Yudron guided me back through the winding tunnels, our descent marked by the gradual shift from volcanic heat to the cooler air of the enclave proper. As we emerged into the settlement, the full scope of this hidden society revealed itself once more.

"This way," Yudron beckoned, his weathered hand gesturing toward a wide thoroughfare lined with structures of varying sizes.

The monsters we passed regarded the elderly orc with unmistakable reverence. Many paused their activities to bow slightly, murmuring "Elder Yudron" with tones of respect. The orcs especially seemed fond of him, offering warm greetings that spoke of deep communal bonds.

You've earned their trust, I observed.

Yudron's mouth curved into a modest smile. "Time and service earn respect here. Nothing more."

We traversed a bustling marketplace where merchants of various monster species bartered and sold their wares. One stall displayed finely crafted tools: hammers, chisels, and saws arranged with meticulous care. Another offered garments of surprising craftsmanship, while a third showcased weapons that, while primitive compared to kingdom standards, showed remarkable ingenuity in their design.

My analytical mind cataloged each item, noting materials and construction techniques unique to this isolated community. Several merchants watched me pass with undisguised curiosity, their gazes lingering on my mechanical tendrils.

"Here we are," Yudron announced as we approached an enormous structure at the market's edge.

The building stood apart from its neighbors, its black brick walls rising to an impressive height. Yudron grasped one of the massive wooden sliding doors and pushed, his elderly frame straining against its weight.

Allow me, I offered, extending a tendril to assist. The door slid open with a low rumble, revealing a cavernous interior.

Empty space greeted us. A vast, uninterrupted expanse was inside, bordered by sturdy walls and illuminated by cleverly positioned light crystals embedded in the high ceiling. The floor was smooth, polished stone, unmarked by furniture or partitions.

"This will be your residence during your stay," Yudron explained, his voice echoing slightly in the emptiness.

It's quite large, I noted, my scout spiders already scurrying forth to examine the dimensions.

Yudron chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "The Prophet instructed us to find somewhere spacious. Said you were known for creating many things. He said that you'd need room for your... craft." He gestured broadly. "Was the Prophet correct?"

I rotated my masked head, calculating the possibilities. The Prophet was right. This space is ideal for my purposes.

My Assembly ability would function optimally here; there was enough room to construct whatever I might need, with sufficient space for my children to move freely. The ceiling height would accommodate even my more ambitious projects.

I'm grateful for your hospitality, I told the elder.

Yudron nodded, moving toward the door. "Rest well, Vardiel. Tomorrow, I'll return to show you more of our community."

I will rest, I assured him, though rest as he understood it wasn't something I required.

After the elder departed, I conducted a thorough inspection of my new quarters. The black brick walls were remarkably solid, constructed with surprising precision for a hidden settlement. Through my scout spiders, I explored the neighborhood surrounding my new workshop. The area seemed predominantly commercial. There were various shops and storehouses creating a quiet district that would allow me to work without constant interruption.

Perfect. I could begin building immediately.

I began to settle into my new workshop, but first, there was something I needed to do. I reached into my Depository, accessing the dimensional space where I had stored my mechanical children during our arduous journey. One by one, I withdrew them, their metal bodies gleaming even in the subdued light of the workshop.

With methodical precision, I arranged all thirty-nine dormant constructs in neat rows across the stone floor. My active scout spiders observed from strategic positions as I positioned their sleeping siblings. Each automaton was unique, some with delicate appendages for fine manipulation, others with robust frames which made them a bit sturdier. All were extensions of myself, creations born from my Assembly ability.

Once they were properly arranged, I activated our Brace link. The enchantment that connected us hummed to life, and I directed a steady flow of mana through the magical tether. The effect was immediate. A subtle vibration ran through the workshop floor as thirty-nine mechanical bodies began to stir.

Their awakening followed a pattern I'd observed before. First a twitch, then gradual movement as mana filled their empty reservoirs. Articulated limbs flexed and tested themselves. Sensor arrays illuminated, casting pinpoints of colored light across the dark walls. Within moments, the workshop transformed from silent emptiness to a hive of mechanical activity.

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My wheeled constructs spun their gears experimentally. The propeller-driven units lifted slightly, hovering inches above the ground. The larger quadrupedal models rose on jointed legs, tiny pneumatics hissing softly as they reestablished balance protocols. Last to fully awaken were the complex scout spiders, their intricate systems requiring more time to charge completely.

With each awakening, I felt the effect of Ancestor Might ripple through me. My strength increased incrementally, my reflexes sharpened, and my sensory perception expanded. The attribute responded to each construct as though they were true biological offspring, amplifying my capabilities with every new consciousness that joined our network.

The workshop soon filled with mechanical sounds: clicks, whirs, and the soft scraping of metal on stone. My children explored their new environment with unabashed curiosity, scanning walls, testing floor textures, and measuring the dimensions of our space.

