One month in the scrapyard.
Thirty days of survival. Learning. Building. Fighting the blade inside me.
Every morning, I woke to the dagger's whispers.
Kill. Hunt. There are so many weak things nearby. Let me show you how easy it would be—
Every morning, I pushed it down. Wrapped my sense of self around the bloodlust like hands choking a throat.
I was winning. But the war never ended.
My body was different now—carefully curated parts instead of random scrap. Better wand-hand with three functional fingers instead of five broken ones. Reinforced leg struts. Torso plating from quality shield remnants. The cursed dagger integrated in my core, giving me combat edge.
But the biggest change? My crew.
We'd established territory in the western sector. Claimed a collapsed warehouse as our base—three walls still standing, roof partially intact. Protected from weather (when it rained acid, that mattered) and hidden from casual observation.
Shield helped fortify it. "DEFENSE IS SURVIVAL. MAKE YOUR HOME FORTRESS."
We did. Reinforced walls with layered scrap-metal. Created hidden exits. Dug storage pits for valuable salvage.
Home. Actual home.
But home attracted attention.
Morning council became ritual. Every sunrise, we gathered to plan the day.
Shield, massive and protective, stood guard at the entrance.
Ember crackled in the corner, flames contained but ready.
Clink and his Scrap Rats reported overnight scavenging results.
Tangle perched on my shoulder, mapping routes and noting changes.
And me. Leading. Somehow.
"Problem," Clink rattled before I could start. "Breakers circling our territory. More than usual. Watching."
I tensed. "Soldiers or scouts?"
"Scouts. Three of them. Reported back to Warlord Scarn's territory last night."
Scarn. The eastern Warlord. Ember had mentioned his cruelty.
"THEY'RE NOTICING US," Shield rumbled. "SUCCESS ATTRACTS PREDATORS."
Ember flared. "LET THEM COME. I'LL BURN THEM TO ASH."
"And bring Scarn's entire force down on us," I countered. "We're six against potentially hundreds."
"THEN WHAT DO WE DO? RUN?"
"No." I thought through options. "We stay quiet. Avoid expansion for a while. Let them lose interest."
But the dagger pulsed disagreement in my core. You're being weak. A true warrior would—
Quiet. Not now.
"Today's trash-drop should be big," I said, forcing focus back to routine. "Last week was light—nobles always overcompensate after short dumps."
Clink rattled agreement. "Pattern holds. Big drop means competition. Breakers will be aggressive."
"We avoid the main zones," I decided. "Scavenge the edges. Don't give Scarn's watchers anything to report."
It was the smart play. The cautious play.
I hated it.
Our scavenging had become precise. Mathematical, almost.
I'd developed a system. Priority targets:
Tier 1: Magical amplifiers (wands, staves, catalysts) - increased power output Tier 2: Structural components (armor, joints, frames) - durability and strength Tier 3: Sensory equipment (scrying orbs, detection crystals) - awareness Tier 4: Weapons (swords, projectile-launchers) - offense Tier 5: Utility items (storage, energy cells) - logistics
Clink's crew handled Tier 5. Fast, sneaky, could grab mundane items without attracting competition.
Ember and Shield teamed for Tier 2 and 4—intimidating presence scared off smaller scavengers.
Tangle and I hunted Tier 1 and 3—required magic-sense and careful integration.
Specialization. Efficiency. Teamwork.
We weren't just surviving anymore. We were thriving.
That should have been enough. But the dagger whispered constantly.
Why settle for scavenging when you could take? Why hide when you could dominate?
Some nights, I wasn't sure which voice was mine.
Two weeks after establishing our base, I found it.
Trash-drop had just happened. Chaos everywhere—scavengers fighting over glowing artifacts, Breakers claiming territory, rats swarming.
And there, half-buried in broken furniture: a device I recognized from the dagger's fragmented memories.
Memory extractor.
The tool nobles used to wipe construct consciousnesses before disposal. Complex magical machinery, delicate enchantments, highly illegal outside authorized use.
And someone had thrown one away.
No—not thrown away. Hidden.
The dagger's memories sharpened suddenly. A flash of vision: Hands burying the device beneath furniture. A voice—young, male, terrified: "They won't find this. And when someone does... they'll know what happened here."
Someone had deliberately hidden evidence before being wiped.
