The black sands of the Central Hellzone stretched before us like an obsidian sea. My six Voiceless escorts moved in perfect formation around me, their chitin feet barely disturbing the volcanic glass beneath them. Even after four days, the caravan's trail remained etched in the landscape, as if it was a wound that refused to heal.

I propelled myself forward using my tendrils, each push sending me gliding across the treacherous terrain. The convoy had left unmistakable evidence of their passage: wheel ruts carved deep, footprints of various sizes, discarded items half-buried by the occasional wind. A large group of humans, monsters, and heavily-laden wagons couldn't help but leave their mark on this desolate place.

My thoughts drifted to Arctur. Had he survived the betrayal? Were the freed slaves still alive, or had Morrg already sold them to Southern Kingdom traders? The questions gnawed at me, driving my tendrils to push harder against the black glass.

The Voiceless kept pace effortlessly, their movements fluid and precise. I activated Analyze on the nearest one:

Name: Voiceless Guardian

Level: 50

Species: Whispering Rock [Monster]

Age: 34

I repeated the process with each of my escorts. All level 50, identical in every measurable way. It made me wonder about their brethren; were they all uniform in strength, or did the Prophet create hierarchies among them? Perhaps the thousand Voiceless Yudron mentioned included weaker and stronger variants, specialized for different tasks.

While gliding across a particularly smooth stretch of obsidian, I opened my own status screen:

Name: Vardiel

Level: 77

Species: Dirtborn [MONSTER]

Gender: N/A

Age: 1

Titles: Original, Vanquisher of Qordos, Defender of Weath, Dragon Slayer 2, Fugitive, Magistricide, Godslayer, Demigod, Apostate

Strength: 242

Endurance: 250

Dexterity: 249

Intelligence: 237

Wisdom: 229

Attributes: Ancestor Might (Descendants: 144), Invulnerable Flesh, Integration, Court Style Swordsmanship, Weath Defense, Enchantment, Titan Slaying Style, Godseed of Enmity

Abilities: Mind Speech D, Mind Sight C, Language Comprehension S, Assembly A, Analyze B, Depository C, Mana Manipulation B, Blade Skill D, Brace E, Momentum Redirection C, Mana Shell C

The addition of each Tireless to my creations had incrementally increased my power through Ancestor Might. With over a hundred mechanical descendants now, my physical capabilities had grown significantly. The war frame responded more readily to my commands, and my tendrils moved with greater speed and precision.

I felt confident I could handle whatever Morrg might throw at me. The minotaur was powerful (level 63 according to my earlier Analysis) but with six level 50 Voiceless at my side and my own capabilities, the odds favored us.

A distant shimmer caught my attention; the sunlight was reflecting off something metallic ahead. I signaled to my escorts, and we altered course toward it. Whatever awaited us at the end of this trail, I was ready.

We crested a rise in the black sand and came to an abrupt halt. The landscape before us told a story of betrayal and slaughter that made my circuits run cold.

This is where it happened, I said, though no one had asked.

Bodies lay scattered across the obsidian plain. The former slaves who had been caught in the chaos when Morrg's thugs and Sathrak's warriors had turned on the caravan. The scene was a grotesque tableau: wagons overturned, supplies strewn about, dark stains on the black sand where blood had soaked in. This was where Barkatus and Arctur had made their stand, fighting to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.

I moved forward, my tendrils propelling me between the fallen. Some victims bore weapons (improvised clubs, broken wagon parts) clutched in rigor-stiffened hands. They had tried to resist. Others lay face-down, struck from behind while fleeing. The Voiceless spread out around me, silent witnesses to this atrocity.

Near the remains of a large wagon, I discovered something that made my mechanical frame go rigid. A cluster of bodies, methodically arranged, all elderly men and women. They hadn't died in combat or while fleeing. They'd been lined up and executed.

They weren't valuable enough, I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. Too old to fetch a good price from Southern Kingdom slavers, so Morrg had simply disposed of them.

Among the slaughtered elders, I recognized a face: Marta, the woman who had wept when I'd announced their freedom. Her final question echoed in my memory: "Why couldn't you have come sooner?" Now she would never know freedom at all. Her unseeing eyes stared at the cloudless sky, her face frozen in an expression of terror.

I knelt beside her body, reaching out with a tendril to gently close her eyelids.

I gave you my word, I said to her and all the others who lay silent around me. I promised you freedom. A chance to see your families again.

My fury built like pressure in a sealed chamber. Morrg had made a mockery of my efforts, of the Council's decision. He had made me a liar to these people who had already suffered so much.

