I watched the people around me through Mind Sight, tracking every warrior within my range. The surrendered militia remained on their knees, heads bowed in submission. Morrg towered over them, his bovine face twisted in a triumphant smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. His loyal fighters had spread out strategically, weapons drawn, though I detected uncertainty in their postures; many seemed poised between loyalty and rebellion, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.

The orc holding the woman hostage remained motionless, his blade pressed against her trembling throat. I focused my attention on him, studying the tension in his muscles, the slight shake in his sword hand.

Release her, I said, my Mind Speech carrying across the numerous minds in this obsidian plain.

The orc grunted, tightening his grip on the woman's hair. "No chance, machine. Not until Elder Morrg says so."

Very well, I replied with artificial calm. I was merely trying to save your life.

Confusion flickered across his scarred face. "What are you—"

His question died unfinished as Scout Spider Number 2 launched from atop a nearby wagon, landing with precision on his head. Eight articulated legs wrapped around his face with mechanical efficiency. Before leaving the enclave, I had upgraded my three scout spiders with pneumatic spike attachments bolted to their thoraxes; a simple yet effective modification.

The spider's internal mechanisms whirred. Compressed air hissed. A six-inch steel spike shot forward with devastating force, puncturing the orc's skull and driving deep into his brain tissue.

His body jerked once in surprise, then went limp. The sword clattered to the black sand as his fingers released their grip on both weapon and hostage. He collapsed backward, eyes still wide with shock. Scout Spider 2 disengaged with an elegant roll, disappearing into the shadows beneath a wagon.

Panic erupted among Morrg's forces. Warriors spun wildly, searching for the mechanical assassin, their formation disintegrating into chaos.

"Find it! Kill it!" someone shouted.

A scarred goblin with a crossbow pivoted frantically, weapon raised. Scout Spider Number 19 descended from above, landing on his scalp. The pneumatic spike deployed with a soft hiss. The goblin's finger twitched on the trigger as he died, sending a bolt harmlessly into the sand. Spider 19 skittered away, vanishing beneath another wagon.

One by one, my mechanical children struck from hidden positions. They emerged from wagon undersides, from behind crates, from atop canopies. Each attack followed the same pattern: sudden appearance, spike deployment, immediate retreat. The psychological impact proved as devastating as the physical casualties.

"They're everywhere!" a lizardman screamed, slashing at shadows with his sword.

Gomka's former soldiers seized the opportunity, retrieving weapons from the ground and charging into the fray with vengeful fury. Even some of the braver slaves joined the fight, grabbing discarded weapons and turning on their captors with years of pent-up rage.

The battlefield transformed into a chaotic melee, with slave against slaver, monster against monster, machine against flesh.

Morrg bellowed in rage, his massive form quaking with fury. He hefted his remaining battle axe, the blade catching sunlight as he charged toward a group of escaping slaves.

I intercepted him, my war frame moving with fluid precision. My sword-lance met his axe with a resounding clang that sent vibrations through both our weapons.

Your fight is with me, I said, tendrils unfurling from beneath my skirt in a deadly display.

Morrg's nostrils flared as he glared down at me. Despite the difference in our physical size, I detected the first flicker of fear in his eyes.

Voiceless, I called over my shoulder, never taking my Mind Sight off Morrg. Protect the humans.

The six red-skinned guardians nodded in unison, their movements eerily synchronized as they rushed to aid the slaves. Their presence alone caused several of Morrg's fighters to throw down their weapons in surrender.

You've lost, Morrg, I said, my tendrils coiling in anticipation. Your men are abandoning you. Your plan has failed. Surrender now, and I'll ensure you receive a fair trial at the enclave.

The minotaur's response was a savage overhead swing that would have split me in two had it connected. I sidestepped with mechanical precision, my war frame's hydraulics hissing softly as I prepared my counterattack.

This would end today, one way or another.

I used Analyze on Morrg. His stats materialized in my mind like ghostly text:

Name: Morrg

Level: 63

Species: Minotaur [Monster]

Gender: Male

Age: 61

Strength: 151

Endurance: 165

Dexterity: 120

Intelligence: 77

Wisdom: 69

His physical abilities were staggering, far beyond what a typical level 63 should possess. His race granted him natural advantages; a minotaur of his size commanded tremendous power through sheer biological design. Despite these impressive numbers, my own strength registered higher thanks to Ancestor Might. With over a hundred Tireless descendants now active in the enclave, my attributes had swelled beyond what my level would suggest.

