The air in the boiler room didn't just smell like chemicals anymore; it smelled like an ending. Aryan stood in the center of the chaos, his breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like a saw cutting through dry timber. To his left, the woman named Mira was a blur of motion, her crossbow humming as she fended off the metallic Constructs. To his right, the Doctor—Malphas—stood with a sickeningly calm posture, his surgical mask crinkling as he smiled.
But for a moment, the world slowed down for Aryan.
He looked at his right hand. The glove had torn during his frantic movements, revealing the truth beneath. The wood wasn't just oak anymore; it was darkening into a deep, blood-red mahogany. Small, thorn-like splinters were beginning to erupt from his knuckles. It was beautiful in a way that made him want to scream. It reminded him of his father's workshop in the mountains—the smell of fresh shavings, the sound of the chisel, and the way his father's hands, calloused and strong, would carve life out of a dead block of wood.
"Everything has a soul, Aryan," his father had told him once, holding up a small wooden bird. "Even the tree that has fallen. A carpenter doesn't create life; he simply invites the soul to come out of the wood. You must always respect the grain, for if you fight the wood, the wood will fight you back."
Aryan realized then that he had been fighting the wood since the moment he left Villa 404. He had treated it like a disease, a rot to be purged. But standing in this room, surrounded by monsters of metal and bone, he understood that the "Old Man" inside him wasn't just a ghost—he was a craftsman who had rewritten Aryan's very DNA.
"Aryan! The panel! Now!" Mira's voice broke through his reverie. She was pinned down by a Construct that had four spindly legs made of rusted rebar.
Aryan didn't run. He lunged.
His wooden feet hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud-thud that vibrated through his bones. He reached Malphas in three giant strides. The Doctor raised his bone-saw, the motor whining to life, but Aryan didn't flinch. He swung his mahogany fist with a strength that defied the laws of physics.
When the wooden fist connected with the Doctor's chest, it didn't sound like a punch. It sounded like a tree trunk hitting a stone wall. CRACK. Malphas was sent flying across the room, smashing into a stack of glass jars. Formaldehyde and preserved organs showered over him like a macabre baptism.
Aryan didn't stop. He turned to the control panel—a wall of flickering lights and copper levers that looked like something out of a Victorian nightmare. He didn't know which lever to pull, so he let the "Old Man" take over. His fingers moved with a strange, ancient intelligence. He gripped the main power conduit and tore it out of the wall.
Sparks erupted, blinding and white. A high-pitched hum filled the room, and suddenly, the heavy magnetic locks on the doors and the girl's chair hissed open.
"Get the girl!" Mira shouted, kicking the broken Construct away.
Aryan scooped up the unconscious girl. She was light, almost too light, as if her bones had already begun to lose their density. As he held her, a strange sensation washed over him. He could feel her heartbeat through his wooden arm. It was a faint, flickering thing, like a candle in a windstorm. For the first time, the wood felt sensitive—not dead, but hyper-alive.
"Follow me!" Mira yelled, heading for a service tunnel behind the boilers.
They ran. Behind them, the boiler room was erupting into flames as the electrical fire caught the flammable chemicals. The screams of the metallic Constructs, half-mechanical and half-organic, echoed through the tunnels like the wailing of damned souls.
They emerged into the cool, rain-slicked streets of Mumbai ten minutes later. The city was oblivious. Somewhere in the distance, a Bollywood song was playing from a passing taxi. People were eating kebabs at street stalls, laughing, and living their "normal" lives, unaware that a war for the very definition of humanity was being fought in the shadows beneath their feet.
Mira led them to a nondescript black van parked in an alleyway. She slid the door open. "Put her in. Gently."
Aryan laid the girl down on a cot inside the van. He finally saw her face clearly. She was beautiful, but her skin had a translucent, wax-like quality.
"Who is she?" Aryan asked, his voice cracking.
"Her name is Sarah," Mira said, her eyes softening for the first time. "She's a 'Pure.' Someone whose blood hasn't been tainted by the Master's influence yet. They need her to stabilize the newer generation of puppets."
Mira turned to Aryan, her gaze settling on his uncovered wooden hand. She didn't look disgusted. She looked... sad.
"You're a high-tier, aren't you?" she whispered. "The Mahogany King. We've heard legends about a puppet that could retain his human mind even after the heart began to turn. I didn't think it was possible."
"I am not a puppet," Aryan snapped, clutching his hand.
"Not yet," Mira said, climbing into the driver's seat. "But the fire in the mill was a signal. The Master knows you're here. And more importantly, the 'Collector' is coming."
"The Collector?"
"A man who hunts failed masterpieces," Mira said as she keyed the engine. "And to the Master, Aryan, you are the most beautiful failure he has ever created. If he can't control you, he will harvest you for parts."
As the van sped away from the burning mill, Aryan looked out the window. He saw his reflection in the glass. The "Old Man" was gone for now, but Aryan noticed something else. Small, green leaves were beginning to sprout from the mahogany skin of his wrist.
He was growing. He was changing.
He thought of Rhea. He thought of her little yellow frock and the way she used to hide behind the curtains. He realized that this journey wasn't just about saving himself. If the Master could turn people into wood and metal, then perhaps... perhaps Rhea's death wasn't as final as he thought. Perhaps she was out there, trapped in a body of porcelain or wax, waiting for her "Knight" to find her.
The thought gave him a surge of hope so strong it hurt.
"Where are we going?" Aryan asked.
"To the only place where the wood doesn't rot," Mira replied. "The Forest of Iron. But first, we need to fix your arm. You're leaking sap, Aryan. And in this city, predators can smell sap from miles away."
Aryan looked at his hand and saw a thick, golden liquid oozing from a crack in his palm. It smelled like sandalwood and ancient earth. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.
It was his new life.