The sight from the watchtower silenced them.

  The industrial outskirts below were not merely occupied—they were infested.

  Lostbonds flooded the streets, poured through broken warehouse doors, and packed themselves tightly inside vast storage halls. From above, the warehouses looked swollen, as if the buildings themselves were sick, bloated with something that refused to die.

  Their numbers were staggering.

  Easily three or four times what Veyor had seen during the Luken operations. Back then, Lostbonds had roamed chaotically, clustering around sound or movement. Here, it was different.

  They were organized.

  Rows upon rows of them stood motionless, shoulder to shoulder, filling loading bays, assembly yards, and open concrete plazas. They didn’t twitch. They didn’t wander. They simply waited.

  The stillness was worse than violence.

  Then the sound came.

  A voice.

  It echoed faintly across the industrial district—not loud, not clear, distorted by distance and machinery. The words themselves were unintelligible, swallowed by the rhythm of pistons and furnaces.

  But the effect was immediate.

  At once, every Lostbond moved.

  Not randomly.

  Together.

  Their heads turned in unison. Limbs shifted simultaneously. Entire rows advanced a single step, then stopped again.

  The ground seemed to pulse beneath them.

  Veyor’s hand tightened around the railing.

  “This isn’t instinct,” he muttered. “This is command.”

  He activated the communicator and relayed everything to Lieutenant Luken—numbers, formations, the voice, the synchronized movement. The response was immediate and sharp.

  Hold position. Observe patterns. Do not engage.

  They stayed on the tower until the sky lightened at the edges.

  Every few minutes, the voice returned. Each time, the Lostbonds responded perfectly—advancing, halting, repositioning. No hesitation. No deviation.

  When morning came, the three of them descended in silence.

  Back at the checkpoint, the mood shifted instantly.

  Fatigue was replaced by dread.

  Luken listened as Veyor delivered the report, eyes narrowing with every detail.

  “According to this,” Luken said slowly, “we can’t tackle them head-on. Their numbers alone would overwhelm us.”

  “And that’s not the worst part,” Veyor replied.

  He gestured toward the industrial land.

  “The Lostbonds there are reinforced. Their weak points—the swollen wounds, the spine, the head—everything we usually target is sealed with metal.”

  A murmur rippled through the group.

  “Guns are useless,” Veyor added flatly.

  A soldier near the back swallowed. “Then… we can’t win this fight. We should wait for backup.”

  Another voice cut in immediately.

  “If we wait,” Kael added, “the number of armored Lostbonds will only increase.”

  Luken straightened.

  “We’re proceeding,” he said without hesitation.

  Silence followed—not because they disagreed, but because they understood the weight of the decision.

  Kael stepped forward.

  “If the Lostbonds only act on command,” he said, calm as ever, “then as long as the commander doesn’t notice us, they won’t react.”

  Riven nodded. “And if we eliminate the one issuing commands, the rest shouldn’t move at all.”

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  Veyor took a breath.

  “I know it’s a big if..,” he said. “But there aren’t many valid options left.”

  Luken turned to him. “Where is the commander?”

  “The last factory,” Veyor replied immediately. “The blast furnace facility.”

  He laid the map out across a cracked concrete slab, smoothing it flat.

  “The sewer lines connect directly to the furnace from the riverside. Since they’re only running blast furnaces, the water channels should be vacant.”

  He traced a route with his finger.

  “And if we need to retreat, we would have an ready exit path.”

  Luken studied the map, then nodded once.

  “Then it’s decided. We enter through the sewers, shut down the furnace, and eliminate the commander.”

  He straightened, voice shifting into command mode.

  “Gunslingers will carry only high-caliber rounds. Each gunslinger will be paired with a warrior at all times.”

  He glanced at the healers.

  “Protecting healers is a priority.”

  Then he continued, precise and deliberate.

  “We won’t move as a single unit. We split into three groups.”

  He pointed.

  “Group one: Veyor, Kael, Riven. You’ll take front.”

  “Group two: myself, one warrior, one gunslinger, one healer. We stay at the rear.”

  He turned to the remaining soldiers.

  “Group three: the remaining six. You stay in the middle.”

  “Maintain fifty meters between groups. Move slow. Move unnoticed .Stay alert.”

  He folded the map.

  “This is the basic strategy. We adapt once inside.”

  He looked around at each face.

  “Is everything clear?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant!” the team responded in unison.

  “Good,” Luken said. “Move.”

  They stripped down to essentials.

  Extra ammunition was left behind. Heavy packs abandoned. Only weapons, masks, tools, and emergency supplies remained.

  As they left the checkpoint, the sun rose behind them—bright, warm, almost mocking.

  Ahead, the industrial land remained untouched by daylight.

  They reached the riverbank quickly.