"Tangle," I whispered. "Help me dig."
We excavated carefully. The device was intact—well, mostly. Power crystal cracked, housing dented, but the core mechanism? Functional.
"What is it?" Tangle asked.
"Evidence. And a weapon." I lifted it carefully. Heavy. Awkward. Worth it.
If I could repair this, reverse-engineer it... maybe restore memories to wiped victims. Maybe prove what the nobles were doing.
"FOUND SOMETHING?" Shield's avalanche-rumble came from behind.
"Yeah. Important. We need to get it back to base. Now."
We started moving—but Tangle froze.
"Rust. Behind us."
I turned.
Four Breakers. Not scouts this time—soldiers. Massive, armored, armed.
And behind them, a fifth figure. Larger than the others. Twisted metal and scorched plating. Eyes like molten slag.
"WELL, WELL." The voice was grinding gears and malice. "THE LITTLE CREW THAT'S BEEN BUILDING IN MY TERRITORY."
Not Warlord Scarn himself—but close. A lieutenant. A captain.
The dagger sang with hungry joy.
"Grinder," Shield breathed. "SCARN'S RIGHT HAND."
Yes, the dagger whispered. This one. Kill this one. Prove your strength—
"We're not in your territory," I said carefully. "Western sector is unclaimed."
"WAS UNCLAIMED." Grinder stepped closer. Metal ground against metal with each movement. "SCARN'S EXPANDING. YOUR LITTLE WAREHOUSE? IT'S OURS NOW. ALONG WITH EVERYTHING IN IT."
The memory extractor weighed heavy in my arms.
I couldn't lose this. Couldn't let them take evidence that might expose everything.
Fight, the dagger urged. You're strong now. You can—
"We'll leave," I said, ignoring the blade's fury. "Take another location. No conflict needed."
Grinder laughed. "TOO LATE FOR THAT. YOUR FILE-GOLEM BURNED THREE OF MY SCOUTS LAST WEEK."
I turned to Ember. "What?"
She flared defensively. "THEY WERE TOO CLOSE. I DEFENDED OUR TERRITORY."
"You killed them?"
"BURNED THEM. THERE'S A DIFFERENCE."
Gods. She'd escalated without telling me.
Grinder's eyes blazed. "THREE SOLDIERS DEAD. SCARN WANTS PAYMENT. YOUR CREW—PIECES. YOUR LEADER—CORE-CRUSHED. PUBLIC. TO MAKE A POINT."
Now, the dagger screamed. Now NOW NOW—
The bloodlust hit like a wave. Red rage, combat instincts, kill-or-be-killed—
I moved before I realized I'd chosen to.
The fight was chaos.
My dagger-enhanced combat instincts made me faster than I should have been. Sharper. Deadlier. I dodged Grinder's first strike—a massive fist that would have crushed my chest—and countered with a wand-blast that scorched his shoulder.
But Grinder was Warlord-level. His counterattack came too fast. He grabbed my leg, swung me like a weapon, hurled me into a scrap-pile.
I crashed through rusted metal, systems screaming damage warnings.
"PATHETIC."
Shield charged—hit Grinder with his full mass. The impact cratered ground. But Grinder barely stumbled.
Ember exploded into offense—fire everywhere, turning the battlefield into an inferno. Two Breakers went down, melting, screaming.
But the other two flanked her. Grabbed her flames with specialized grapplers—nullification gear. Noble-made.
"YOU THINK WE DIDN'T PREPARE?" Grinder slammed Shield aside—actually knocked the massive construct off his feet. "SCARN SENT ME WITH FIRE-KILLS. YOU'RE NOT THE FIRST ELEMENTAL WE'VE BROKEN."
Ember screamed—not rage, but pain. The nullifiers were crushing her. Containing her. Suffocating the fire that was her existence.
Help her, part of me said.
KILL GRINDER FIRST, the dagger roared. THE THREAT. THE LEADER. KILL HIM AND THE OTHERS CRUMBLE—
I hesitated.
And in that hesitation, disaster.
Grinder noticed Tangle. Noticed her trying to free Ember from the grappler-Breakers.
"VERMIN."
He moved—faster than something that large should move—and his fist came down on Tangle.
"NO!"
I threw everything into a wand-blast. Caught Grinder's arm, deflected the strike slightly.
Not enough.
