I turn away from the heavy iron gate and look back at the haggard group of survivors. I don't care who steps through this turnstile, as long as they can act as a distraction or follow a basic command.
"The girls and I are going in," I say, my voice cutting through the stale air of the antechamber. "I don't care if you kill each other deciding who comes with me. Just don't get in my way."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lola adjusting her gear. Instead of dragging her massive metal case by the handle, she is strapping it tightly to her back like an oversized, tactical backpack. She does a quick, limber stretch, shaking out her small arms.
She's anticipating a lot of fast movement.
I absorb the information without questioning her. If she needs mobility, I want her perfectly dialed in and focused.
I turn to Rhayne. "Ready?"
She doesn't say a word, but she holds up her hands. They are completely bare. The thick, industrial leather gloves are gone, tucked securely into her belt. She is exposing her skin, prepping herself to act as my support the absolute second I need it.
I give her a firm, approving nod.
We approach the turnstile. I glance over my shoulder to check the headcount.
Oliver and two of his men are stepping up. Surprisingly, trailing right behind them are the two generic academy cadets, shivering like bamboo in a storm.
I raise an eyebrow at Oliver.
He catches my look and sighs, jerking his thumb back toward the tunnel. "Two of my men can't do it. They're completely traumatized. They'd rather take their chances in the dark than face that thing again."
I nod. Panic is a disease, and I'd rather leave it on this side of the door.
I take the point. I press my hands against the rusted iron bars of the turnstile and shove.
The metal offers an agonizing amount of resistance. The sheer weight of the mechanism sends a harsh spike of strain through my arms, a bitter reminder that I am still operating in a fragile, Rank F Shell body.
My muscles scream in protest, but I bite the inside of my cheek and force the bars forward. They don't need to know how much that cost me.
I push through. The heavy silence of the room is instantly shattered by the metallic grind of the gears.
BEEP.
An electronic chime rings out as I cross the threshold. I step into the shadows and wait.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Seven more chimes follow as the rest of the group pushes through.
Eight of us in total.
The moment my eyes adjust to the gloom, a cold knot tightens in my throat. The sight is genuinely disturbing.
The hall is monumental, swallowed by heavy penumbra. It has the vaulted, ribbed ceiling of a dark cathedral, giving the space a profound, oppressive acoustic echo.
I scan the floor.
Dozens of miniature toy trains are scattered across the dusty concrete, but only eight of them are actually alive. They chug and hiss, snaking across the room in a chaotic, tangled web of circular tracks.
But it's the epicenter of this logistical nightmare that commands the room.
Rising from the center is a grotesque throne forged entirely from twisted railway steel. Resting upon it is the Gatekeeper.
It is a colossal humanoid—a steampunk atrocity. Its limbs are thick hydraulic pistons, and its torso is built like a massive locomotive boiler, radiating intense heat. Where a head and face should be, there is only a giant, analog clock dial. The mechanical hands twitch and spin in jarring, irregular rhythms.
The Gatekeeper slowly raises a massive, iron-plated hand, as if giving a starting signal. Its riveted steel skin hisses, violently expelling jets of pressurized steam from its joints.
"I knew it," Lola whispers.
Her soft voice snaps my attention away from the mechanical giant. She isn't trembling. She's smiling.
"Look there, Uncle," Lola says, pointing a small finger directly at the monster's head. "The toy's face. There's the trick!"
I squint through the steam and dust, locking onto the giant clock face. The numbers aren't standard. It doesn't read one through twelve.
The dial only marks 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10, and 12.
"Eight numbers," I mutter.
"Yes!" Lola cheers, her voice bubbling with pure, euphoric excitement. She breaks formation, sprinting recklessly toward a ring of unlit gas lanterns circling the room. "It's starting, come!"
I stare at her, shaking my head. This kid is going to be the death of me.
Suddenly, heavy gears grind within the walls. High above the far end of the arena, eight railway beacons ignite on a massive exit door. They cast a pale, blood-red glow over the entire room, contrasting sharply against the thick dust suspended in the air.
A second later, the puzzle triggers.
The first gas lantern at the far end of the room flares to life with a bright blue flame. It burns for exactly one second before snapping off. Instantly, the next lantern in the sequence lights up, moving clockwise around the giant room.
The gears in my head lock into place. Eight people. Eight trains. Eight numbers on the clock. Eight lanterns in a sequence.
I understand exactly what Lola saw.
"EVERYONE TO A LANTERN, NOW!" I roar, abandoning stealth. "Move, move!"
The panic is contagious. The thugs and cadets scramble desperately, fanning out across the room and planting themselves in front of the rusted iron posts.
I slide into position by my own lantern, keeping my eyes locked on the sequence, preparing to shout the next phase of the mechanic.
But I underestimate the sheer stupidity of a terrified rookie.
One of the generic cadets, hyperventilating and shaking out of his mind, watches the blue flame ignite in the lantern directly in front of him. Blinded by anxiety, he reaches out and touches the glass housing.
Shit…
"Don't touch it!" I roar, but the sequence is already broken.
The ground directly beneath the cadet's lantern ruptures. A beast forged of condensed, inky darkness erupts from the concrete tiles, lunging straight for the boy's throat.
A Shadow Shellcat.
A massive feline forged from billowing shadow, encased in a jagged exoskeleton of bone. From its elongated maw sprout wraith-like fangs, while its gaze pierces the dark with the heat of predatory embers.
The cadet screams, throwing up his shield just in time to block the claws, stumbling backward as the beast snarls.
Lola lets out a loud, theatrical sigh. All of her positive, playful energy evaporates in an instant.
"Annoying..." she groans, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting at the disruption.
I glance at Lola, then back at the struggling cadet. The Shadow Shellcat is a Rank E monster. He has his shield up. He isn't going to die immediately; he can handle it for a few seconds.
"The clock! Look at the clock, are you an idiot?!" Lola yells at the cadet, tapping her foot impatiently.
But with the sudden eruption of the shadow beast and the chaotic shouting, I made a critical error. I took my eyes off the boss.
A sharp, deafening whistle of pressurized steam rips through the center of the hall.
I snap my head back toward the throne.
The Gatekeeper isn't sitting passively anymore. Its massive right arm has shifted, the steel plating folding back to reveal a massive, rotary dart launcher. The hydraulic gears lock into place with a heavy clack.
And the barrel is pointed dead center at my chest.
Of course, I think, my blood turning to ice.
The mechanic is triggered incorrectly, and the system targets the squishiest guy in the room to pay the penalty.