Night was pitch-black, swallowing up the rotting tin roofs and filthy streets of the Lower District.
The West District Gas Transfer Station, a forgotten, rust-eaten structure, crouched in the dark like a silent steel beast.
Crouching behind a pile of solidified scrap, Huo's eyes reflected the cold glow of distant patrol drones. His breath burned hot, almost scalding his throat, thick with the stench of cheap motor oil and adrenaline. Behind him, half a dozen teammates acting as decoys were just as tense, their knuckles whitening around crudely made liquor bottles and steam bombs.
Every eye was on him.
Huo took a deep breath and grinned, revealing a row of glinting white teeth in the dark.
"Brothers," he said, his voice low yet manic with excitement. "Time for the fireworks."
He waited for no reply, pulling from his pocket a detonator fashioned from a scrap steam valve. His thumb flicked, and he slammed it down.
A split-second of silence.
Then the world was swallowed by blinding white light.
BOOM!
A deafening blast tore through the night sky. The gas transfer station — that slumbering steel beast — erupted into a massive fireball that shot a hundred meters into the air, turning night into day in an instant. The shockwave slammed through the streets like a tangible wall, shattering windows and sweeping away piles of garbage.
The diversion had begun.
Piercing alarms blared from every direction. The methodical, heavy footsteps of the Black Iron Guards patrolling the streets quickly turned chaotic and urgent.
"Report! Explosion at West District Gas Station! Threat level — maximum!"
"All units! Redirect to West District! Lock down the area! Root out those vermin!"
The main force of the Black Iron Guards surged like a black tide toward the source of the explosion.
Deep underground, meanwhile, a different symphony played out in the maze of sewers.
The air reeked of rust, methane, and rot. The only light came from the headlamps of the ten-man rescue team, their beams cutting through the oppressive dark, illuminating slippery stone walls and the slow, black sewage flowing below.
Silence was absolute here — nothing but the drip of water and the team's own restrained breathing.
Jin Wanchao walked at the front, his eyes tightly closed.
He had slipped into a strange state. The city's entire underground network seemed to extend from his senses. He could "see" the energy flow in the steam pipes embedded in the tunnel walls, "hear" faint vibrations from above, "feel" the subtle shifts in air pressure within the conduits.
The city's veins were his veins.
He suddenly lifted a hand, swift and soundless.
The team behind him froze at once, not making a sound. Their trust in Jin Wanchao was absolute; his command was their instinct.
Thud… thud… thud…
Heavy, rhythmic vibrations rumbled directly above them.
A Black Iron Guard patrol.
In Jin Wanchao's "vision," he saw the pressure waves from their heavy mechanical boots striking the tunnel ceiling. Less than five meters away.
The team held their breath, hearts pounding wildly. The patrol's footsteps passed overhead and faded into the distance.
Jin Wanchao waited ten more seconds before signaling them to advance.
As one, the team exhaled silently, their backs soaked with cold sweat.
They moved another hundred meters. Even down here, the dull rumble of the West District explosion reached them faintly.
Jin Wanchao stopped again.
In his "vision," he caught a faint, almost undetectable energy fluctuation in a steam pipe up ahead. Beneath a patch of ground that looked identical to the rest lay a pressure sensor — a classic, deadly trap.
"Left side. Stay against the wall," he whispered, his voice clear in the stillness.
Without hesitation, the team pressed close to the moss-covered wall and carefully stepped around the patch. The moment the last man passed, scalding steam burst from a hidden nozzle in the opposite wall, hitting the spot they would have stepped on with a terrifying hiss.
Half a second slower, and they would have been boiled alive.
The teammates exchanged glances, equal parts terror and absolute awe. In this dark, dangerous underworld, he was their only god.
Above ground, the West District was in chaos.
Huo and his squad moved like phantoms in the urban jungle. They dropped a steam bomb from a rooftop, slid down a drainpipe, and vanished into another alley before the Guards could react.
"Over there! Level that building!" a Black Iron Guard sergeant roared, pointing at a dilapidated residential block.
But Huo's laughter already echoed two streets away, as he lit another Molotov cocktail.
Their mission was not victory. It was noise. It was chaos. It was drawing every Guard's attention, buying Jin Wanchao precious time.
Beneath the surface, the rescue team accelerated.
The stench of rust and sewage faded, replaced by damp earth and the sharp tang of scrap metal from above.
They were close.
Jin Wanchao led the team up a rusted spiral staircase into a wide maintenance corridor. Above them, rows of dense iron grates.
Through the gaps, dim lights and muffled crowds drifted down.
They had arrived. Directly beneath the Scrap Iron Plaza.
Jin Wanchao signaled for everyone to hide in the shadow of a support pillar. He crept alone to the central grate, directly beneath the tallest abandoned crane.
Carefully, he peered up through the gaps.
What he saw made his pupils constrict.
The plaza was packed with onlookers from the Lower District, their faces a mix of fear and morbid curiosity. A ring of heavily armed Black Iron Guards held them back.
At the plaza's center, three tall metal crucifixes stood stark and horrifying.
His two comrades, Li Si and Zhao Wu, were bound to them, bloodied and limp-headed. They were still alive.
The towering figure of Centurion Calix stood before the crosses, his polished black armor glinting with cold, unfeeling light. Slowly, deliberately, he drew a long, serrated power sword from his back. The crowd fell silent.
The blade hummed, wrapped in a pale blue energy field.
The execution was about to begin.