I sat motionless in the Dancing Crab as Casper's words washed over me. Each detail of Vardin's final stand carved itself into my consciousness like acid etching metal. My mechanical fingers tightened around the wooden table, leaving deep impressions in the surface.

You left him? The question escaped before I could contain it, mechanical tendons tensing beneath my frame.

Casper's weathered face creased with shame. "He ordered me to go. Said there was nothing I could do against three goddesses. And he was right." His prosthetic arm, Vardin's creation, clicked tightly as he clenched his fist. "The mountains themselves were coming apart as I fled. The sky turned colors I've never seen before or since. Lightning struck upward from the ground."

I processed this information, searching for logical responses but finding only emotional turmoil. Vardin. He was dead. Despite having his old memories, I had never truly known him. Yet grief crashed through me in overwhelming waves.

Ayen and Kanis Rael, I whispered, the names tasting bitter. They were once his closest allies.

Barkatus leaned forward. "Gods betraying gods. What's new?"

No, I replied, fragments of Vardin's memories surfacing. They were more than allies once. They were friends. Companions through the Second Crusade. They bled together, celebrated together, mourned together.

The tavern's ambient noise faded as I retreated into these inherited memories. Vardin laughing with Ayen over wine beneath stars long forgotten. Kanis Rael's steady presence during the darkest days of the Crusade. These images in my mind were not my memories, yet they cut deeper than any blade could reach.

How long ago was this? I finally asked.

Casper drained his ale. "Three weeks since I escaped the Shattered Mountains. Came straight here as ordered."

The implications crystallized with perfect clarity. Vardin had anticipated his death. He'd sent Casper to warn me, knowing the gods would come for me next. With the Mantle of Machinery now in their possession, possibly in the hands of some chosen pawn, they would counter my every technological advantage.

Unless I evolved first.

The godseed, I murmured, the flesh and blood fingers of my left hand tracing the outline of my chest where the dormant power of Enmity resided. I need to reach level one hundred.

Barkatus grinned, the expression feral in the tavern's dim light. "Now you're talking. No more playing plumber for monster town."

"How close are you?" Casper asked, leaning forward.

Level seventy-seven, I replied. Twenty-three levels to go.

Casper's eyes narrowed with calculation. "With focused hunting in the deepest parts of the Hellzone, we might manage it in two months. Maybe less."

I nodded, decision crystallizing. No more distractions. No more infrastructure projects. No more political maneuvering within the enclave. Survival demanded power, and power required levels.

We leave at dawn, I stated, rising from the table. Gather whatever supplies you need.

As I turned to leave, Barkatus caught my arm. "What about the Prophet? The enclave?"

I paused, considering. The Prophet understands necessity better than anyone. As for the enclave... I glanced around at the tavern's patrons, at the fragile peace we'd established. They'll have to manage without me for a while.

The mechanical constructs stirred within my awareness, sensing my resolve through our Brace connection. I would need them all; every scout spider, every aerial unit, every combat-capable descendant. They would help me, either directly, or through Ancestor Might.

The path forward was clear. Hunt. Kill. Level. Survive.

And perhaps, when the godseed finally hatched, make the gods regret what they had done to Vardin.

Before heading to my workshop, I detoured through the winding streets toward Elder Yudron's residence. The stone path glowed with magical lantern lights, casting everything in a soft blue haze as evening settled over the enclave.

I knocked on the ornately carved wooden door, expecting Yudron himself to answer. Instead, the door swung open to reveal one of my Tireless units, its four arms positioned in a formal greeting stance.

The headless construct regarded me for a moment before bowing. It pivoted with perfect precision and led me through the entryway. I followed, noting the subtle differences in this unit's movement patterns: a slight hesitation before turns, a more fluid arm motion. Even without continuous supervision, my creations were evolving.

In the living room, Yudron sat cross-legged on a plush rug, dangling a carved wooden toy before a small orc child who giggled and grabbed at it with pudgy green fingers. The scene struck me as unexpectedly tender.

Yudron looked up, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile. "Ah, Vardiel! What perfect timing." He groaned slightly as he rose, bones creaking with age. "Take little Gromark to his mother," he instructed the Tireless.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The machine gently scooped up the child, who showed no fear as metal arms cradled him. The toddler even patted the Tireless's featureless chest plate before being carried from the room.

Adorable child, I remarked, watching them go.

Yudron's tusks gleamed in the light as he smiled. "My youngest great-grandchild. Just turned two last month." Pride filled his voice as he gestured for me to sit. "I've been blessed with four children, who've given me seventeen grandchildren, who've produced twenty-four great-grandchildren of various ages." He laughed, a deep rumbling sound. "Won't be long before I welcome my first great-great-grandchild into this world."

I'm glad your family thrives, I said, genuinely pleased for him. Despite our differences, I'd grown to respect the elder's wisdom.

Yudron settled into a chair, his expression shifting to something more serious. "But you didn't come here to hear an old orc boast about his progeny. What can I do for you, Vardiel?"

I straightened, the mechanical components of my frame adjusting with a soft whir. I'm leaving at dawn. I'll be venturing into the deeper regions of the Hellzone to train.

"For how long?" Yudron's brows furrowed.

Two months, perhaps three. I need to reach level one hundred.

