Location: Sector 2, The Citadel of Mars.
Time: 22:00 (Post-Raid).
The Psychopomp limped into the central courtyard of the Citadel.
The massive hearse was a ruin. The suspension was shot, riding low on the axles. The brass armor plating was scarred by acid burns and deep claw marks that looked like tears in foil. The V-12 engine was coughing thick, black smoke that smelled of burning oil and exhaustion.
But it was alive. And more importantly, it was carrying the only survivors of the raid.
Dante kicked the passenger door open. He didn't look like a victor. He looked like a man who had crawled out of a mass grave. His coat was shredded, the wool hanging in tatters, revealing the new, glowing white runes etched into the metal of his mechanical arm. He smelled of burnt meat, ozone, and ancient dust.
Silas practically fell out of the driver's seat, kissing the concrete floor of the courtyard.
"Solid ground," Silas whimpered, hugging a pothole. "I never thought I'd miss the smell of cordite and diesel. It smells like home."
Valerius stepped out last. He had discarded his broken white chitin armor. He wore a simple, grease-stained mechanic's jumpsuit Silas had found in the trunk, but he carried himself like a king in exile. He had no sword, but his hands were steady at his sides.
The Citadel guards—fifty men in heavy plate armor—leveled their steam-rifles instantly. The sound of fifty bolts racking back echoed off the stone walls.
"Hold fire!" Dante commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but the Silvergrin amplified the resonance, making it sound like grinding gears.
He pointed a metal finger at the main keep, where a single light burned in the tower.
"Tell the Baron his investment has returned. And I brought my change."
…
The Baron's private office was not opulent. It was a bunker located at the very top of the Citadel. The walls were reinforced concrete covered in tactical maps, troop movement charts, and supply manifestos.
The only decoration was a row of mounted heads on the far wall—beasts, rival warlords, and traitors. But the centerpiece was a massive, desiccated finger. It was grey, the size of a man's torso, mounted on an iron plaque. A piece of a Bio-Titan, claimed ten years ago. It was a reminder: The Baron has done this before.
The Red Baron stood by the window, looking out at the smoking fires of the Ash Wastes in the distance. He held a glass of amber whiskey, but he wasn't drinking. His knuckles were white against the crystal.
"Report," the Baron said, not turning around. His voice was low, vibrating with suppressed violence.
Dante walked in, flanked by Valerius. He took a seat in a leather chair without asking. The leather creaked under his weight. He reached for the Baron's crystal decanter and poured himself a generous drink.
"The Titans are dead," Dante said, swirling the liquid. "Subject Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. Neutralized. Sector 7 is open."
The Baron turned slowly. His face was a mask of controlled fury, his eyes bloodshot.
"And my army?" the Baron asked softly. "Bravo Group? Captain Grist? Iron-Head? The Silent Sister?"
"Dead," Dante replied, taking a sip. The whiskey burned pleasantly against the entropy in his gut. "Wiped out."
The Baron threw his glass against the wall.
SMASH.
The sound was like a gunshot. Shards of crystal rained down on the carpet.
"You wiped out an entire division!" the Baron roared, slamming his hands on the desk. "You promised me a victory, Scavenger! Instead, I have three dead Titans and a graveyard of my best men! Grist was an idiot, but he was my idiot! Iron-Head cost me two million gears to build!"
He pointed a shaking finger at Valerius.
"And you bring him into my house? The butcher of Bravo Group? The Sword-Saint who cut Iron-Head's head off?"
The Baron didn't wait for an answer. He drew his sidearm—a massive, custom-built revolver loaded with armor-piercing rounds.
He leveled it directly at Valerius's forehead.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't paint my wall with his brains right now."
The room went deadly silent. The hammer of the gun clicked back.
Valerius didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, staring down the barrel of the gun with eyes that looked like empty yellow glass. He was empty of fear. He had seen the Axiom; a bullet seemed trivial in comparison.
"He's not the butcher anymore," Dante said calmly, not even setting down his drink. "He's the trophy."
Dante stood up and walked to the Baron's desk, placing himself between the line of fire and the Elf, though he didn't block the gun. He leaned in, the Silvergrin glistening in the dim light.
"You sent sheep to kill wolves, Baron. Iron-Head was strong, but slow. Grist was loud and stupid. They died because they were obsolete."
Dante gestured to Valerius, who was still staring at the gun without a hint of emotion.
"This man killed half your legion with a piece of glass and a sword made of bone. He is a Sword-Saint. A biological weapon manufactured by Gorm. And I broke him."
Dante tapped his own chest with a metallic clink.
