The Steam-Bar was less a tavern and more a hole in the wall where pipes leaked hallucinogenic vapor and the ale tasted like rust.
Boss Toran sat at the best table—a cable spool bolted to the floor. He was a mountain of a man, his skin greying from years of breathing smog, his right arm replaced by a crude, steam-powered piston gauntlet.
The door swung open.
The patrons went silent as three of Toran's men were shoved inside. They didn't walk; they crawled, sobbing, dragging useless legs. On the forehead of the lead thug, written in charcoal, were two words:
NO TAX.
Toran stood up, his piston-arm hissing as it pressurized. He kicked the table over.
"Who?" Toran roared, the sound shaking the soot from the ceiling. "Who did this to my collectors?"
"The... the new ones," the thug wheezed. "In the foundry. The ones with the rock-monsters."
Toran's face turned purple. In the Slag District, reputation was currency. If a newcomer could break his men and refuse the tax, Toran was finished.
"Gather the boys," Toran commanded, his voice dropping to a mechanical growl. "Bring the cutters. Bring the torches. We're going to melt that foundry down with them inside."
Inside the foundry, the air was tense.
Rylan sat on a crate, watching Mei work. She was frantic, her hands moving in a blur as she welded scrap metal into wicked shapes. She was rigging the main entrance with a "Dead-Fall" mechanism—a heavy iron grate rigged to drop at high velocity.
"How long?" Rylan asked.
"Ten minutes for the physical traps," Mei grunted, sparks flying from her welding torch. "But the spiritual triggers are weak. I don't have enough refined Qi to power them all."
"Use the raw ore," Rylan said.
"It's unstable!" Mei protested. "If I wire raw Spirit Ore into a trap, it might just explode instead of triggering."
"Explosions work too," Rylan said dryly.
Lyra approached, wiping her hands on a rag. She smelled of sulfur.
"I've laced the air vents with a paralytic mist," Lyra reported. "It's heavy; it sinks. If they breach the floor, they'll be crawling in it. But Rylan... we are outnumbered. The Earth-Kin are strong, but they aren't fighters. They are miners."
"They are unbreakable walls," Rylan corrected. "And in a narrow corridor, a wall is better than a sword."
He stood up. His legs felt steadier than before. Lena's treatment and a few hours of sleep had restored him to perhaps 60% combat efficiency. Not enough for a prolonged duel, but enough for a slaughter if he picked the terrain.
"They're coming," Elara's voice drifted down from the catwalks above. She was perched in the shadows of the rafters, her broken hands useless for a bow, but her eyes sharp as ever. "Thirty men. Torches. Chains. And a big one with a steam-arm."
Rylan walked to the center of the warehouse floor.
"Let them in," Rylan ordered.
"What?" Lyra stared at him. "Open the doors?"
"No," Rylan said, drawing his sword. "Let them breach. Let them feel powerful. Then we close the jaws."
BOOM.
The main doors groaned as a battering ram slammed into them.
BOOM.
The chains Mei had weakened snapped. The doors flew open, crashing against the walls.
The Gear-Grinders poured in, screaming war cries, waving torches and jagged scrap-swords. At their head was Toran, his piston-arm venting steam, his eyes wild with bloodlust.
"Burn it!" Toran roared. "Leave nothing but ash!"
They charged into the dark, cavernous space.
"Now," Rylan whispered.
Mei slammed her hand onto a floor plate.
CLANG.
The Dead-Fall grate dropped behind the first twenty men, sealing them inside and cutting them off from their rear guard.
At the same moment, the Earth-Kin stepped out from behind the pillars. They didn't attack. They simply locked their stone shields together, forming an impenetrable phalanx that blocked the warehouse's narrow aisles.
Toran skidded to a halt, realizing too late that the wide open space was a funnel.
"Flash!" Rylan commanded.
Lyra threw three spheres from the shadows. They burst in the air, releasing a blinding, magnesium-white light.
The thugs screamed, clutching their eyes.
Rylan moved.
He didn't target the thugs. He targeted the leader.
He sprinted across the top of the Earth-Kin's shield wall, leaping off the shoulder of the Elder. He descended on Toran like a hawk.
Toran, blinded but sensing movement, swung his massive piston-arm blindly.
WHOOSH.
The steam-powered punch missed Rylan by inches, smashing into a concrete pillar and pulverizing it.
Rylan landed behind him. He didn't stab. He kicked the back of Toran's knee, forcing the giant to stumble.
Toran roared, spinning around, his piston-arm cycling for another strike. "I'll crush you, little rat!"
Rylan sheathed his sword.
He didn't want to kill Toran. A dead boss left a power vacuum. A broken boss was an employee.
Rylan stepped inside the giant's guard. He grabbed the exposed hydraulic tubing on the piston-arm.
Structural Vision.
He saw the pressure valve. The weak point.
He ripped it out.
HISSSSSSS.
Scalding steam erupted from the arm, spraying directly into Toran's face.
"ARGHHH!" Toran screamed, clawing at his boiling skin. The piston-arm seized up, locking in place, dragging his shoulder down with its immense dead weight.
Rylan swept Toran's legs, sending him crashing to the floor.
He placed his boot on Toran's throat.
The room went silent. The Gear-Grinders, seeing their invincible boss defeated in seconds, lowered their weapons.
"The tax," Rylan said calmly, looking down at the whimpering boss. "Is cancelled."
Toran gasped, his face red and blistering. "Who... who are you?"
Rylan looked around the warehouse. At the thugs. At his own people standing victorious in the shadows.
"I am the new management," Rylan announced.
He leaned down.
"You have a choice, Toran. You can die here, and I will feed your corpse to the rats. Or... you can work for me."
Toran blinked through his pain. "Work?"
"You know this city," Rylan said. "You know who buys, who sells, and who bribes. I need a face for the Slag District. A face people already fear."
He pressed his boot down harder.
"Become my shield, Toran. Or become my floor mat."
Toran looked at his seized arm. He looked at the cold, golden light in Rylan's eyes—the Imperial Aura that promised death as easily as it promised power.
"I..." Toran rasped. "I submit."
[Ding! Subordinate Acquired: Toran (Gang Leader).] [Influence Gained: The Slag District (Underworld).] [Reward: Monthly Income (Low), Network Access.]
Rylan stepped back. He offered a hand to the man he had just crippled.
"Get up," Rylan said. "We have work to do. And fix your arm. It's loud."
Toran took the hand. He stood up, shaking, defeated, and terrified.
Rylan turned to Lyra.
"Inventory the thugs," Rylan ordered. "Keep the strong ones. Kick out the weak ones. We just acquired a street army."
He walked back toward his makeshift office, his limp barely noticeable. He had taken the first bite of Iron-Tooth City.
Now, he had to swallow it.
End of Chapter 44