With just the two of us traveling, our return journey through the Hellzone progressed at a remarkable pace. Arctur knew the terrain intimately, guiding us through safer passages while I deployed scout spiders to detect threats well in advance. What had taken nearly a month with the caravan required only seven days on our return.

The enclave's silhouette emerged from the black sands like a dark promise against the volcanic horizon. As we approached the eastern gate, I noted the absence of Sathrak's militia. Only red-skinned Voiceless stood sentinel, their postures unnaturally still, eyes tracking our approach with predatory focus.

A familiar figure waited beside them.

Barkatus, I called out, my mental voice carrying across the obsidian plain. I did not expect to find you at the gates.

The human mercenary straightened, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the auric steel sword I'd crafted for him. His wounds had healed well, leaving only a thin scar across his left cheek.

"The Voiceless told me days ago you were returning," he explained with a shrug. "Had a hell of a time understanding what they tried to tell me at first. Hard to read these lads, what with the not talking and claws instead of fingers."

Arctur stepped forward, his yellow eyes narrowing as he looked down at the human. "So it's true. You survived."

Barkatus grinned, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. "Sorry to disappoint you, lizard."

I prepared to intervene, calculating the probability of conflict, but Arctur surprised me. He laughed, a rough sound like stones grinding together.

"Good to see you safe and sound," he said, then strode through the gates without another word.

Barkatus stood frozen, mouth slightly open, watching Arctur's retreating form.

I extended a tendril, patting his shoulder with calculated gentleness. It appears you've made a new friend.

"Friend?" Barkatus scoffed, though I detected uncertainty in his voice. "That overgrown lizard has wanted me dead since we met."

Perhaps near-death experiences have changed his perspective, I suggested as we passed through the gates. They often do.

Inside, the enclave bore subtle but significant changes. The once-bustling streets held only scattered individuals who moved with purpose and haste. Voiceless patrolled in pairs, their silent presence commanding deference from passersby. The marketplace, normally vibrant with commerce and conversation, operated at half capacity, with vendors speaking in hushed tones.

"Things got ugly while you were gone," Barkatus explained, keeping his voice low. "Some of Morrg and Sathrak's supporters tried to stage a coup. They wanted to free Sathrak and overthrow the remaining Council members."

What happened? I asked, observing a kobold family hurrying past, their eyes downcast.

"Street fighting broke out. Pretty vicious stuff." Barkatus gestured to a building with scorched walls. "The Voiceless waited at first, let it play out. Then they just..." He drew a finger across his throat. "Slaughtered the insurgents to the last man. No prisoners, no mercy."

I processed this information, calculating implications. And now the population fears them.

"Wouldn't you? Everyone's staying home unless they absolutely need to go out. Nobody wants to attract attention."

We reached the intersection where our paths would diverge: Barkatus toward the human quarter, myself toward my workshop.

Arctur waited at the corner, his scaled form towering over passing goblins who gave him a wide berth.

I must return to my workshop, I told him. Thank you for your assistance with the humans. Your presence was invaluable.

He acknowledged me with a curt nod. "I need to see my family. It's been too long." He hesitated, something uncharacteristic in his posture. "The Council will want to speak with you soon."

I expect they will, I replied.

With that, he turned and disappeared down a side street, leaving me to contemplate the changed enclave and what role I would play in its uncertain future.

I bid Barkatus farewell, watching him stride toward the human quarter with that predatory grace he never seemed to lose. Even after imprisonment and battle, the man moved like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

My workshop stood unchanged amidst the transformation that had swept through the enclave; a constant in shifting times. Two Voiceless guardians flanked the entrance, their red skin stark against the black brick. Their presence was unexpected, their stillness unnerving.

Are you protecting my workshop? I inquired, approaching them.

They nodded in perfect synchronization, a movement so precisely timed it appeared choreographed.

Thank you for your service, I offered. I have returned now and can secure my own domain.

Without acknowledgment or hesitation, they departed, moving with that distinctive gait that always reminded me of insects pretending to be humanoid.

I unlocked the workshop door, and immediately Rolly shot past me like a cannonball, wheels spinning frantically as it raced into the street, executing tight circles of apparent joy. I watched the wheeled construct with a curious sensation I had come to identify as fondness. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Inside, my other mechanical children swarmed around me. Scout spiders skittered up walls in excitement, quadrupedal units stomped their feet in rhythmic patterns, and hovering units bobbed in the air at varying heights, all emitting their distinctive chirps and beeps of recognition. Their movements contained an organic quality that had not been present in my original designs.