He will pay for this, I vowed, rising to my full height. Whatever it takes, wherever he's gone, Morrg will answer for what he's done here.

By noon the next day, we'd located our quarry. The trail through the black sands wasn't difficult to follow: over a hundred captives and their captors left distinctive tracks that even an amateur tracker could have followed. I would have preferred to travel through the night, my mechanical body requiring no rest, but my Voiceless escorts had biological limitations I couldn't ignore.

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Unlike my Tireless creations, the Prophet's children required periods of inactivity. When darkness fell, they'd simply stopped moving, their red forms becoming still as statues. I'd waited, impatient, my mechanical parts humming with frustration, while they entered a peculiar trance-like state. Fortunately, they required only an hour of this suspended animation before resuming our pursuit with renewed vigor.

Now I crouched at the crest of an obsidian ridge, my Mind Sight stretching out across the volcanic plain below. The caravan moved sluggishly across the wasteland, with surviving slaves stumbling forward under the watchful eyes of their captors. I counted methodically: twenty of Morrg's personal thugs intermingled with thirty of Sathrak's turncoat warriors. They were herding the humans toward what appeared to be a rendezvous point, likely where Southern Kingdom slavers waited to complete their transaction.

I didn't see Morrg himself, but my analysis indicated he must be present. A criminal mastermind wouldn't trust underlings with such a valuable shipment without personal oversight.

My tendril tapped thoughtfully against my frame as a strategy crystallized in my mind. I reached behind me, detaching three scout spiders from where they clung to my war frame. The metallic constructs dropped silently to the black sand, their articulated legs finding purchase immediately.

Circle around to the far side, I instructed through our Brace link. Identify Morrg's position and map all guard placements. Locate Arctur if he's still alive.

The spiders scurried away, their low profiles nearly invisible against the dark terrain. I watched them go, then turned to my Voiceless companions.

We wait thirty minutes, I communicated. Then we move.

The half-hour passed with excruciating slowness as my scout spiders relayed their findings. Guard positions established. Slave groupings identified. And most importantly, Morrg's location confirmed.

Now, I signaled to the Voiceless, rising to my full height.

We descended the ridge in formation, six crimson guardians and one war-framed machine, moving with deadly purpose toward the unsuspecting caravan.

The guards spotted us before we'd closed half the distance. Their reaction was immediate, with the caravan grinding to a halt as five of Sathrak's men broke away and approached with weapons drawn but not raised. A calculated show of caution rather than hostility.

My war frame's sensors identified their leader instantly. Durtha, the same orc who'd been entrusted with the slaves' safe passage to freedom. The same orc who'd betrayed that trust without hesitation.

We stopped as the militia members reached us, creating a tense standoff across the obsidian sands. The black volcanic glass crunched beneath their feet, the only sound breaking the eerie silence of the Hellzone.

Durtha's posture shifted to one of exaggerated deference. "What can this humble servant do for the honored guest of the Prophet?" His tone dripped with false respect, but his eyes darted nervously between my Voiceless escorts. His men shared his unease, their gazes fixed on the crimson guardians flanking me.

I let the silence stretch, watching discomfort bloom across their faces. My war frame stood perfectly still, only the occasional quiet hiss of hydraulics betraying its mechanical nature.

Your betrayal has been exposed, Durtha. My mental voice sounded grim within their minds. The Council knows of Sathrak and Morrg's actions. The Prophet has heard of your duplicity.

The orc's eyes widened slightly, but he maintained his composure.

The Voiceless have taken control of the militia's role in the enclave, I continued. Sathrak is in custody. The militia is disbanded.

One of Durtha's men took an involuntary step backward. Good. Fear was spreading.

If you surrender now, you will be shown mercy. I extended a tendril slightly, not threatening, merely emphasizing the point. This is your only chance.

Durtha's facade cracked. His face contorted with rage as he spat on the black sand. "Curse your meddling, machine! You've ruined everything we've worked for!"

He drew his curved blade with a flourish. "Kill them all!" he shouted to his men.

But his subordinates remained motionless, weapons still sheathed.

One of them, a younger orc with a prominent facial scar, tossed his weapon onto the sand. "I will not stand against the Prophet's will." His voice trembled but held firm.

Like dominoes falling, several others followed suit, their weapons landing with dull thuds on the obsidian sand.

"Traitors!" Durtha screamed, spittle flying from his tusked mouth. "Gutless cowards!"

You are the traitor, Durtha, I countered. You turned against the Elder Council. Against the Prophet. Against your own people's decision.

