Translator: CinderTL
In the center of a vast, relatively flat basin that looked as if it had been plowed by some colossal force, a sprawling, chaotic settlement sprawled across the horizon like an ugly scar upon the earth.
The people who lived here called it "Rust Town," a name as blunt as it was cruel.
From a distance, Rust Town's silhouette was a haphazardly patched-together mess of countless twisted and warped metal sheets, thick, discarded pipes, and massive stone blocks that had collapsed from some grand, forgotten structure.
Towering, rust-streaked metal watchtowers pierced the perpetually murky sky like the skeletal remains of dying giants, their frames draped with crude rope ladders and tattered flags fluttering in the wind.
A crude enclosure wall, cobbled together from scrapped vehicles, jagged metal shards, and rammed earth, roughly circled the town. The wall was covered in charred burn marks and dried, suspiciously colored stains, as if it had weathered countless assaults by beasts or something else entirely.
As the view drew closer, the scene within the town became clearer. Narrow, muddy streets wound between low-slung, dilapidated shacks and tents. The air was thick with the eternal scent of rusting metal, the acrid smoke of low-grade fuel, and a deeper, more subtle stench of decay.
Scattered braziers crackled in the corners, offering a meager amount of light and heat that cast a dim glow on figures huddled in the shadows.
These were the commoners of Rust Town—mostly clad in rags, their faces gaunt, their eyes numb and hollow, as if the land itself had long since drained them of all hope and vitality. They mechanically went about their tasks: sorting through trash, patching broken tools, or stirring pots of suspiciously colored, viscous food.
Occasionally, fully armored Rust Knights would thunder past on mutated mounts, splashing mud in their wake. The commoners would only huddle closer together in silence, like startled ants.
Despair and decadence were the only emotions that circulated here, seeping deep into the very marrow of their bones.
Near the center of Rust Town, a relatively prominent building stood. It seemed to have been repurposed from the massive wreckage of some previous civilization. Its main structure consisted of heavy, rust-covered curved metal plates, hinting at an originally sleek industrial design. Now, however, it was covered in crude weld marks, reinforced steel frames, and a tangle of external pipes and cables of unknown purpose.
A massive, long-stilled gear-shaped structure was embedded in the building's facade, serving as its most prominent landmark.
Because of this, the knights called the place "Gear Hall."
Deep within the dim interior of Gear Hall, thick with the smell of oil and metallic dust, a colossal figure stood with his back to the only light source—a flickering, unstable stream of eerie blue energy leaking from a ruptured pipe.
He stood silently before a crude map table, cobbled together from scrap metal plates and drive shafts. His figure cast a vast, distorted shadow that nearly engulfed the entire room.
Just then, the silence of Gear Hall's depths was shattered by the heavy, rhythmic thud of metal boots, echoing through the cavernous metallic space.
"Lord Donde."
The newcomer, clad in the knights' signature rusted armor—stained and scarred—came to an abrupt halt a few paces from the towering figure. He bowed slightly, his muffled voice resonating from beneath his helmet.
"What brings you to seek me?"
The tall man called Donde did not turn, nor did he offer any pleasantries. He cut straight to the point, his voice as harsh and grating as two rusted iron plates grinding together.
"Toriel, the Skyveil is loosening. It is time to launch another expedition."
At the mention of the "expedition," the man called Toriel stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He fell silent for a moment, seemingly choosing his words with care, before finally speaking.
"Lord Donde, I never question your perception of the Skyveil's condition, but..."
He hesitated, his voice dropping an octave.
"During the last expedition, we lost nearly a third of our brothers, not to mention a vast amount of precious supplies."
"Though several years have passed, our strength is far from recovered. To launch another one now... wouldn't that be premature?"
Donde did not turn, but a hint of ruthlessness crept into his voice.
"Toriel, you and I never belonged to this cursed land!"
His voice rose slightly, strained with long-simmering loathing.
"Look around! Breathe this air, thick with the stench of rust and rot! Chew on those mutated roots that taste like grit, and radiation-scorched jerky! Everything here is slowly killing us—body and soul! I refuse to endure another single moment of this!"
At this, Donde spun around.
The dim, flickering blue light revealed his true face.
It was a twisted, inhuman visage.
His skin was an unhealthy, ashen gray, covered in thick, worm-like growths and festering scars that seemed to ooze mucus.
Most unsettling were his facial features.
Three turbid eyes with differently shaped pupils were arranged vertically in the center of his forehead, now flashing with a mixture of agitation and resolve.
He possessed three arms—two were relatively normal, while the third sprouted from beneath his right shoulder blade, slightly withered but still strong.
Even more bizarrely, two of his hands bore six thick, short fingers, covered in calluses and horn.
Donde used his normal arm to point to his horrific face and deformed limbs, his voice laced with profound sorrow and self-mockery.
"Look at me, Toriel! If we stay here any longer, it won't be long before I can't even recognize myself as human!"
