Closed Workshop (Former Grain Warehouse) – Northreach. Two Days Post-Attack – Midnight.
The rain outside still drizzled, but inside this former warehouse, the air was dry and hot from the heat of the machines. Mana crystal lamps hung from the ceiling, glowing dimly and casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.
The room was cramped. The stench of burnt oil, iron filings, and ozone from short-circuited mana circuits filled the lungs.
In the center of the room, the steel skeleton of the Obsidian Crawler stood rigid, like the bones of an ancient giant. Its organic components—the decaying flesh and the human nervous system—had been discarded and buried deep underground. All that remained was the sturdy black metal chassis, massive treads, and a complex hydraulic system.
Sir Rianor stood before a blackboard covered in chalk diagrams. His eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles from forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation. His usually neat hair was a mess, and his white shirt, rolled up to his elbows, was stained with ink and grease.
"Failed again," Rianor hissed in frustration.
He roughly hurled his chalk against the wall. It snapped in two, shards falling onto the cold concrete floor.
At the workbench beside him, Elara looked just as exhausted. The genius mage-girl was fiddling with a series of brass gears using tweezers, but her face betrayed deep doubt.
"Rianor, we have to be realistic," Elara said softly, putting down her tools. "I've tried connecting mana circuits to this monster's steering system dozens of times. The result is zero."
Elara walked toward the machine's frame, pointing to the empty space in the cockpit—where the human skull had previously been housed.
"This machine's balance system was designed to be controlled by a biological Neural Network. Nerves. A brain," Elara explained. "Without that organic 'Auto-Pilot,' this thing is just a thirty-ton pile of iron. It might move on flat ground, but the moment it hits rocky terrain? It'll lose balance and topple over in five seconds."
Elara stared at Rianor with a serious gaze.
"Unless... we use their method. We find a new corpse, or an animal, to serve as the processor."
"No," Rianor cut her off sharply. He turned, glaring at Elara with a look that was almost predatory. "I'm not using a human brain, El. We aren't Morvath. We aren't monsters who use lives as batteries."
"Then what do we use?!" Elara raised her voice, frustration taking over. "A normal crystal Golem? The response time is too slow! Unless you want to drive this thing while calculating physics calculus every second just to balance the wheels manually!"
Rianor fell silent. Elara's words pierced his logic.
He stared at the brass gears lying on the table. Rotating. Interlocking.
Calculating calculus every second...
Rianor's eyes narrowed. He remembered something from his old world. Before microchips, before AI, humans had sent rockets to the moon. Humans had calculated the trajectories of cannonballs.
"Wait," Rianor muttered. He stepped quickly to Elara's table, grabbing two gears of different sizes.
"We don't need a brain to think," Rianor said, his voice beginning to tremble with enthusiasm. "We only need a brain to calculate. Input A plus Input B equals Output C."
Rianor grabbed a new blueprint sheet. His hand moved rapidly, sketching a diagram.
Not a magic spell. A mechanical diagram.
Logic Gates. AND, OR, NOT.
But instead of using silicon transistors that didn't exist in this world, he drew them as an arrangement of levers, springs, and gears.
"Rumi!" Rianor shouted.
From beneath the massive machine, Lady Rumina slid out on a creeper board. The little girl's face was smeared black with oil, holding a wrench almost as big as her arm.
"Present, Brother! Stop yelling, my ears are ringing!"
"Can you build a Differential Gearbox?" Rianor asked, thrusting the sketch at her. "A gear system that... if the left wheel hits a heavy load, the power automatically shifts to the right wheel?"
Rumina wiped the sweat from her forehead, examining the sketch carefully. Her weary eyes suddenly sparkled.
"Pure mechanics? No balancing magic?"
"Pure Physics," Rianor affirmed. "We replace Nerves with Gears. We replace the Brain with Mathematics. It's called an Analog Computer."
"Elara," Rianor turned to the mage. "Your job is to build the trigger circuits. When these gears rotate a certain degree and hit this lever, you fire a small Mana Burst into the right piston. That's it."
Elara stared at the complex diagram. Her mouth hung slightly open.
"Making a machine think with metal..." she murmured in awe. "You're crazy. Completely insane."
Then, a thin smile curved on Elara's lips.
"But I like it."
That night, in the cold workshop, the three genius minds didn't sleep for a single second. They assembled thousands of pieces of metal into a "Mechanical Brain." A computer that was noisy, heavy, and oily, but... human.
Dining Room – Iron Hearth Castle. Morning – Day 3 Post-Attack.
The atmosphere at breakfast this morning was the gloomiest in the history of House Sudrath.
The long table, usually filled with warm bread, jam, and fresh milk, now looked pathetic.
There were only bowls of watery grain porridge and plates of grilled monster jerky—leftovers from yesterday's feast that were starting to harden. The stock of eggs and milk was completely depleted because the livestock pens had been destroyed.
Duke Lucian sat at the head of the table, his arm still wrapped in thick bandages. He ate in silence, his face hardened by the weight of his thoughts.
Beside him, Duchess Aurelia was feeding Sir Riven.
The sight was heartbreaking. Riven, the giant of war, now sat still with a blank stare. His right hand—the hand that usually wielded an axe—trembled uncontrollably, a side effect of the nerve damage in his shoulder. He opened his mouth, chewed, and swallowed like a robot. There was no soul in his eyes. He felt useless.