"I killed the Titans. I defeated the Saint. I returned with the prize. I didn't lose your army, Baron. I filtered it. The weak died in the sand. The strong are standing in this room."
The Baron stared at Dante. Then at Valerius. The rage in his eyes battled with cold, hard strategic logic.
He slowly lowered the gun.
He looked at the map on the wall. Sector 7 was vulnerable now. The Titans were gone. But Sector 2 was defenseless. The Baron had no captains left. If the other Aspirants—Aurum the Banker, or The Chimera Queen—caught wind of this weakness, they would invade by dawn.
The Baron needed a deterrent. He needed a monster to stand on the wall and scare the darkness away. And he had two of them standing in his office.
The Baron holstered his gun and sat down heavily in his chair. He opened a drawer and pulled out a heavy iron badge. It was shaped like a wolf's skull, with rubies for eyes.
"Captain of the Vanguard," the Baron said, sliding the badge across the mahogany desk. "Grist's old rank. You take command of the remnants of the Iron Legion. You rebuild the defenses. You answer only to me."
Dante looked at the badge. It was power. It was access. It was the key to the Citadel's restricted zones.
"There is a catch," the Baron added, his eyes narrowing. "That badge is enchanted. It contains a sympathetic tracker linked to the Citadel's security grid. I will know where you are at all times. If you enter the Vault without my biometric key... the badge detonates. It will blow a hole in your chest the size of a dinner plate."
Dante didn't flinch. He picked up the badge. He felt the hum of the tracking magic inside it. A leash.
"I'm an independent contractor," Dante said coolly. "I have my own team."
"Your team is a mechanic and a defector," the Baron scoffed. "You need resources. You need ammo. You need legitimacy. You can't eat independence, Scavenger."
The Baron leaned forward.
"You want to be the Pale King? Fine. Be a King. But Kings need castles. I'm offering you the keys to mine. Until you betray me, of course."
Dante smiled. It was the smile of a shark recognizing another shark in deep water.
"Of course," Dante said. "And I assume you'll betray me the moment I've secured the borders and trained a new replacement?"
"Naturally," the Baron grinned, a sharp, white flash of teeth under his bristly mustache. "It's the nature of the business. Survival of the fittest."
Dante pinned the heavy iron badge to his tattered coat. It hung there like a medal of dishonor.
"Then we understand each other."
Dante started to laugh. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was a low, mechanical chuckle that rumbled in his chest like a failing engine.
The Baron joined in. His laugh was a barking, harsh sound, like a seal with emphysema.
They stood there in the war room, two monsters laughing over the graves of the men they had sacrificed, shaking hands over a deal made of gunpowder, whiskey, and lies.
"To the victors," the Baron wheezed, pouring a new drink.
"To the survivors," Dante answered, raising his glass.
Dante, Silas, and Valerius walked out of the keep an hour later. The night air was cold, but the adrenaline kept them warm.
Silas was hyperventilating, clutching his chest. "You just accepted a job from the man who wants to mount your head on his wall. And you took a badge that is literally a bomb."
"It's perfect," Dante said, touching the cold iron wolf on his chest. "We have full clearance. We can roam the Citadel. We can access the archives."
"We are surrounded by thousands of soldiers who hate us," Valerius noted, looking at the hostile glares from the guards on the ramparts. "They suspect that I killed their friend."
"They don't hate us," Dante corrected, lighting a cigarette he had swiped from the Baron's desk. "They fear us. And fear is a much more stable currency than love. Love fluctuates. Terror is constant."
He looked up at the massive central tower of the Citadel. The Baron's private library was up there, protected by wards and steel. And inside it, the book The Anatomy of Empires—the map to the Second Axiom.
"Get some rest," Dante ordered. "Tomorrow, we start the real heist. We have to figure out how to bypass the tracker on this badge without blowing my heart out. Tonight... we celebrate."
"Celebrate?" Silas asked, incredulous. "With what money? You spent our last uranium bar on a time-god!"
Dante pulled a heavy leather pouch from his pocket. He tossed it to Silas. It clinked with the heavy, wet sound of gold.
"Gold teeth," Dante grinned. "Extracted from the mercenaries in the hearse before we dumped the bodies. Waste not, want not."
Silas looked at the pouch with horror, then with resignation.
"Poker night at the barracks," Dante said, adjusting his collar. "I feel lucky. And I need to plant some seeds of rebellion."
"Rebellion?" Valerius asked.
"The Baron thinks he bought a watchdog," Dante whispered, the smoke curling around his silver jaw. "He's about to find out he invited a wolf into the hen house."