With a guttural snarl, Durtha charged, blade raised high. His attack was predictable, telegraphed by his rage. I didn't even need to shift my frame's position.

A single tendril whipped forward with precision, its auric steel jaws clamping around Durtha's head with a sickening crunch. The force of the impact lifted him from his feet before I slammed his lifeless body back to the ground. Blood seeped into the black sand, creating a glistening pool beneath his crushed skull.

The effect was immediate. Morrg's men began to panic, several backing away while others drew weapons with shaking hands. More of Sathrak's militia tossed their weapons aside, dropping to their knees in surrender.

"ENOUGH!" A thunderous voice cut through the chaos.

From one of the covered wagons emerged a massive figure. Elder Morrg stomped forward, his minotaur frame towering over his subordinates. His battle axe, a monstrous weapon nearly as tall as a human, rested casually across his shoulders.

"You've ruined everything," he growled, nostrils flaring with each angry breath. His hooves kicked up obsidian shards as he approached. "Everything!"

He swung his axe down from his shoulders, the blade gleaming in the harsh sunlight. "Pick up your weapons," he ordered Sathrak's surrendered men. "Now!"

The lizardmen and orcs remained kneeling, eyes fixed on the Voiceless guardians. Their fear of the Prophet's servants outweighed even their terror of Morrg.

The minotaur's eyes narrowed to slits. He turned to one of his loyal orcs and gave a curt nod.

The orc immediately grabbed a young female slave by her hair, dragging her forward as she screamed. He pressed a sword against her throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

"Surrender," Morrg demanded, "or my men will kill as many slaves as they can before you and your crabmen can stop them."

I sighed, the sound a musical note flowing from my lips. What exactly is your goal here, Morrg? You're finished at the enclave. You can never return.

My tendril gestured broadly at the desolate landscape. You can't survive in the Hellzone without Voiceless protection. The human kingdoms would kill you on sight. What do you hope to accomplish?

Morrg's laughter rumbled like distant thunder. "We can gain acceptance among the Southern Kingdoms if we prove our worth." His tusked smile widened. "Open our slaving operation there. Earn coin raiding human settlements. They won't care what we are if we prove ourselves useful."

I scanned his assembled men, my Mind Sight identifying a familiar face among them. Is that what you all want? I asked, voice projecting to reach them all. To serve humans notorious for enslaving your own kind?

My gaze fixed on the one-eyed, one-tusked orc. Gomka. Are you comfortable with this plan? Weren't you once enslaved by the Southerners yourself?

Gomka shifted uncomfortably, his single eye darting between me and Morrg. Several others among Morrg's forces looked similarly troubled, exchanging uncertain glances.

"I do not like this plan," Gomka finally growled. "Not one bit." His hand tightened around his weapon's hilt. "I worked hard to escape the Southern slavers. I would rather die than work for them again, this time willingly."

Morrg's expression didn't change, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Your wish is granted."

Before I could react, Morrg's massive arm swung forward, releasing his battle axe in a perfect arc. The weapon spun through the air, its massive blade catching the sunlight before burying itself in Gomka's torso with a sickening thud.

The force nearly cut the orc in half, pinning him to the black sand. Gomka twitched once, twice, then went still, blood pooling beneath his bisected body.

Gomka's men snarled with rage, drawing their weapons and advancing toward Morrg. The minotaur merely grinned, unsheathing a second, smaller axe from his back.

Stop, I commanded, my voice cutting through their fury. Leave the minotaur to me.

A piercing scream sliced through my focus. The orc holding the young slave yanked her head back brutally, exposing her throat more fully to his blade.

"Forgetting something, machine?" he sneered, pressing the edge deeper into her skin. Blood trickled down her neck in thin crimson rivulets.

Morrg's laughter boomed across the obsidian plain. "Surrender now, contraption. The Southern traders will pay handsomely for something like you." His eyes gleamed with avarice. "Exotic merchandise fetches premium prices."

He gestured toward the rear of the caravan with his remaining axe. "You can join your friend in bondage."

My Mind Sight immediately locked onto what he indicated: a rusted iron cage dangling from the back of the furthest wagon. Inside, a familiar reptilian form lay crumpled against the bars. Arctur's scales had lost their vibrant color, now a sickly gray. Blood matted his chest and face, one eye swollen shut. Despite his injuries, his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

When he sensed my attention, Arctur's good eye met mine. The shame there was unmistakable; the failure to protect those in his care had broken something fundamental in him.

My jaw clenched tight enough to produce an audible grinding. Morrg would answer for this. Not just for the slaves, not just for the betrayal, but for what he'd done to my friend.

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