"Even if... even if we finally escape this godforsaken place, where in the vast world outside would there be room for a monster like me?"
Hearing these words, heavy with immense pain and despair, Toriel fell into a long silence. His breathing beneath the helmet grew ragged.
Finally, all his doubts seemed to be crushed by this more powerful emotion. He asked in a deep voice, "When do we leave?"
"Now! Immediately! At once!"
Donde's reply was resolute.
"Take only essential supplies and those who can still fight. Abandon all burdens! We must act before the other fools realize the Skyveil is loosening! If we miss this chance..."
His voice trailed off.
"I don't know how much longer we'll be imprisoned in this living hell."
Toriel immediately pressed further.
"Then... how are we supposed to explain this hasty expedition to the other members? Many have already come to see the mutations here as..."
"A gift? Hmph!"
Donde cut him off with a cold snort, his gaze sweeping with disgust over his own twisted arm and six fingers.
"Only the indigenous fools, driven mad by this land, and those whose minds have long been corrupted, would mistake such a curse for a god's favor!"
He paused, suppressing his surging emotions, and commanded in a nearly ruthless tone.
"Just tell them it is a divine revelation from the 'Lord of All Decay'!"
Toriel nodded slightly in understanding, but then spoke again.
"However... Hagrid took a party out on a hunt today and has not yet returned."
A flash of fury crossed Donde's three eyes.
"Did I not explicitly order that everyone is forbidden from leaving and must remain on alert during this period?"
Toriel's tone carried a hint of helplessness.
"You know... Hagrid... like you, has also undergone 'significant' mutations. Therefore, he has recently become... increasingly difficult to control."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Donde's face, but he ultimately waved his six-fingered hand, making a decision.
"We will not wait for that self-righteous fool! We set out immediately!"
Toriel said no more, bowed in obedience.
"Yes, my lord!"
He then turned and strode away with heavy steps, preparing to assemble the party.
Silence returned to the Gear Hall, broken only by the faint, unstable hiss of the ghostly blue energy currents.
Donde's burly, deformed figure turned back to the rough-hewn map table. His six-fingered hand slowly unfolded, twisted fingers tracing the map's surface before slamming down on the central region with a mixture of longing, hatred, and desperate resolve.
His three eyes stared fixedly at the marked name, as if it were his only salvation—or his final grave. His voice, a hoarse rasp, echoed in the empty hall.
"Silverglow City..."
"So," Roland said, pointing to the eternally shrouded sky above, which flowed like turbid oil paint. He looked down at Hagrid, bound to the ground, his face deathly pale from blood loss and pain. "That is the 'Skyveil'? We broke through it to get here, which is why you call us 'Veilbreakers'?"
Hagrid nodded weakly, his voice a dry rasp. "Yes... the Skyveil... it is a cage, and a bastion."
"Countless have tried to cross it—whether to enter or to escape. They all died, dissolving into nothingness... It has been... a long time since I last saw new Veilbreakers."
Roland's gaze swept over the chainsword lying idle at his feet as he pressed further.
"And what about these things? The armor you're wearing, the vehicles you're riding... Did you forge them yourselves?"
Hagrid shook his head with difficulty, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as pain flared from his severed arm.
"No... no, these... these 'blessing' were all unearthed from the ancient ruins deep within the Great Sinkhole. We just... learned how to use them..."
"Ancient ruins..."
Roland repeated the words softly, the pieces falling into place.
So, these formidable yet uniquely styled creations aren't products of contemporary civilization. They likely originate from...
The Crystal Era?
That age of unprecedented prosperity on the Aetheron Continent, preserved only in the fragments of ancient texts.
As he pondered, Durga approached with heavy steps, a dark shadow clouding his rugged grey dwarf features.
He lowered his voice, speaking only for Roland to hear.
"Things aren't looking good, Roland."
Roland's heart tightened. He assumed the repairs had hit a snag.
"Is the shell ship still unable to adapt to the mana environment here?"
Durga shook his head, his thick eyebrows furrowed tightly.
"No, not that. The hull's repairs are going smoothly. I've recalibrated the rune circuits so it can 'squeeze' out enough energy to fly on this continent, but..."
He paused, a look of utter confusion on his face, and pointed toward the shell ship's navigation core.
"The problem is with the navigation."
"I can't lock on to—I can't even detect—any spatial coordinates or Astral Plane anchors, either inside or outside this continent. It's as if... as if something is completely blocking the signal."
Roland's brow furrowed. "Is it interference from these strange mana elements?"
"No, doesn't seem like it."
Durga slowly dismissed the idea, his voice tinged with a faint, imperceptible unease.
"This interference... it feels more... deliberate."
"It's as if some powerful, incomprehensible force has forcibly twisted the spatial connection between this region and the outside world, creating an invisible cage."
"It seems... it doesn't want anything to easily leave or wander across this continent."
Durga's words were like a stone thrown into a still pond, sending ripples of doubt through Roland's mind.
(End of the Chapter)
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