I lashed out with my sword-lance, the weapon's edge catching sunlight as it sliced through the air. Morrg intercepted with his battle axe, metal screaming against metal. The impact sent vibrations through my war frame's arm, the pneumatics absorbing some of the shock.

The blow's force surprised even me. The minotaur staggered backward, hooves digging furrows in the black sand as he struggled to maintain balance. His eyes widened, genuine shock replacing his earlier confidence. He glanced down at his weapon. The axe haft had bent from the impact, the metal warped beyond repair.

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With a disgusted grunt, Morrg tossed the ruined weapon aside. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that emanated from his massive chest.

"I knew you were powerful," he said, his bovine features twisting into something between a grimace and a smile. "But this... this is wonderful! Finally, someone worthy!"

You cannot win this fight, Morrg, I projected through Mind Speech. Surrender now.

His laughter grew louder, echoing across the obsidian plain. "Don't underestimate me, machine. I haven't shown you everything yet."

The minotaur's expression shifted. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly as changes began within his massive frame. My sensors detected a rapid spike in his core temperature. His already impressive musculature thickened visibly, fibers tensing beneath his hide as though invisible hands were tightening them like cables.

Foam formed at the corners of his mouth, spilling over his chin in thick, viscous strands. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, flooding the sclera with crimson until his gaze resembled nothing so much as twin pools of blood.

I'd witnessed this transformation before: in Lathan, when Casper activated his Berserk state. The similarity was unmistakable, though Morrg's manifestation seemed cruder, less controlled.

Before I could adjust my combat parameters, Morrg exploded into motion. His speed nearly doubled, crossing the distance between us in a blur of muscle and fury. His massive fist connected with my right arm as I brought it up defensively, the impact reverberating through my entire frame.

Internal mechanisms shattered. Hydraulic fluid sprayed from ruptured tubes. Everything above my elbow went instantly numb, the limb hanging uselessly at my side. My sword-lance slipped from unresponsive fingers, landing with a soft thud on the obsidian sand.

I pushed backward, tendrils flailing wildly as I created distance between myself and the enraged minotaur. The tactical situation had deteriorated significantly. The Berserk state doubled physical attributes, pushing Morrg's strength and endurance well beyond my own. Only in dexterity did we remain comparable, with my war frame's precision mechanisms granting me a slight edge in speed.

Morrg charged again, his movements wild yet devastatingly effective. I twisted sideways, his fist passing inches from my head, the displaced air whistling past my ears.

My tendrils responded automatically, the nine dragon-headed appendages lashing out like metallic whips. They scored deep furrows across his chest and back, tearing away chunks of flesh and muscle. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, staining the black sand, yet Morrg showed no reaction to injuries that would have incapacitated any normal being.

The Berserk state had rendered him insensate to pain, his rage functioning as a perfect anesthetic. With each passing second, his fury seemed to intensify, his attacks growing more frenzied if less precise.

Direct confrontation would be suicidal. Casper had once mentioned he could maintain his Berserk state for approximately five minutes, and he was both higher level and more skilled than Morrg. If I could outlast the minotaur's transformation, victory would be assured.

I adopted an evasive strategy, my war frame's hydraulics working at maximum efficiency as I dodged and weaved. Morrg's massive fists crashed into the ground where I had stood moments before, sending up plumes of black sand. Each near-miss was followed by a counterattack from my tendrils, gradually wearing down his massive frame with dozens of smaller wounds.

For three minutes, we continued this deadly dance. Though Morrg's stamina seemed inexhaustible, subtle changes began to manifest. His movements slowed by fractions of a second. His breathing grew more labored, each exhalation carrying a spray of blood-tinged spittle. The internal temperature readings I monitored began to drop, and the unnatural tension in his muscles started to subside.

The madness gradually cleared from his eyes, replaced by exhaustion and the dawning realization of his predicament. As his Berserk state faded, leaving him vulnerable, I seized my opportunity.

I struck without hesitation or mercy. All nine tendrils attacked simultaneously, dragon heads slamming into his torso, neck, and limbs. The auric steel penetrated deep into muscle and bone, locking into place like anchors.

Morrg grunted, a surprisingly subdued sound given the circumstances. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw resignation rather than fear in his bloodied gaze.

