The screech of docking clamps jolted everyone awake.

The military cargo train shuddered as it locked into the steel arms of Port 7, deep within the Armory's lower sector. Hissing hydraulics and the clank of magnetic locks echoed through the hull.

Though technically still part of the frontier, the Armory sat two weeks inland by rail from the active front lines. But make no mistake—this was still a warzone.

The cargo train was the only lifeline connecting the inner continent to the frontier. A constant flow of bodies and machines in both directions. Refugees. Replacements. Scrap.

They called it the Frontier because it was where the world ended and something worse began. The largest portal of feral biocore incursion known to mankind—an open wound no core weaver had ever been able to close.

From that breach came creatures, day and night.

And from humanity?

Blood.

The war had lasted for centuries.

A meat grinder that consumed millions.

Here, on the frontier, anyone below five-star rank was cannon fodder. Too weak to sustain their mecha forms for long. Too slow to survive more than a few battles.

But five-star and up? They could externalize their biocores—manifest functional, battlefield-grade mechas. And those machines needed maintenance.

That's where the Armory came in.

If the Citadel forged conquerors, the Armory built what kept them alive:

weapons, repairs, retrofits, miracles.

The train was packed tight with battle-worn frames—dented cockpits, cracked plating, exposed power nodes. Each one humming faintly with residual stress. Left to recover naturally, they'd self-repair over weeks inside their weavers' biocores.

But the Frontline didn't give them that kind of time.

Here, any mecha too damaged to function was offloaded for rapid repairs. If the damage was terminal? The warrior was put on forced leave—if they were still breathing.

"Undock the C-ranks," barked a voice over the loudspeakers.

"Send 'em to Hangar Two. We've got space for a hundred easy."

The deck below erupted in motion—mechanics in grease-streaked uniforms jumped into action, sweat glistening on bronze skin, sleeves tied off around their waists from hours near the forges.

"I heard we've got an A-Class this time," someone muttered.

"Dream on. Only the Chief gets to touch those."

"B-ranks go to Hangar Nine. Move it."

Another wave of shouting followed, boots thudding against steel walkways.

And then—

"I heard we're getting a new recruit today," said one grizzled mechanic. He spat into a can. "Already understaffed, and now I gotta train some brat who'll run back to the inner continent the second his hands get burnt."

"Where is he? Where's the new kid?"

The voice rose. "Nioh! Nioh!"

"Here," came a quiet reply from deeper in the train.

Everyone turned.

A boy stepped out, no more than thirteen. Slender, wiry. Dressed in baggy shorts and worn sneakers, an oversized white tank top hanging off one shoulder. Over it, a blue jean jacket—even bigger, sleeves flapping as he walked.

In his hand?

A smoothie cup, which he sipped through a straw with casual ease.

But it wasn't the clothes that froze them mid-step.

It was his eyes.

Gold. Sharp. Focused.

And the hair—split clean down the middle:

one half silver, the other blood red.

He looked like he didn't belong.

He looked like he knew exactly where he did.

"Kid, this isn't a playground. Are you lost?" the foreman barked, eyes narrowing. "Somebody call the chief—there's got to be a mistake."

Nioh didn't flinch. He took another sip from his smoothie, then flicked his wrist and sent a digital card spinning through the air.

It hovered in front of the foreman's face, glowing with authority.

"Relax, hot stuff," Nioh said, voice casual. "I'm the new mechanic."

The foreman snatched the card out of the air and scanned it.

"Nioh… frontline mechanic, age eighteen," he read aloud. Then glanced up, then down. Then up again.

The boy in front of him looked like he was twelve at best—in shorts and sneakers, wearing a tank top two sizes too big and a jacket that could double as a sleeping bag. Silver-and-red hair split down the middle. Eyes glowing gold like refined ore.

The foreman blinked. "You've gotta be kidding me."

He wasn't.

"Vex! Help him settle in. Show him around," the foreman ordered, waving the card away.

"Yes, sir!" came a voice nearby.

A scrawny young man stepped forward—skin smudged with soot, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had worn mechanics' coveralls and a pair of cracked goggles resting on his forehead.

He gave Nioh an awkward smile. "Come with me. Need help with your luggage?"

Before Nioh could answer, Vex reached for the duffel slung lazily over one of Nioh's shoulders—then froze.

He pulled.

Nothing.

It didn't budge.

Vex grunted, pulling harder. The bag didn't even shift. It might as well have been bolted to the train.

"I got it," Nioh said coolly, lifting the bag one-handed like it was filled with pillows.

Vex blinked. "Yeah. Uh. Right. This way."

The further they walked, the louder it got.

Steam vents hissed. Hammers rang. Sparks rained from overhead platforms. The air tasted like copper and fire.

And then—

They passed through the main corridor and emerged into the core of the Armory.

Nioh stopped mid-step.

The Forge.

A colossal chamber, built around the molten heart of an ancient volcano. The heat here was constant, but tightly controlled. Thousands of pipelines wove through the facility like metal veins, delivering that energy across a web of hangars, labs, and weapon bays.

Massive cooling towers spiraled up the walls. Complex runes, wiring grids, and suspended platforms were anchored to high steel beams like scaffolding for a god.

The scale was overwhelming.

Centuries of labor. An entire city of machines and flame—designed to keep humanity alive.

Vex smiled at Nioh's silence. "Yeah. That was my reaction, too."

He waved as they continued down a grated hallway, past dozens of hangars glowing with biocore light.

"This is where most of the repairs happen," Vex explained. "Every mechanic gets assigned to a hangar. Usually five or six to a team."

He gave a slight shrug.

"Work hours are brutal. Teaching's optional. If a senior mechanic likes you, maybe they'll show you the ropes. Otherwise, you learn by doing—and pray you don't screw up a Tier-Six combat frame."

They passed a multi-tiered wing with reinforced doors and high-level clearance sigils glowing on the walls.

"That's the Weapons Design section," Vex said, lowering his voice. "Top-tier stuff. Only the elite get to work up there. I've heard they're researching next-gen biocores. Stuff not even the Citadel's seen."

They crossed a platform overlooking the dining area.

"And that's the cafeteria. Food's at noon and nineteen hundred sharp. Any special meals or extra rations—you pay out of pocket."

"Pay with what?" Nioh asked.

"Military merits," Vex said. "You earn them by repairing mechas. The more critical the damage, the higher the core rank, the better your payout."

He turned, leading Nioh down another hallway toward the mechanic quarters.

"Simple system. You survive, you earn. You earn, you eat. You impress someone? Maybe you climb the ladder."

He glanced back.

Nioh still walked like he didn't care—but his eyes took in everything.

"And you?" Nioh asked. "How long you been here?"

"Two years," Vex replied. "Still bottom rung. But I haven't died yet, so that's something."

Nioh grinned. "I'll take that as inspiration."

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