The dining room door burst open. Sir Roland entered in a hurry, his face tense. He placed a pile of newspapers and scrolls on the table.
"Bad news from the Southern border," Roland reported bluntly.
"Morvath has officially blockaded the trade routes. He's posting notices at every border post, declaring Northreach a Plague Quarantine Zone. No grain merchant dares to enter."
Roland let out a long, frustrated sigh.
"The price of grain on the black market surged by 500% this morning. Our emergency stock will only last two weeks. After that... the villagers will start starving."
"What about Draconia?" Lucian asked heavily.
"Seraphina sent a letter." Roland showed a red envelope with a dragon seal. "Short and biting: 'Where is my Mithril? I hear you're busy eating well while my investment sits idle.'"
"Dammit," Lady Rhea cursed, slamming her spoon down. Her bandaged leg was propped up on another chair. "That snake woman doesn't know we're dying here?"
"She knows," a voice answered from the door.
Rianor entered. He was still wearing his workshop clothes, filthy and smelling of oil. His face was pale, but his eyes burned sharply behind glasses newly repaired with tape.
"She's just testing us," Rianor said, taking a piece of tough jerky and biting it roughly. "She wants to see if we're worthy allies, or just a burden to be discarded."
Rianor swallowed his food, then looked at his parents.
"Dad, Mom. We need permission."
"Permission for what, Yan?" Aurelia asked worriedly.
"To launch a Logistics Expedition. We need to retrieve the Mithril stuck in the Southern Mine, sell it to Draconia, and use the money to buy grain from their black market."
"The roads are blocked, Yan," Roland reminded him. "Morvath's riflemen are guarding every turn. A normal horse carriage would be destroyed in five minutes."
"We aren't using horses," Rianor smirked tiredly—the grin of a mad scientist.
"Project Titan is online."
Rianor walked over to Riven's chair. He stared at his brother, who was staring blankly at his porridge.
"That machine needs a pilot," Rianor said softly. "A pilot whose instincts are faster than the machine. A pilot who isn't afraid to die."
Riven raised his head slowly. His hollow gaze met Rianor's sharp eyes.
"Brother Riven," Rianor called gently but firmly. "Your hand might shake when you hold a spoon. But when you hold the control levers... I bet you're still the best in this family."
Rianor placed a crude engine key—a thick piece of iron—in front of Riven.
"Want to come play with some toy cars, Brother?"
Back Courtyard – Testing Track. Afternoon.
Almost every resident of the castle gathered in the backyard. They wanted to see the "New Hope" Rianor had spoken of.
And that hope... was ugly.
The vehicle was boxy, sharp-angled, and made of jagged black steel plates salvaged from the monster's hide, crudely welded together. No paint, no decorations.
The wheels didn't use rubber tires but massive iron treads that looked intimidating. On top, an experimental Railgun barrel was mounted. There were no glass windows, only narrow viewing slits made of thick steel.
TITAN MK-1 (Prototype).
Riven stood before the vehicle's side door. He stared at the iron beast with hesitation.
"This... is for me?" he asked.
"Give it a try, Brother," Rumina encouraged enthusiastically. "I designed the seat specifically with dual spring shock absorbers so your back won't hurt. The steering uses a hydraulic system, so it's incredibly light. You can drive it using only your left hand."
Riven swallowed hard. He climbed into the cockpit—cramped, hot, and smelling of iron.
He sat in the driver's seat.
In front of him, there were no horse reins. Instead, there was a series of levers, pedals, and steam pressure indicators with vibrating needles.
"Right pedal is gas. Left pedal is brake. The two levers on the left are for turning," Rianor instructed from outside.
Riven placed his healthy left hand on the control lever. His foot pressed the gas pedal slowly.
VRRROOOOM...
The Mana Engine in the rear roared to life. The sound was low, heavy, and vibrated through his chest. Like the growl of a beast waking from its slumber.
The engine's vibration traveled through the seat, into Riven's back, then to his hand.
For some reason... the vibration calmed him.
His right hand, which usually trembled violently, was now still, as if synchronized with the engine's frequency.
"Move," Riven whispered. He pressed the gas deeper.
KREK... KLANG...
The iron treads rotated, biting into the mud. The Titan MK-1 jolted, then surged forward.
It was stiff at first. But second by second, Riven began to find his rhythm. He could "feel" the weight of the machine. He felt as if he had become one with the steel.
There was a large boulder in front of the testing track.
Instead of avoiding it, Riven smirked.
He floored the gas.
CRUSH.
The granite boulder, hard as it was, was crushed into dust beneath the Titan's treads. The impact was barely felt inside the cabin.
Riven laughed.
It was his first laugh since the day of the funeral. A free, wild laugh.
"Hahaha! Insane! It's an iron rhino!"
Riven yanked the left lever sharply. The thirty-ton tank drifted over the mud, spraying black earth in all directions—including onto Roland's clothes, who was standing too close.
"HEY! MY CLOTHES!" Roland shouted, but he too smiled seeing his brother come back to life.
Riven opened the top hatch, popping his head out. His pale, depressed face was gone, replaced by a burning fire of spirit.
"Nor! When do we leave?!" Riven shouted.
Rianor smiled with relief, adjusting his glasses. The War Lion had returned.
"In two days, Brother," Rianor replied. "We get the Mithril. We break Morvath's blockade."
Riven patted the Titan's steel body affectionately.
"Anyone who dares block our path... we'll flatten them into the dirt."