Predictably, Rolly, my spherical construct with an unfortunate tendency toward wanderlust, made an immediate dash for the open doorway. I felt his excitement pulse through our link as he accelerated toward freedom. With a mental command, I seized control of his movement systems, halting his escape before he could roll into the streets and potentially alarm our hosts.

Not yet, little troublemaker, I communicated through our link. This place has rules we must understand first.

What happened next surprised me. The scout spiders that had accompanied me on the journey gathered around their recently awakened counterparts. Their sensor arrays flashed in complex patterns, emitting clicks and electronic pulses in what appeared to be a rudimentary communication system. Data seemed to flow between them: observations about our journey, the landscape we'd traversed, and the beings we'd encountered.

I paused, observing this unexpected behavior. While I had designed my children with basic learning algorithms to improve their functionality, I had not programmed this level of autonomous information exchange. They appeared to be developing their own methods of sharing experiences, building a collective knowledge base independent of my direct input.

Fascinating, I thought, watching as my mechanical offspring continued their silent conversation. They're evolving beyond their initial parameters.

I made a mental note to study this development further. If my creations were capable of this level of adaptation, what other potentials might they discover?

I spent the next hour observing my mechanical children as they acclimated to their new environment. The quadrupedal units explored every corner, their sensor arrays mapping the dimensions with precision. My hovering constructs drifted near the ceiling, measuring the workshop's height and scanning for structural weaknesses. The smaller wheeled units darted between their larger siblings, occasionally bumping into each other in what almost resembled play.

Two scout spiders engaged in what appeared to be a game of tag, one pursuing the other across the stone floor and up the walls. Their movements became increasingly complex, each anticipating the other's evasive maneuvers with growing accuracy. Through our Brace link, I felt their satisfaction each time they successfully predicted their counterpart's path.

After ensuring they were settling in properly, I turned my attention to more pressing matters. First, I approached the open doorway and pulled it closed, securing the latch. Privacy was essential for what came next.

I removed the widow's cloak and dress that had concealed my mechanical nature throughout our journey. The fabric, worn thin from months of travel, still carried the scent of mountain pine and Hellzone sulfur. I folded each piece with careful precision, placing them neatly by the door. The simple human gesture felt oddly comforting.

We'll need furniture, I murmured to no one in particular as I surveyed the empty space. A workbench at minimum, perhaps storage units for materials I would inevitably collect.

My attention shifted to my war frame. Despite regular maintenance during our travels, this was my first opportunity for a comprehensive inspection in months. I initiated a full diagnostic sequence, methodically checking each joint, connection, and mana conduit.

The auric steel had proven remarkably resilient. Where my previous frames had required constant repairs, this iteration showed only minimal wear; a testament to the material's durability. Small scratches marked the surface where Sand Dog claws had scraped against the metal. A slight misalignment in the left shoulder joint needed adjustment, likely from carrying Arctur during his recovery.

I extended each tendril in sequence, testing their responsiveness and examining the dragon-head tips for damage. The third tendril's pneumatic system responded a fraction slower than the others, only a minor issue that was easily corrected with calibration. I made each repair with practiced efficiency.

As I worked, my thoughts drifted to the Prophet's cryptic guidance. Grow, but not through levels. The concept was intriguing, almost heretical in a world governed by the System's rigid framework.

The Prophet had "delved into the seas of enmity," whatever that meant. He'd grown stronger through his children, the Voiceless, as they battled monsters throughout the Hellzone. Each victory strengthened them, and through some mechanism, likely an attribute similar to my Ancestor Might, their power flowed back to him.

I watched my mechanical offspring, now settling into more organized exploration patterns. The thought of sending them into combat made something tighten uncomfortably in my chest. My scout spiders were designed for reconnaissance, not warfare. My wheeled units couldn't navigate the treacherous Hellzone terrain. Even my more robust constructs lacked the combat capabilities necessary to survive against the monsters that roamed outside.

No, I couldn't send my children to fight. I wouldn't.

Besides, the Prophet himself had said our paths might differ. He was Enmity incarnate, his growth naturally came through conflict. As Machinery's remnant, my evolution would follow a different trajectory.

I extended my remaining arm, examining the pale, invulnerable flesh. As the Primordial of Machinery, my method of growing must be through construction and building.

The more I built, the deeper my understanding of Assembly would become. Currently, the System classified my ability as Rank A, impressive by human standards but still constrained by artificial limitations.

Vardin's fragmented memories whispered that Assembly had once been boundless, unrestricted by arbitrary ranks and categories. Before the System, before the gods imposed their order, the Primordials shaped reality according to their nature.

The System limits everything, I murmured, recalling Vardin's words. But perhaps those limits can be transcended.

If I continued developing my Assembly ability, pushing against the boundaries, creating increasingly complex machines, perhaps I could force it beyond Rank S, beyond the System's imposed ceiling.

I looked at my mechanical children with newfound purpose. We have work to do.

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