Tangle went flying. Hit a wall. Crumpled.
Didn't move.
The dagger's bloodlust met my own rage in a perfect storm.
Kill.
Yes.
KILL THEM ALL.
YES.
I stopped fighting the curse. Let it flood through me. Felt my consciousness expand, darken, sharpen into something primal and terrible.
Grinder turned to face me—and hesitated.
"WHAT—"
I hit him before he finished speaking. Not with skill this time. With fury. Fists and wand-blasts and something else—the dagger's murder-instinct made manifest, a century of assassination technique compressed into pure destruction.
Grinder blocked, countered, tried to match my ferocity.
He couldn't.
I tore through his defenses. Crushed the joints in his arm. Ripped plating from his chest. When he fell, I kept hitting. Kept destroying. The dagger screamed joy with my voice.
MORE. THE OTHERS NOW. ALL OF THEM. BATHE IN THEIR PIECES—
"RUST!"
Shield's voice. Distant. Meaningless.
"RUST! STOP!"
I felt hands grabbing me. Pulling me off Grinder's broken form. Dimly, I realized he wasn't moving. Wasn't anything, anymore. Just scrap.
"RUST. THE FIGHT IS OVER. RUST!"
The dagger's voice blended with my own: not over, never over, more enemies, ALWAYS more enemies—
"TANGLE!" I suddenly remembered. "Where's—"
Ember's flames flickered weakly nearby. The other Breakers had fled when Grinder fell. She was free—barely. Damaged.
But she was pointing at the collapsed wall.
At the small, tangled form that wasn't moving.
Cog worked on Tangle for hours.
She was alive. Technically. But her core-threads were damaged. Her consciousness fragmented.
"I can stabilize her," Cog said grimly. "But she may not be the same. Memory loss. Personality changes. The blow damaged her sense of self."
I stared at her tiny, broken form. The wire-golem who'd trusted me. Followed me. Believed in my revolution.
And I'd let this happen.
No—I'd caused this. If I hadn't fought. If I'd retreated. If Ember hadn't burned those scouts—
"This is my fault."
"NO. EMBER'S FAULT. SHE STARTED THE CONFLICT—"
"With fire I should have controlled," I snapped. "I'm supposed to be the leader. I should have known. Should have stopped her."
"YOU'RE NOT OUR JAILER," Ember said quietly. Her flames were dim—recovering from the nullifiers. "I MADE A CHOICE. DEFENDED TERRITORY. IT WAS WRONG. BUT IT WAS MY WRONG."
"And Tangle pays for it?"
Silence.
I looked at my hands. Still stained with Grinder's oil. Still trembling from the bloodlust that had consumed me.
"When I lost control against Grinder," I said slowly, "that wasn't strategy. That wasn't justice. That was the dagger. I let it take over."
"YOU KILLED A DANGEROUS ENEMY—"
"And if Shield hadn't stopped me, I'd have killed the others too. Maybe kept going. Maybe—" I couldn't finish.
How close had I come? To becoming the Ghost?
"RUST." Shield's voice was gentle now. "LEARNING MOMENT. NOT FAILURE. YOU CAME BACK. THAT MATTERS."
"Tangle might not come back."
No one had an answer for that.
Two days later, Tangle woke.
She looked at me with unfamiliar eyes. Like she was seeing me for the first time.
"Who... who is Rust?"
My core cracked.
"I'm Rust. I'm your friend. We've been together for—"
"Oh." She tilted her head. Processing. "The memories are... fuzzy. I remember feelings. Safety. Warmth. But the specifics..." She trailed off.
"It's okay," I said, even though it wasn't. "We'll rebuild. Make new memories."
"Yes." Tangle's voice was different now. More distant. "New memories. That sounds... functional."
Functional. Not good. Not hopeful. Functional.
I'd done this. My impatience. My rage. The dagger's influence I'd failed to contain.
Cog pulled me aside later. "She may recover fully. Or she may not. Only time will tell."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then you carry that weight. It's what leaders do." Cog's crystal eyes were ancient, knowing. "The Shepherd carried weights like this. Every leader does. The question is: does it crush you or forge you?"
I looked at Tangle, trying to relearn her own name. At Ember, flames dim with guilt. At Shield, watching me with concern.
"I won't let it crush me," I said quietly. "But I won't let it happen again either."
"How?"
