The air above the Ironspire Mines didn't just grow cold; it became heavy, vibrating with the low-frequency thrum of massive, rotating turbines. High above the swirling blizzard Livius had summoned, a shape began to descend—a jagged, brass-clad mountain that blotted out the stars. This was the Aether-Dreadnought Logos, the pride of the Western Federation's Seventh Fleet. It was a masterpiece of "Magic-Engineering," a vessel that used pressurized mana to stay afloat and carried enough "Aether-Cannons" to turn the entire mountain range into a crater.
Livius stood at the mouth of the Tenth Gallery, his breath coming in shallow, silver plumes. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and the gold-silver cracks from his earlier exertion hadn't fully healed. He was "Mana-Burned," a state where his internal circuits were so exhausted that even the simplest spell felt like dragging a rusted blade across his nerves.
Beside him, the Silver Dragon survivors were being huddled into the deeper tunnels by Raven and her Nexus agents. They were frail, their star-colored hair lank and their eyes wide with a thousand-yard stare. They weren't soldiers; they were "Processing Units" who had just remembered they were human.
"The Dreadnought is locking onto our heat signatures," Cian said, his voice tight as he adjusted his cracked spectacles. He was holding a handheld "Aether-Scanner" he had scavenged from the shattered laboratory. "They don't care about the iron anymore, Livius. They want the 'Assets' back. If they can't have them, their protocol says to 'Sanitize the Site.'"
"Sanitize," Livius whispered, his golden-silver eyes tracking the descent of the brass behemoth. "A clean word for a massacre."
"Master, we can't hold the entrance," Raven said, appearing from the shadows, her black silk tunic stained with the grease of the Federation's machines. "Their 'Iron-Clad' vanguard is already dropping from the hangar bays. They wear pressurized armor that negates low-level magic. In your current state..."
"In my current state, I am still the King," Livius interrupted, his voice regaining that low, terrifying resonance despite his exhaustion. "Cian, how much mana is left in the mine's primary induction coils? The ones the Federation used to power the tanks?"
Cian checked his scanner, his fingers flying across the dials. "About twenty percent. Enough for a single, massive discharge, but it's 'Unfiltered'—it'll fry anything that touches it."
"Perfect," Livius said. "Raven, take the Web-Walkers. I don't want you fighting the Iron-Clads. I want you to 'Sabotage' the cooling vents of the Dreadnought once it lands. If they want to sanitize this place, we'll make sure they burn their own fingers first."