  The sewer entrance gaped open like a wound, rusted grates hanging loose, water trickling weakly along the edges.

  Inside, the air was damp but clear.

  Too clear.

  They moved carefully through the tunnels, boots splashing softly against shallow water. The walls were lined with pipes, many corroded, some still faintly warm.

  No Lostbonds.

  No movement.

  They advanced deeper.

  Minutes passed.

  Then—

  A sound echoed through the sewer.

  Not dragging.

  Not gurgling.

  Footsteps.

  Measured. Heavy. Approaching.

  And they were not Lostbonds.

  The darkness ahead shifted.

  Something else was coming.

  “Turn off the lights. Everyone hide.”

  Luken’s voice cut through the sewer like a blade.

  The response was immediate. Lanterns were shuttered. Headlamps snapped dark. Even the faint glow from instruments vanished as the team melted into the shadows lining the tunnel walls.

  The sewer fell silent.

  Then the footsteps came again.

  Slow. Measured. Echoing through the concrete passage with a rhythm that didn’t belong to Lostbonds. Not dragging. Not erratic. Each step was deliberate, heel striking stone with a steady cadence.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  A faint glow appeared around the bend ahead, bobbing slightly as it moved—warm, yellow, unmistakably human-made.

  A lantern.

  The shadow of its carrier stretched long against the tunnel walls, distorted by flickering light.

  Veyor leaned closer to Riven, barely moving his lips.

  “It’s a human.”

  Riven’s grip tightened on his sword. “Only one?”

  “Yes.”

  The figure rounded the corner.

  A man—thin, unarmored, clothes patched and stained with grime—held the lantern out in front of him with trembling hands. His eyes darted constantly, scanning the darkness ahead as if expecting something to leap out at any second.

  He took one more step.

  And Riven moved.

  The strike was fast, clean, practiced. Riven lunged from the shadows, slamming the man against the tunnel wall before he could react. The lantern clattered to the ground, its light spinning wildly before settling.

  A blade rested against the man’s throat.

  “Don’t scream,” Riven whispered.

  The man froze.

  “Turn on the light. Remain cautious,” Luken commanded quietly.

  A single lamp flicked on, bathing the scene in dim light.

  The man’s face was pale, eyes wide, breath shallow.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t kill me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Don’t make noise,” Luken replied. “Only answer what’s asked.”

  The man nodded frantically.

  “Who are you?” Luken asked. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I—I’m just a survivor,” the man said quickly. “From a small group. There’s only six of us. We barely escaped from… from Pistons.”

  Luken’s eyes narrowed. “Pistons?”

  The man swallowed hard. “The one running this place. He’s not human anymore. Big. Loud. Made of metal and flesh. Everything moves when he speaks.”

  “What are they doing here?” Luken asked.

  The man hesitated, then shook his head. “I—I can’t explain it like this. Not here.”

  Riven pressed the blade slightly closer. “Then start trying.”

  The man flinched. “Please—listen. Come with me. There’s a hidden room. We were waiting for rescue. We can explain everything there. We’ll help you, I swear.”

  Luken studied him in silence.

  “And where is this hidden room of yours?” Luken asked.

  The man swallowed. “Just behind the heavy machinery—only a few yards ahead,” he replied, voice trembling.

  Luken studied him for a moment, then nodded once.

  “Lead,” he said. “Slowly.”

  They moved.

  The man walked ahead with the lantern held low, its light stretching long, distorted shadows across the tunnel walls. After a short distance, a collapsed section of concrete revealed the silhouette of a massive machine embedded into the structure itself.

  He slipped through a narrow opening behind it and pulled a concealed panel aside. The passage beyond narrowed immediately, branching into tighter corridors. The air grew drier, warmer. Pipes ran along the walls—some humming softly with internal pressure, others leaking slow, rhythmic drips that echoed through the darkness.

  Veyor felt it before he saw anything.

  A pressure.

  Not physical—intentional.

  His eyes scanned the darkness ahead, catching subtle signs: disturbed dust, footprints overlapping unnaturally, the faint scrape of cloth against concrete.

  People were here.

  Waiting.

  As they approached a recessed section of wall, the man slowed and turned.

  “It’s just ahead,” he said. “Please—don’t panic.”

  Veyor met his eyes.

  And shook his head once.

  A warning.

  The man’s gaze flickered—just for a second—toward the darkness above the pipes.

  “Don’t even try it,” he said suddenly, voice raised slightly. “They’re soldiers. They’re here to help us.”

  The words echoed down the tunnel.

  Silence followed.

  Then movement.

  Figures stepped out from the shadows—one, then two, then more. They emerged slowly, hands raised, weapons lowered but visible. Men and women, exhausted, malnourished, faces etched with fear and desperation.

  Six of them.

  Just as he’d said.