My tendrils flexed outward with hydraulic precision, the force multiplied through carefully calibrated mechanisms. The minotaur's body could not withstand such opposing pressures. Flesh tore. Bones snapped. Internal organs ruptured.

What had once been Elder Morrg exploded in a fountain of viscera, painting the obsidian sand with a gruesome tableau of blood and tissue.

A scream tore from my throat, a shrill, musical cry that echoed across the Hellzone's desolate expanse. It wasn't planned; some part of me needed to express the savage satisfaction of justice delivered.

The battlefield fell silent. Combatants froze mid-struggle, all eyes turning toward the grisly scene. Morrg's remaining loyalists stared in horror at their leader's remains scattered across the black sand. One by one, they dropped their weapons, sinking to their knees in surrender.

The freed slaves began to cheer, their voices rising in a ragged chorus of vindication. Their tormentor had been reduced to meat and bone, his power broken forever.

I stood motionless, my frame and tendrils drenched in minotaur blood, mechanical systems humming with residual combat energy. Through the eyes of the humans and monsters alike, I knew what I must appear to be: not a liberator or savior, but a vengeful monster more terrifying than what they had faced before.

And perhaps, in that moment, that assessment wasn't entirely wrong.

The Voiceless moved through the battlefield with eerie synchronicity, their crimson forms flowing like blood across the obsidian sand. They secured Morrg's surviving loyalists with methodical efficiency, binding wrists with the very same manacles that had restrained the slaves mere hours before. A fitting symmetry.

Several freed humans, their faces hard with newfound purpose, assisted the Voiceless. They handled their captors roughly, some taking small vengeances (a kick here, a slap there) yet stopping short of true brutality. I made no move to intervene. Some wounds required such minor catharsis.

Gomka's surviving gang members gathered at the periphery, their postures tense and ready. Salzaren, the kobold archer who had been Gomka's lieutenant, approached me.

"We'll go now," he stated flatly. "Our debt is paid."

I nodded. Your assistance is appreciated. You're free to leave.

He grunted, then turned to his gang. Within minutes, they had disappeared across the black sands, their silhouettes wavering in the heat distortion like ghosts fading from memory.

I turned my attention to the far wagon where Arctur remained caged. The metal bars, though bent from his struggles, had held firm. I approached, my tendrils extending before me, dragon heads clamping onto the bars.

Stand back, I warned.

With a hydraulic hiss, my tendrils pulled in opposite directions. The metal groaned, then surrendered with a shriek of protest. The cage front tore away entirely, revealing Arctur's battered form within.

He stumbled forward, and I caught him with two tendrils, supporting his weight as he found his footing. Blood matted his scales, but his eyes remained clear and alert.

"Thank you," he rasped, voice rough from dehydration. "I failed. I should have-"

You did everything you possibly could, I interrupted. Considering the circumstances, you performed admirably.

Arctur's gaze dropped to the black sand. "I was too weak. If I had been stronger, Morrg wouldn't have-" His voice cracked. "And Barkatus. That stubborn human fought like a demon. Even outnumbered, he never yielded. His death is on my conscience."

A chuckle escaped me, the sound strangely musical coming from my throat.

Barkatus isn't dead.

Arctur's head snapped up, eyes widening to yellow saucers. "What? Impossible. I saw him fall."

Yet he lives. The Voiceless found him and brought him back to the enclave.

"That stupid, unkillable mercenary," Arctur muttered, a complex mixture of relief and exasperation crossing his reptilian features. "I've spent days marinating in guilt, thinking I'd failed him, and he's been alive this whole time?"

I patted his shoulder with my functioning hand. That seems to be Barkatus's special talent, inspiring complicated emotions in others.

"Are you certain he's alive?" Arctur asked, still disbelieving.

Unless the Voiceless rescued his corpse and delivered it to me for dramatic effect.

Arctur snorted, then winced at the pain the action caused.

Your injuries? I inquired.

"Minor. Nothing time won't heal." He straightened, testing his limbs. "We should see to the humans. They've endured enough."

I nodded in agreement. Can you walk?

In answer, Arctur extended his hand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from within Morrg's abandoned wagon, a streak of red shot through the air. His mysterious spear flew across the battlefield, handle slapping perfectly into his outstretched palm.

I stared at the weapon, fascinated by its properties. I really must ask the Prophet if I could borrow one of those weapons. The enchantment possibilities alone are extraordinary.

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