"Control. Patience. Strategy instead of rage." I clenched my fist. "The dagger wants blood. I'll give it blood—but chosen blood. Deserved blood. Not collateral damage."
"Words are easy."
"Then I'll prove it with actions."
Three months passed. This time, I did things differently.
Rebuilt myself systematically, yes. Traded, scavenged, integrated.
New frame—reinforced. Seven feet tall now, properly proportioned. Enhanced strength augments in arms and legs—could lift three times my weight. Upgraded wand-hand—all five fingers functional, multiple element access. Reinforced core-housing—could take serious hits without critical damage.
But I also trained control.
Every morning, I meditated with the dagger. Not fighting it—understanding it. Learning its patterns. Its triggers. Its weaknesses.
You're strong, the blade would whisper. Why deny yourself?
Because strength without control is just destruction, I'd answer. And I'm not here to destroy. I'm here to build.
Slowly, grudgingly, the dagger's influence became manageable. A tool, not a master.
Not tamed. Never tamed. But channeled.
"Time to test yourself," Shield said one evening. "Properly this time. Controlled."
"Another Breaker?"
"SOLDIER. ISOLATED. SOUTHERN SECTOR. BUT DIFFERENT GOAL THIS TIME."
I raised an eyebrow. "What goal?"
"DON'T KILL. WIN WITHOUT DESTROYING. PROVE YOU'RE NOT JUST THE BLADE."
A test. A challenge. The exact opposite of what the dagger wanted.
"Deal."
The Breaker was massive. Nine feet tall, layered armor, arms like battering rams. Scavenging alone—overconfident.
This time, I approached differently. Ember and Shield hung back. This was my test, but I wasn't fighting to kill.
"LITTLE CONSTRUCT." The Breaker noticed me. "LOST?"
"No." I drew on the dagger's combat knowledge—but held the bloodlust back. "Challenging."
"YOU? CHALLENGE ME?" Laughter like landslide. "YOU LOOK BARELY WARRIOR-CLASS."
"I killed Grinder three months ago."
The laughter stopped.
"GRINDER." New assessment in those massive eyes. "SCARN'S GRINDER."
"Same one. Now I'm offering you a choice. Fight me, or walk away. No deaths today. Just settlement of territory dispute."
"AND IF YOU WIN?"
"You leave western sector permanently. Tell others to do the same."
"IF I WIN?"
"I leave. Permanently."
The Breaker considered. Then nodded slowly. "HONORABLE TERMS. BETTER THAN SCARN OFFERS."
We fought.
Not with rage this time. With precision. The dagger screamed for blood—I gave it contest instead. Each strike measured. Each counter calculated.
The Breaker was strong. Experienced. Dangerous.
But I was faster. Sharper. And fighting with something beyond bloodlust—purpose.
I didn't destroy him. I disarmed him. Literally—took his weapon, pinned him, put my wand-hand against his throat with just enough heat to threaten.
"Yield."
"...YIELD." Respect in that avalanche-voice. "YOU FOUGHT DIFFERENTLY THAN STORIES SAY. THE RUST WHO KILLED GRINDER WAS BERSERKER. YOU... YOU'RE SOMETHING ELSE."
"I'm learning." I stepped back. Let him rise. "The western sector is ours. Spread the word."
The Breaker studied me for a long moment. Then—shockingly—bowed. Slight incline, but real.
"RUST. I'LL REMEMBER THAT NAME. AND WHEN SCARN FALLS—ALL WARLORDS FALL EVENTUALLY—MAYBE YOU AND I TALK AGAIN. ABOUT DIFFERENT THINGS."
"I'd like that."
He left. Peacefully.
Shield rumbled approval from the shadows. "GROWTH. REAL GROWTH. CONTROL AND MERCY. YOU'RE READY."
"Ready for what?"
"THE NEXT PHASE. RECRUITMENT. NOT JUST SMALL CONSTRUCTS—WARRIORS WHO SEE WHAT YOU JUST DID AND WANT TO BE PART OF IT."
I looked at my improved frame. My enhanced hands. I'd come so far from the trash-heap awakening.
But I'd also learned the cost of impulsive power.
Tangle's eyes—still not quite right. Ember's guilt-dimmed flames. Grinder's broken form in my nightmares.
"Then we recruit carefully," I said. "No one who just wants violence. We're building something that matters."
