The boy didn't just break the laws of thermodynamics; he was thoroughly enjoying it.
Charles didn't wait for orders. He didn't look back at his father.
He darted forward into the pitch-black vault, moving with terrifying, silent speed. His oversized grey coat flared behind him like a ghost's shroud.
The remaining eleven cyborgs were built for heavy kinetic impact and slow, methodical crushing. They were walking artillery.
Charles was a twelve-year-old void.
He didn't try to punch them. He didn't try to stop their massive pneumatic spikes. He simply wove between their heavy brass legs, his small hands brushing against their iron plating.
Contact.
He touched the thick iron boiler strapped to the back of the closest machine.
The heat drain was instantaneous and violent. The pressurized steam inside the boiler flash-froze in a fraction of a second. The iron tank bulged, groaning under the unnatural physical laws.
CRUNCH.
The boiler ruptured inward, instantly freezing the Blue Drop-infused blood pumping through the man's spine. The cyborg collapsed into a rigid, frozen statue.
Charles didn't even pause to watch it fall. He was already moving to the next target.
Contact.
He slapped his small, pale hand against the brass chest plate of another machine. The metal instantly crystallized with thick white frost. The heavy gears inside the cyborg's chest cavity snapped loudly, paralyzed by the extreme cold. The man's glowing blue veins flickered and died.
Charles laughed.
It was a hollow, echoing sound that bounced off the cavernous ceiling. It didn't sound like a child playing. It sounded like an addict taking a deep, euphoric breath.
Napoleon watched the boy slaughter the machines from the safety of the iron safe-deposit boxes.
The General's hand trembled violently. His cavalry saber felt useless in his grip.
He wasn't watching a battle. He was watching a supernatural contagion spread through a room of monsters.
For a split second, Napoleon aimed his heavy flintlock pistol directly at Charles's small back. His thumb rested heavily on the hammer. He could end the contagion right now.
He lowered the pistol, his hands shaking too badly to fire. The sheer terror of what the boy was becoming paralyzed him more effectively than any freezing touch.
Alex saw the hesitation.
Alex's golden eyes spun rapidly, processing the thermal data of the room in real-time. Click. Whirr.
He saw Napoleon's terror. He saw Charles's erratic, hyper-accelerated movements.
He saw the toxic neon blue glow mixing with the gold in Charles's eyes.
Alex felt a sudden, sharp spike of genuine grief. It cut through his cold, calculating mind like a scalpel. The primary asset was corrupted. The sheer volume of Blue Drop-tainted heat Charles was consuming was acting as a massive chemical stimulant.
If Charles consumed too much of the drug-laced entropy, his fragile, post-human biology would permanently mutate. He wouldn't just be a thermodynamic void; he would become an uncontrollable, addicted black hole.
Alex had to end this immediately.
He couldn't rely on the boy to clear the room. He had to liquidate the remaining assets himself.
The thousands of paper "Y" notes he had swallowed ignited in his stomach. The raw cellulose fueled his biological furnace, pushing his core temperature past a stable 105 degrees.
Steam exploded from his damp coat in a thick, continuous cloud.
Alex charged.
He didn't move with Charles's silent grace. He moved with the impossible kinetic mass of a post-human juggernaut. His heavy boots shattered the stone floor with every thunderous stride.
He slammed his massive shoulder directly into the chest of a frozen cyborg Charles had just passed.
The brittle, flash-frozen iron and flesh didn't bend. It shattered completely.
Alex plowed through the frozen debris, ignoring the jagged shrapnel bouncing off his heavy wool coat. It was a grotesque, perfectly synchronized father-son massacre. Charles froze them, and Alex used his hyper-dense mass to obliterate the statues.
But the remaining four cyborgs weren't mindless.
Their crude, Blue Drop-fueled programming pivoted. Close combat was a failure.
They stepped back in unison, retreating deeper into the darkness of the vault. They raised their heavy right arms.
They didn't aim to punch. They aimed to fire.
The heavy pneumatic cylinders on their forearms hissed violently. The silver spikes weren't just melee weapons. They were tethered harpoons.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
Four heavy silver spikes shot across the pitch-black vault, trailing thick iron chains and a hiss of white steam.
One of the massive silver harpoons was aimed directly at Charles's small, turning back.
Alex didn't calculate the odds. He didn't process the risk to his own biology.
He threw himself across the thirty-foot gap between them.
He tackled Charles to the stone floor just as the silver spike tore through the space where the boy's head had been.
But Alex wasn't fast enough to clear the trajectory entirely.
The jagged, heavy edge of the highly conductive silver harpoon grazed Alex's left side. It tore cleanly through his thick wool coat and sliced deep into the flesh just below his ribs.
The thermodynamic shock was instantaneous.
Alex gasped.
His breath, normally a blast of superheated vapor, instantly turned into a thin, icy mist.