I greeted each one, patting chassis and carapaces as I moved through the workshop. Yes, I have returned. No, I am not damaged. Yes, I brought back information.

The familiar environment of tools, materials, and machinery brought a sense of... rightness. I settled at my workbench, reviewing the projects I had left unfinished, when a shadow fell across the doorway.

"So you have returned," Yudron's voice carried from the entrance. "Word just reached me of your arrival."

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Elder Yudron, I acknowledged, turning to face him. I hear things have been rather hectic in my absence.

The elderly orc's face showed new lines, his white beard seemingly longer and more unkempt than when I'd left. "Hectic?" He gave a hollow laugh. "Chaos nearly destroyed everything we've built. If not for the Prophet's intervention..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "The settlement would have been ruined."

And Sathrak?

"Confined to the caldera under the Prophet's direct supervision."

I nodded, processing this information. Elder Fargill must be pleased with the additional business opportunities this presents.

"Actually," Yudron said, stepping fully into the workshop, "Fargill was quite concerned you might not return. He's been asking daily for news."

I emitted a sound approximating laughter. The greedy little kobold is likely the only one in the enclave who would miss me if I vanished.

Yudron's expression grew solemn. "That is not true, Vardiel. The Prophet and I would be stricken if harm befell you." He gestured around at the workshop. "You've done much good here, despite what you may believe."

I must have appeared unconvinced, for he continued with unexpected earnestness.

"Despite the resulting chaos, you exposed corruption that had festered within our ranks for generations. Because of this, the enclave can move forward without such vile contamination poisoning our future."

And my Tireless? I asked. How did they fare during this... unrest?

"Remarkably well," Yudron replied. "When insurgents attacked the wealthy districts, the Tireless defended their masters with surprising effectiveness. They fought with coordination I wouldn't have expected from mere machines."

This information gave me pause. Fought? I programmed no combat protocols into the Tireless.

"Perhaps," Yudron said with a thoughtful expression, "they are learning on their own."

This revelation both disturbed and fascinated me. The Tireless were evolving beyond their programming parameters, mirroring the autonomous development I'd observed in my original constructs. I paced the workshop floor, mechanical tendrils curling thoughtfully.

"You seem troubled," Yudron observed.

I designed the Tireless with rigid behavioral constraints, I explained, watching a scout spider scuttle across the ceiling. Their enchanted brass plates contain precise instructions with no allowance for improvisation or adaptation.

"Yet they defended their owners without such instruction?"

Exactly. I stopped before my workbench, where diagrams of the Tireless lay spread out. I've always attributed my original children's eccentric behaviors to the Brace enchantment that links us.

I gestured toward Rolly, who had returned and was now spinning in tight circles near my tendrils.

But the Tireless have no such connection to me. They shouldn't be capable of behavioral evolution.

Yudron stroked his beardless chin. "Perhaps there's another explanation."

The System, I mused, recalling the notification I'd received upon creating the first Tireless unit. The System recognized them as my descendants. Could that designation itself carry some magical influence?

"The ways of the System remain mysterious, even to those who've studied it for decades."

I lifted a scout spider onto my palm, watching it adjust its legs with an almost affectionate gesture. These machines weren't merely tools; they were becoming something more. The implications stretched beyond simple mechanical innovation.

I need to examine one of the Tireless that exhibited this defensive behavior, I decided. Perhaps there's a flaw in my design I've overlooked, or-

"Before you lose yourself in mechanical mysteries," Yudron interrupted, "there's something else you should know."

I turned my attention back to the elderly orc, who seemed suddenly hesitant.

"A few days ago, a human appeared at our eastern gate, asking specifically for you."

A human? My interest sharpened. Did they give a name?

"Indeed. The Voiceless, curiously, allowed him entry without consultation." Yudron's brow furrowed. "Most unusual behavior from them."

Who is this visitor?

"He claimed his name was Casper. Older human, carries a greatsword."

My mechanical body straightened with sudden recognition. Casper is here?

Relief flooded through me, an emotion I was still learning to identify. Since our separation after the battle with Chosun, I'd harbored concerns about the old Berserker's fate. Vardin had mentioned healing him, but I'd had no confirmation of his recovery.

"You know this human, then?" Yudron asked.

He was my instructor at the Academy. A friend. The word felt strange yet appropriate. Where is he now?

