Chapter 3: The Iron Convoy – Blood in the Gears
[I. The Black Baptism] The rain in Azmareel did not wash away sins; it marinated them in filth. That night, the heavens didn't weep water; they vomited a viscous, black liquid—a foul cocktail of condensation and factory soot that turned the streets of the Industrial District into treacherous, oil-slicked quagmires. Each drop felt heavy, like a pellet of lead striking the cobblestones, leaving a metallic tang on the tongue that tasted of rust and ancient, forgotten blood.
Under the jagged skeletal ribs of the Great Railway Bridge, where the massive steel girders interlaced like the bones of a fallen giant, Alexander Milov stood. He was a shadow within a shadow, his presence erased by the relentless roar of the storm. He pulled out his silver pocket watch—a relic of a life he could no longer fully remember—and wiped a smudge of black rain from its glass face.
"Three minutes," Alexander murmured. His voice was a calm blade of obsidian, cutting through the cacophony of the downpour.
Beside him, Silas stood like a monolith of scarred granite. He was a man built from the very coal he had mined for twenty years, his breath coming in rhythmic puffs of white steam that vanished in the damp air. He gripped a ten-pound rock-breaking mallet. Behind them, twelve men crouched in the freezing mud. They were not soldiers; they were the "Broken Ones"—miners with hollowed cheeks and lungs filled with stone dust. Their hands, calloused and cracked like dried riverbeds, white-knuckled around rusted iron bars and heavy chains.
Alexander's eyes, the color of cold ash, bled into his "curse." The world of flesh and iron dissolved into a world of pulsing mists. He watched the twelve men. Their auras were a turbulent storm of Murky Grey (Terror) and Jagged Indigo (Despair). But beneath the fear, a Deep, Bruised Crimson was boiling—the color of a feral rage that had been suppressed for generations.
"A prince," Alexander thought, recalling the forbidden texts, "must know how to use both the beast and the man."Tonight, he would turn these beasts into his primary weapon.
[II. The Alchemy of Chaos] "Listen to me," Alexander's voice rose, vibrating with a cold, hypnotic authority. "Kruger's convoy is not a simple carriage. It is a rolling fortress of brass and iron. The guards are 'North-Spire' veterans, armed with Kruger-7 repeating rifles. If you charge them with 'honor,' you will be corpses before you can even scream."
He saw the Sickly Yellow of doubt flicker through the miners' mists. He didn't offer them comfort; he offered them a brutal truth.
"Honor is a luxury for the rich who have time to bleed in silk sheets," Alexander said, pointing to a massive, throbbing copper pipe that hissed along the side of the bridge. "We fight for the result. The end justifies the means, and the 'end' is their destruction."
He indicated a specific valve. "When I give the signal, Silas, you liberate the pressure. The steam won't just blind them; it will peel the skin from their bones. In the chaos, fear will be the only law. And I am the only one who can read the heart of a frightened man."
[III. The Heavy Pulse of Progress] The ground began to shiver. A low, rhythmic thud echoed—the heartbeat of a steam-beast. Through the obsidian veil of rain, two amber searchlights pierced the dark.
The Kruger Armored Convoy appeared. It was a behemoth of black steel. The golden crest of Kruger Industries—a gear entwined with a serpent—shimmered on its hull. Four guards marched in perfect lockstep alongside the machine. They wore gas masks making them look like giant, metallic insects. Their auras were a Cold, Clinical Blue—a terrifying mix of professional boredom and arrogance.
"They are here," Silas hissed, his aura flaring into a Violent Scarlet.
As the carriage drew level with the weakened pipe, Alexander raised his hand. "Now!"
[IV. The Scream of the Steel Dragon] Silas swung the mallet with a thunderous CRACK. The pipe erupted. A wall of superheated, blinding white steam exploded outward. SHHHHHHHHHH!
The road vanished instantly. "Ambush! Form a perimeter!" a guard roared.
But Alexander was already among them. To the others, the steam was a wall. To Alexander, it was a transparent curtain. He slipped past the first guard, his Spinal-Blade emerging like a silver tongue. He severed the tendons in the guard's knees. As the man collapsed, Alexander grabbed his head and drove him face-first into the scalding copper pipe.
The smell of searing flesh rose. Alexander felt the vibration of the man's scream through his own boots. He is a tool for my message, Alexander thought coldly. He snatched a Kruger-7 rifle from the falling guard, spun, and fired three rounds into the fog. Three pops of pressurized gas. Three Dead Greymists appearing where living men had just stood.
[V. The Massacre of the Trophies] "Attack!" Silas bellowed.
The miners surged from the shadows like demons. The battle was a cacophony of wet thuds and the sickening crunch of bone meeting iron. The driver of the armored tractor slammed the gears into reverse, trying to crush the attackers.
Alexander leaped. He caught the iron ladder, smashed the glass, and shoved the cold barrel into the driver's mouth.
"Stop the heart of this beast," Alexander whispered, his eyes devoid of warmth. "Or I will make sure your mother never recognizes your face again."
The driver, trembling, pulled the emergency brake. The convoy screeched to a halt.
[VI. The Teeth of the Empire] The steam began to dissipate. Silas shattered the alchemical lock on the trailer. Inside were rows of Kruger-7s and vials of "Liquid Sun"—a volatile chemical combustible.
"This is a fortune," Silas whispered. "We could leave Azmareel behind and live like kings in the South."
Alexander stepped forward. "Money is a shadow. It disappears when the light changes. If you take the money and run, Kruger's hunters will find you in a week. But if you keep these... you are a power that even the High-Borns must acknowledge."
He tossed the vial to Silas. "These are your new teeth. From tonight, you are the Wraiths of the Soot. And Azmareel is our hunting ground."
[VII. The Marked Messenger] Alexander walked to the driver, who was huddled in the mud. He drew his daggers and carved a deep, jagged 'X' into the driver's forehead.
"Go to Victor Kruger," Alexander commanded. "Tell him the Ghost has taken his tithe. Tell him... that I am coming for his towers."
The driver fled into the darkness. Silas stood beside Alexander as the men hauled the crates.
"What is the next step, Boss?" Silas asked.
Alexander looked toward the shimmering lights of the North Spire. "Tonight we stole their guns. Tomorrow... we steal their peace."