The massive chunk of cold silver embedded in his side acted as a catastrophic heat sink. It began rapidly bleeding his core temperature directly into the freezing air.
Alex dropped to one knee, pinning Charles safely beneath him. His muscles locked up, paralyzed by the sudden, localized hypothermia spreading from his ribs. Frost instantly began crystallizing across his bloody coat.
The cyborg that had fired the harpoon yanked the heavy iron chain backward, preparing to drag Alex across the stone floor.
"For France!" a voice screamed from the darkness.
Napoleon charged.
The General didn't have his pistol. He didn't use his saber.
He grabbed one of the heavy, rusted iron safe-deposit box drawers that had fallen to the floor during the ceiling collapse. The solid iron block weighed over fifty pounds.
Napoleon swung the iron drawer with both hands, screaming with sheer, mortal terror and adrenaline.
He smashed the heavy block directly into the side of the cyborg's brass-plated knee.
CRACK.
The brass joint bent violently backward. The massive machine stumbled, its aim completely thrown off. The heavy iron chain went slack.
It bought Alex exactly three seconds.
Alex didn't try to stand. He reached down with his bare right hand and grabbed the thick silver spike lodged in his ribs.
He ignored the agonizing, burning cold that instantly covered his palm in frost.
He ripped the jagged silver harpoon free from his own flesh.
He threw the bloody spike onto the stone floor. It clattered loudly, trailing the heavy iron chain.
The frost on his ribs instantly began to melt as his biological furnace roared back to life, the localized heat rushing to repair the torn muscle.
Alex stood up slowly.
His golden eyes burned blindingly bright, casting a harsh yellow light over the remaining machines.
He didn't throw a punch. He didn't use kinetic force.
Alex closed the distance to the final, stumbling cyborg in two massive strides.
He grabbed the machine directly by its thick brass head.
He bypassed his own physical limits. He dumped his massive caloric reserves directly into his palms.
110 degrees. 115 degrees. 120 degrees.
The heavy brass skull beneath his grip didn't just heat up. It glowed cherry red, then blindingly white.
Within three seconds, the thick metal melted down to liquid slag.
The boiling brass dripped onto the stone floor. The cyborg collapsed instantly, a headless, steaming heap of ruined iron and flesh.
Silence fell over the cavernous vault.
The only sound was the heavy, ragged breathing of Napoleon, leaning heavily against the rows of iron boxes.
Alex didn't celebrate. He turned immediately to Charles.
The boy was still pinned to the floor, vibrating violently. His small veins were glowing a faint, toxic blue beneath his pale skin. The sheer volume of Blue Drop he had consumed was still aggressively fighting his system.
Alex dropped to his knees. He grabbed Charles tightly by both shoulders.
Charles hissed, his golden eyes wide with manic energy.
"Hold still," Alex ordered.
Alex pushed his internal temperature to 105 degrees. He forced a massive, localized surge of heat directly into the boy's shoulders.
It was agonizing. He was effectively boiling the chemical drug out of Charles's system through pure thermal purging.
Charles screamed.
It was a terrible, high-pitched cry of absolute pain. The toxic blue glow in his veins slowly faded, replaced by the natural, pale white of his skin. The manic energy vanished, leaving him shivering and sobbing softly on the cold stone floor.
He looked like a normal twelve-year-old child again.
Alex slowly released his grip. His own hands were shaking. He let the boy cry.
The immediate threat was liquidated.
Alex stood up, brushing the thick dust from his ruined coat. He turned his golden eyes toward the rows of rusted iron safe-deposit boxes lining the walls of the massive chamber.
Click. Whirr.
He scanned the boxes. He noticed the heavy iron doors weren't just rusted shut.
They were cracked open.
They were completely empty.
There were no gold bars. There were no silver coins. There were no ledgers.
Alex realized instantly. This massive, subterranean cavern wasn't where the wealth of the British Empire was kept. It was a decoy room. A killing floor designed specifically to drain his heat and his time.
He turned away from the shattered remains of the cyborgs and looked deeper into the darkness at the very back of the vault.
He walked slowly, his boots crunching on the frozen debris.
He reached the back wall of the subterranean cavern. He wiped a thick layer of dust and cobwebs away from the solid bedrock.
A massive, circular door was set deep into the stone.
It was ten feet tall and incredibly thick.
But it wasn't made of steel. It wasn't made of iron or brass.
The spinning golden gears in Alex's eyes reflected perfectly in the polished, monolithic surface.
It was made of solid, unoxidized gold.
Alex pressed his bare, frostbitten hand against the precious metal.
He didn't feel the cold chill of stored wealth.
He felt the faint, rhythmic, mechanical hum of a massive Babbage Engine calculating data.
And from deep behind the golden door, he heard the unmistakable, rapid, electronic ticking of another digital watch.
Rothschild wasn't hiding with his money.
He was hiding with a Drifter's machine.