Yudron's eyes widened momentarily before understanding dawned. "Ah. That was your original purpose in coming here, wasn't it? Before we distracted you with our problems."

Yes. I didn't elaborate on Vardin's death or the gods' involvement. Some secrets were better kept.

Yudron stroked his beard. "Fargill will be disappointed. He was quite excited about the completion of your water system and additional Tireless units."

The water system is functional. The remaining infrastructure can be managed without my direct oversight. I gestured toward the doorway where the Tireless had disappeared with the child. As for the Tireless, tell Fargill I'll complete his order when I return. At level one hundred, I should be able to construct them much more efficiently.

"I understand." Yudron nodded slowly, then his expression lightened. "I've never met anyone who reached the maximum level. In all my sixty-seven years, the highest I've encountered was a level seventy-nine dragon hunter who passed through decades ago." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I look forward to saying I know the first."

I extended my hand, and Yudron clasped it firmly in his. The contrast was stark: my golden mechanical appendage against his aged green skin.

Expect me in two months, I said. Sooner if possible.

"May the Ancestors watch over you," Yudron replied, using the traditional blessing of his people. "And may whatever god still favors you lend you strength."

If only he knew how few gods remained who didn't wish me destroyed. But that was a problem for another day; after I reached level one hundred and the godseed of Enmity finally hatched.

I arrived at my workshop shortly after leaving Yudron's residence. The familiar smell of metal and oil greeted me as I pushed open the heavy door. Rolly, who had followed me to the Dancing Crab and back, zipped past my legs and into the building, eager to rejoin its siblings.

Freedom! I announced.

The response was immediate. Quadrupedal units unfolded from their resting positions, aerial units descended from ceiling perches, and the scout spiders scurried from their alcoves. My creations moved with increasing individuality, each with subtle variations in their movement patterns that hadn't been programmed. The System classified them as my descendants, and they were evolving.

I moved to the back where two partially completed Tireless units lay on workbenches. These were meant for Fargill's latest order, abandoned when news of Morrg's betrayal reached us. Now, with my imminent departure, I needed to finish them to help maintain order in the workshop.

My hand hovered over the first unit's chest cavity. Assembly activated, my fingers moving with practiced precision as I connected mana conduits and aligned gear systems. The enchanted brass plates that would serve as their primitive decision-making cores slid perfectly into position. No need to rush; this was craftsmanship, not battlefield repair.

Two hours later, both units were complete. I placed my palm on the first unit's activation sigil and channeled a precise amount of mana. The construct shuddered, its four arms flexing in sequence as systems initialized. The second unit activated moments later, both standing at attention before me, awaiting instruction.

You will maintain this workshop in my absence, I told them, watching the brass plates in their torsos pulse with magical energy as they processed the command. Keep your siblings from wandering too far. Prevent damage to equipment. Ensure regular maintenance cycles continue.

Both units bowed in perfect synchronization. They immediately set to work, one gently herding a curious aerial unit away from the ceiling rafters, the other organizing tools that had been left scattered across a workbench.

I turned my attention to my upcoming journey. Scout Spiders Six through Nine, front and center.

Five of my most reliable scouts assembled before me, including Chonsey, officially designated Scout Spider Number Eight. It still wore the faded pink paint that Annes had applied during our time at the Academy. The once-vibrant color had dulled to a patchy pale rose, worn away by combat and weather. I felt an unexpected twinge of sentimentality looking at it.

You'll accompany me into the Hellzone, I told them. We leave at dawn.

Chonsey's legs wiggled with what I could only interpret as excitement. The other four remained motionless, awaiting further instruction. I dismissed them to prepare themselves according to their own inscrutable methods.

With preparations nearly complete, I turned my attention to my war frame. The right arm still showed damage from my battle with Morrg. Though I'd made temporary repairs during our journey back from the Kingdom of Resilience, the limb needed proper attention.

I settled onto a specially designed maintenance chair and disconnected my consciousness from the frame's extremities. My mental vision focused on the task as Assembly guided my remaining hand through the repair process.

The damage was more extensive than I'd initially assessed. Morrg's berserker strength had compressed three hydraulic cylinders and fractured an auric steel support strut. I removed the damaged components, fabricated replacements, and reinstalled them with greater reinforcement.

While engaged in the repairs, I conducted a full diagnostic of the entire frame. The spinal rack showed signs of misalignment, likely from the constant travel of recent months. Three of the nine dragon-headed tendrils displayed reduced response times of approximately 0.03 seconds, which was an eternity in combat.

I lost myself in the work, Assembly flowing through me with increasing efficiency. Each repair improved my connection to the war frame. Each adjustment heightened my awareness of its capabilities. This wasn't mere maintenance; it was communion with my own extended body.

As the final calibrations completed, I realized four hours had passed. The workshop had grown quiet, most constructs settling into their recharge cycles. Only the two new Tireless units remained active, silently patrolling the space.

I leaned back, allowing my systems to idle. For the first time in weeks, my mind relaxed into a state approaching peace. No political maneuvering with the Council. No moral dilemmas about slavery. No immediate threats requiring tactical analysis.

Just the quiet hum of machinery and the distant call of the Hellzone beckoning me toward level one hundred, toward the hatching of the godseed that would transform me into what I was always meant to become.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.