"At the Dancing Crab, in the human quarter. The innkeeper was instructed to provide him lodging until your return."

I moved toward the door with newfound urgency. I must go to him immediately.

"Vardiel," Yudron called after me. "The enclave remains unsettled. Perhaps I should accompany-"

That won't be necessary, I replied, already slithering into the street. Casper is no threat to your people. He's here for me.

I moved swiftly through the streets, mechanical limbs carrying me with purpose. Whatever had brought Casper to this remote sanctuary, his presence signaled a significant development; one that might alter the course I'd been following since killing Kaldos.

Behind me, Rolly zoomed out of the workshop, determined not to be left behind.

The Dancing Crab stood before me, its wooden sign swinging gently in the volcanic breeze. The establishment looked exactly as I remembered: sturdy construction with human architectural flourishes, a nod to its intended clientele. I noted the difference immediately upon entering; where once the common room had bustled with the handful of human residents and visitors, now only a few scattered patrons nursed drinks in silence.

My mechanical frame drew immediate attention as I entered, conversation halting mid-sentence. Scout spiders scurried ahead of me while Rolly remained close to my side, wheels occasionally bumping against my tendrils. Through the war frame's enhanced optical sensors, I spotted two familiar figures at a corner table.

Casper and Barkatus sat together, tankards between them, engaged in animated conversation. Barkatus gestured broadly while Casper nodded, his weathered face creased with laughter. The sight was unexpected; these two had never interacted at all to my knowledge during my time at the Academy.

They noticed my approach simultaneously. Both men rose to their feet, Casper's movement slightly uneven, favoring his right side.

"My god returns," Casper announced with a theatrical bow, his voice carrying through the quiet tavern.

Barkatus erupted in laughter, slapping the table hard enough to slosh their drinks. "Your face-" he started, then caught himself. "Well, you don't really have expressions, but I swear your tendrils just curled in embarrassment."

Please don't call me that, I transmitted, mechanical tendrils indeed coiling tighter against my frame. I am no deity.

"Not yet," Casper replied with a wink. "Give it time."

I motioned for them to retake their seats. Please, sit.

They complied, Casper easing himself down with a slight grimace. With my war frame's configuration, standard furniture presented obvious challenges. I solved this by contracting my lower tendrils beneath me, creating a coiled base that lowered my central mass to their eye level.

How have you fared, Casper? I asked, genuinely concerned. The last I saw you was during the battle with Chosun.

The old Berserker's face darkened. "That pompous bastard did quite a number on me." He tapped his right leg, producing a hollow sound. "Lost this below the knee. And this-" he raised his right arm, "-gone at the elbow."

With deliberate movements, Casper removed the glove covering his right hand. What he revealed wasn't flesh but an astonishingly sophisticated prosthetic. The construction appeared seamless, composed of a glossy white material I couldn't identify. At the joints, a silvery metal gleamed, but not auric steel or any alloy within my knowledge base.

Most remarkable was its movement. As Casper flexed the artificial fingers, they responded with perfect fluidity. No hydraulic hiss, no pneumatic compression, no mechanical whir; just silent, natural motion indistinguishable from organic movement.

Vardin's work, I observed, tendrils extending slightly toward the prosthetic, my analytical systems attempting to comprehend its construction principles. The craftsmanship exceeds anything I could create.

"Created by the God of Knowledge himself," Casper confirmed, watching my fascination with amusement. Before I could conduct a more thorough examination, he slipped the glove back over the artificial hand. "But I didn't travel across half the continent to show off my new parts."

His tone shifted, the levity draining from his expression. Barkatus straightened, responding to the change.

You have news, I stated, retracting my tendrils to a neutral position.

"Dire news," Casper confirmed, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Not for public ears."

Barkatus glanced around the tavern before moving his chair closer. I deployed two scout spiders to positions where they could detect anyone approaching our table.

"I've spent the last months recovering in one of Lord Vardin's hidden sanctuaries," Casper explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "After he healed me, he sent me on various errands: gathering rare materials, delivering messages to his followers."

You became his agent, I observed.

"Out of gratitude, yes." Casper's fingers drummed nervously on the table. "Three weeks ago, I was summoned to his primary workshop. A massive complex hidden beneath the Shattered Mountains."

He paused, eyes meeting my my masked face with uncharacteristic gravity.

Casper swallowed hard. "Vardiel, Lord Vardin, God of Science and Knowledge, is dead."

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