The elevator ride down to Floor 3 was less a commute and more a descent into the belly of a mechanical beast.
As the iron cage rattled past the Spa level, the humidity and scent of eucalyptus vanished, replaced instantly by a wall of dry, scorching heat. The air tasted of ozone, burning oil, and the copper tang of magic being forced into shapes it didn't want to take.
Reed stepped out into the Iron Works.
It was loud. The ambient thrum of the magma channels provided a heavy bass line to the high-pitched screech of grinders and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the automated stamping presses.
He adjusted his cuffs. The [Thermal Equilibrium] buff was doing its job; the oppressive heat that usually made him sweat through his shirt within minutes felt like a pleasant spring breeze. He felt cool, centered, and ready to commit deforestation.
"Team check," Reed called out, his voice cutting through the industrial noise.
Waiting for him by the main workbench were his two vanguards.
