The Eternal Boiler Consortium's primary forge lay buried beneath the industrial sprawl of southern Shanghai, a labyrinth of iron and brass that never cooled. Steam hissed from every joint, valves clicked in precise rhythm, and the air tasted of hot metal and ozone. Fang Hedi stood alone on the observation platform overlooking the central chamber.
Below him, rows of glass cylinders glowed sickly green. Inside each floated a human form—suspended, wired, tubes feeding black essence directly into cracked dantians. Some still twitched. Most had stopped moving days ago. The ones that remained were no longer entirely human; brass plating had erupted through skin, pistons replaced joints, and faint red glows pulsed where eyes should be.
Fang watched without expression. His coat, black and immaculate, hung open to reveal the lattice of exposed boilers embedded in his own chest. They thrummed softly, drawing ambient qi from the room like a heartbeat made of machinery.
He lifted one gloved hand. A thin tendril of dark qi uncoiled from his fingertip, snaking toward the nearest cylinder. The occupant—a young woman whose face had once been pretty—jerked as the tendril pierced her neck. Her dantian flared, then detonated in a controlled burst. Black steam vented upward through vents in the ceiling. The body slumped, gears grinding to a halt.
"Failure number four hundred and seventeen," he murmured. His voice was calm, almost gentle. "Acceptable loss. Progress continues."
He turned away. The platform's railing was cold under his palm. Beyond the glass wall lay the main array: a colossal boiler suspended in chains, its surface etched with runes from the Eternal Engine Codex. The codex itself rested on a pedestal beside him—yellowed pages bound in something that might once have been human skin.
Fang opened it to a marked page. The text was written in a script long forbidden: diagrams of meridians twisted into gear trains, dantians redesigned as perpetual motion cores, virus qi mapped like circuitry. He traced one illustration with a finger—the silhouette of a woman, half flesh, half machine, crowned with crimson light.
"You were the first viable subject," he said to the empty air. "Orphan batch seven. Designation: Rose. Partial immunity. Flawed, yet… intriguing."
He closed the book. His crimson eyes reflected in the glass.
The memory came unbidden, sharp as a needle.
Southern Qi Mountains, 1887. Age twelve.
The forge was always dark, lit only by the molten glow of the central furnace. Fang Hedi—then just Hedi—sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, palms pressed to the brass plate embedded in his chest. His first self-forged boiler thrummed weakly, still unstable.
His mother knelt before him. Li Hua's face was gaunt, eyes sunken. She had not slept in weeks. Her hand trembled as she placed a small vial of clear liquid against his lips.
"Drink, child. It will stabilize you."
Hedi looked up at her. "It will kill you instead."
Li Hua's smile was fragile. "Mothers are meant to give. This is my gift."
He drank. The liquid burned like molten lead down his throat. His boiler flared—bright orange, then black. Steam erupted from his pores. Li Hua gasped, clutching her own dantian as invisible threads of qi pulled from her core into his.
She collapsed. Eyes wide. Mouth open in silent accusation.
Hedi watched her die. He felt no sorrow. Only a curious emptiness. The boiler in his chest steadied. Grew stronger.
He stood. Stepped over her body. Walked to the forge door.
Outside, the moon was full. The clan elders gathered for the ritual.
He smiled for the first time.
Present day.
Fang turned from the memory. The central boiler pulsed in time with his own. He raised a hand. Dark qi tendrils snaked across the chamber, connecting to every cylinder. The remaining subjects convulsed in unison. Their boilers synchronized—then overloaded.
A chorus of mechanical screams rose, then cut off as one.
Silence returned.
Fang exhaled. Black steam curled from his lips.
"Phase One is complete. Xinjiang Port burns. The rust begins to flake away."
He walked to a console etched with arrays. A crystal screen flickered to life, showing grainy qi-vision of two figures moving through underground tunnels: a tall man with piston arms, and a woman in crimson cheongsam, faint red glow in her eye.
Halen Wang. Rose Mei.
Fang's smile was thin, almost tender.
"Come, little gears. The king has prepared your ascension."
He pressed a rune on the console.
Far below the city, in the old qi veins, a hidden valve opened.
Black steam began to flow.
The Boiler King waited.
And the machine of the world turned one tick closer to eternity.