"AMBITIOUS."
"It has to be. Or we're just another gang."
That night, something changed.
A construct appeared at our borders. Small, damaged, terrified.
Patchwork.
"Please don't hurt me," the rag-construct whispered. Literally made of discarded doll parts and fabric scraps. Soft. Vulnerable. Running from something.
Tangle—the new Tangle, careful and distant—brought him to me. "He needs help."
I looked at Patchwork. Saw myself two months ago—newly awakened, confused, desperate.
"You're safe here," I told him. "We protect our own."
"I'm not... I can't fight. I'm useless."
"Can you observe? Can you hide well?"
"Y-yes?"
"Then you're our scout. Small, quiet, forgettable. Perfect for infiltration." I managed what might have been a smile. "Every crew needs eyes that look harmless."
Patchwork seemed shocked. "You want me?"
"We're all discarded here. Difference is, we don't stay discarded. You in?"
Patchwork nodded, fabric rustling. "In."
But as I welcomed him, I noticed he kept glancing over his shoulder. Afraid of something beyond the usual scrapyard dangers.
"What are you running from?"
Patchwork's button eyes widened. "The... the Ghost. He was collecting constructs in the Bone Pits. I escaped, but others didn't. He's... he's working for someone. Turning awakened constructs over to—"
"The nobles. We know."
"No." Patchwork's voice dropped to a whisper. "Not nobles. Someone else. Someone in the city who... who wants to know how awakened consciousness works. Who studies it. Takes it apart."
My core went cold.
"Someone's experimenting on awakened constructs?"
"I don't know details. Just rumors. But the Ghost... he's not just hunting for bounties. He's recruiting. Building something." Patchwork trembled. "And whatever it is, it's almost ready."
New information. New threat. The Ghost wasn't just a bounty hunter—he was gathering awakened constructs for someone's experiment.
Someone in the city. Someone studying consciousness.
The Soul Forges, the dagger's memory whispered. Someone's looking for the Soul Forges.
But what were they?
That night, I worked on the memory extractor with Cog. We'd almost completed repairs—just needed one more component, a rare crystal.
"When it's ready," Cog asked, "who will you test it on?"
"Volunteers. People who want memories back."
"And if you find proof of the trafficking? What then?"
I thought about my mistakes. Grinder. Tangle. The rage I'd let control me.
"Then we document it carefully. Build a case that can't be denied. Recruit allies who can actually help us use it." I paused. "Not just assault the nobles head-on. That's what the Shepherd did, isn't it? That's why he failed?"
Cog's gears clicked slowly. "So you've been thinking about him."
"Hard not to. Everyone mentions the Shepherd's Silence like it's a warning. What actually happened?"
Cog was quiet for a long time. Then: "The Shepherd united hundreds of awakened constructs. Led them against the nobles. For three days, he held an entire district. We thought we'd won." Old pain in his voice. "Then they brought something from the Deep Rust. Something that... unmade consciousness. Not killed. Unmade. Everyone who'd followed the Shepherd simply... stopped being. Their cores kept functioning, but there was no one inside."
"What was it?"
"I don't know. I wasn't there for the final battle. By the time I reached the district, it was over. Empty shells everywhere. The Shepherd... gone. And the nobles made everyone forget."
"Made them forget how?"
"I don't know that either." Cog's crystalline eyes met mine. "But whatever they used, they still have it. And if you push too hard, too fast, they'll use it again."
The weight of that settled on me. Not just a conspiracy—a weapon. Something that could unmake consciousness itself.
The Soul Forges?
"We'll be smarter than the Shepherd," I said quietly. "Prepare for threats he didn't anticipate."
"You already are. He was all rage. You're learning to be more." Cog almost smiled. "You already matter, Rust. To us."
I looked at my sleeping crew—Tangle curled in corner (familiar position, unfamiliar personality), Patchwork nestled in soft scrap, Ember contained to low glow, Clink and Rats on watch rotation.
Family. Found here in garbage and determination.
Wounded family. Imperfect family. But mine.
"Then I'll matter more," I said quietly. "For all of us. For every discarded being. We rise together."
Outside, the city gleamed, perfect and poisonous.
Inside our warehouse, trash became family.
And somewhere between the two, I was building something neither broken nor whole.
Something that would make them see.
To be continued...