuded the cold, metallic tang of machine oil and steel. Rough, menacing, and brimming with a desperate, all-or-nothing violence, they could not dispel the shadow of the Black Iron Guard that hung heavy over everyone's hearts.
Despair, after a brief surge of fervor, came crashing back.
"Brother Wanchao… this… this is suicide." A voice trembled from the crowd, unable to contain its fear.
It was Old Li, a middle-aged worker. He had trailed behind the group during the uprising, always with a flicker of hesitation on his face. Now, staring at the makeshift weapons and thinking of the Guard's inescapable net outside, he could hold back no longer.
"Scrap Iron Plaza is a trap set by that butcher Calis! He's luring us out just to wipe us out in one fell swoop! We… we can't sacrifice all three hundred lives just for two people!"
His words struck the stagnant crowd like a stone, sending ripples through every heart.
"Yeah, we have kids…"
"Better to keep the fire alive than burn out now. There'll be chances for revenge later."
"They… they're heroes. Their sacrifice is worth it…"
Murmurs coalesced into a chilling undercurrent. The instinct to survive overwhelmed the fire of vengeance. Eyes darted away, avoiding Jin Wanchao's gaze and the still-warm corpse.
A Huo's eyes blazed red. He lunged forward to grab Old Li by the collar, but a hand pressed down on his shoulder.
It was Jin Wanchao.
He showed no anger—no expression at all. His gaze swept calmly over Old Li, over every bowed head. This quietude carried more weight than any roar.
He walked to the fallen comrade's body, knelt slowly, and pulled back the tattered cloth covering him.
"His name is Wang San. Most of you know him. He was no hero—just a father looking for his daughter." Jin Wanchao's voice was soft, but it cut through the silence to reach every ear. "Tomorrow, Li Si and Zhao Wu will be tied to the pillars. They're no heroes either—just brothers who took blades for us when we broke out of the Furnace District gates."
Jin Wanchao stood, staring directly at the crowd.
"The Black Steel Council treats us like spare parts—broken, then discarded. Are we now to do the same to our own brothers, treating them as expendable for the 'greater good'?"
"If we stand by and watch them die today, then tomorrow—when you, or I, are bound to those pillars—who will we expect to save us?"
"We founded the Fire Cult not to hide in a warmer gutter and wait to die! We did it to stand tall, to live like human beings! To tell those bastards that every single one of our lives is goddamn precious!"
"If we can't even save our own brothers, then the fire we lit is nothing but hot air. A joke."
Every word pierced like a needle into their hearts. Old Li's face flushed crimson; he hung his head in shame. The murmurs died away.
"I understand, Brother Wanchao." A Huo's voice was hoarse, but unshakably firm. "Tell us what to do. I'll follow you through fire and ice!"
"Hell yeah! Let's do this!"
"Save our brothers!"
The suppressed rage reignited, forging into unyielding resolve.
Jin Wanchao nodded. He knew—their hearts were back.
"Old Zhong, A Huo, come here."
A massive, yellowed map of the Lower City's underground pipe network, mold-stained and frayed, was spread across the floor. Its lines twisted like a tangled web.
Jin Wanchao knelt before it, his finger outstretched. A faint golden flame flickered at his fingertip, illuminating the ancient parchment.
"Old Zhong, tell me everything you know about Scrap Iron Plaza."
Old Zhong squatted down, his murky eyes sharp with clarity. "It used to be an open-air trash sorting yard, abandoned long ago. Open ground, no cover—easy to defend, hard to attack. But its foundation sits atop the main sewage hub of the Third Old District. Beneath it lies a vast labyrinth."
Jin Wanchao closed his eyes. The "flame" within him resonated with the subterranean veins. The map bloomed in his mind, three-dimensional and transparent. He could see the rushing sewage, hear the hiss of steam in the pipes, even sense the faint tremors of Black Iron Guard patrols above.
His finger glided across the map, the golden flame tracing glowing paths.
"Most maintenance tunnels are sealed or rigged with sensors—but here…"
His finger rested on an almost forgotten thin line.
"This is a century-old geothermal exploration tunnel, long abandoned. It's not on any of the Council's current maps. It leads straight beneath the tallest derelict crane tower in the plaza's center."
"I'll take an elite squad in through here. At the moment the execution begins, we burst up from under their feet!"
A Huo's breath hitched, his eyes glinting with bloodlust.
"What about me, Brother Wanchao? The most dangerous job—give it to me!" He thumped his chest, a tiger straining to pounce.
"You have a mission," Jin Wanchao said, his gaze shifting across the map. "A suicide mission."
His finger stabbed at a spot marked *West District Gas Transfer Station*.
"This is the main valve for all civilian gas in the Lower West District. Old, poorly maintained, lightly guarded." A cold smirk tugged at Jin Wanchao's lips. "Five minutes before the execution, I want you to put on the most spectacular 'fireworks' show here."
A Huo blinked, then grinned wildly as he understood.
"Relax, Brother Wanchao. I'll make that bastard Calis unrecognizable to his own mother!"
"Your job is to create chaos—draw their main force and all their attention there." Jin Wanchao's tone turned grave. "And survive. That's an order."
The plan was set.
The geothermal hub buzzed with activity once more, but this time there was no confusion or fear—only cold, efficient bloodlust.
The darkest hour before dawn.
Two squads assembled at separate exits of the base.
A Huo's diversion team carried most of the modified explosives and molotov cocktails, every face etched with fatal resolve.
Jin Wanchao's rescue squad wore the newly forged steam gauntlets, equipped with cutting tools and grappling hooks—silent, deadly hunters about to descend into the abyss.
Jin Wanchao and A Huo stood at the front of their teams, staring at each other across the divide.
No grand speeches. Not a single extra word.
Jin Wanchao raised his right arm, clad in a steam gauntlet, and slammed it against his chest.
A Huo grinned, mirroring the gesture.
"Move out."
Jin Wanchao's low voice cut through the silence.
The two squads melted into the labyrinthine underworld like two streams vanishing into darkness.
The execution at Scrap Iron Plaza ticked down to its final moments.