KLANG!

The heavy iron door of the Cell Block flew off its hinges, warping around the impact of a steam-pressurized fist. It sailed across the room, crushing a Cyborg guard against the far wall with a sickening crunch of metal on metal.

"Did you hear that?" Leona grinned, stepping through the smoke, her lion ears twitching as the distant sirens from the Transport Sector began to wail.

"The Young Lord started the party."

Grandmaster Brokk racked the slide of his massive, custom-built mana-rifle. The weapon hummed with a dangerous, unstable blue light.

"Then we better not be late," Brokk growled, spitting on the floor. "Isabelle, heat up the room. Lyra, shoot anything that doesn't have a beard."

"Aye, Grandmaster!"

They charged into the prison block.

….................

[Cell Block A - General Population]

The main hall was a nightmare of cages and catwalks suspended over the magma vents. The air smelled of sulfur and unwashed bodies.

"Intruders Detected," a mechanical voice blared. "Engage."

A squad of Iron Legionnaires—hulking suits of animated armor powered by enslaved souls—marched onto the bridge blocking their path. They raised heavy riot shields and mana-batons.

"Shield wall!" The Legion Commander shouted.

"Shield this," Leona roared.

She didn't stop. She activated the Steam-Impact Gauntlets Brokk had given her. The vents on her knuckles hissed, releasing white plumes of steam as pressure built up to critical levels.

"Beast Art: Steam-Hammer!"

She punched the center of the shield wall.

BOOM!

The explosion wasn't just physical; it was pneumatic. The shockwave shattered the first rank of shields and sent three heavy armored constructs flying off the bridge, plummeting into the lava below.

"Fire!" Brokk shouted.

He didn't aim. He just pulled the trigger.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

His rifle fired condensed slugs of volatile mana. They didn't pierce armor; they detonated on impact.

Explosions rocked the walkway. Cyborg limbs flew.

"Left flank!" Lyra called out, her eyes glowing green as she spotted snipers appearing on the upper catwalks.

She drew her Phantom Bow. She didn't use normal arrows. She pulled out the black-fletched ones Brokk had given her.

"Flash-Bang Volley."

Twang. Twang. Twang.

The arrows hit the walls near the snipers. They didn't kill. They burst into blinding spheres of magnesium-white light and deafening sonic screeches.

SCREEEECH!

The Cyborg snipers, whose optical sensors were tuned for the dark, reeled back, blinded and disoriented.

"Isabelle! Now!" Lyra signaled.

Isabelle walked onto the bridge. She looked at the blinded snipers. She looked at the panicked guards rushing them.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the scorching air of the prison.

"Gravity… Down."

She clapped her hands.

The catwalks above groaned. The blinded snipers suddenly became ten times heavier. The metal grating couldn't hold them.

CRASH.

The upper walkway collapsed, raining debris and broken bots down onto the main bridge, crushing the remaining reinforcements.

"Efficient," Brokk grunted, kicking a severed robot head out of his way. "Keep moving! The High-Security Wing is past the processing center!"

[The Processing Center]

They pushed deeper. The resistance grew stiffer, but Team B was a wrecking ball.

However, as they entered the Processing Center, the mood shifted from adrenaline to horror.

This wasn't a cell block. It was a workshop.

Tables were lined with restraints. Magical saws and drills hung from the ceiling. And in the corner, piles of discarded Dwarven armor and clothes lay in heaps.

But the worst part was the Soul Separator.

A glass tube, filled with swirling blue mist, was connected to a chair. A dwarf sat in the chair, his eyes glassy, drool running down his beard. He was alive, but he wasn't there.

It looked like his soul had left his body completely/

"They… they're lobotomizing them," Leona whispered, her rage faltering for a second as the cruelty of it hit her. "They're taking their minds to put into the machines."

Brokk walked up to the chair. He looked at the dwarf. It was a young smith he had taught to hold a hammer twenty years ago.

"Korgan," Brokk whispered.

The dwarf didn't respond. He just stared at the wall.

Brokk's hand trembled. He reached out and gently closed the dwarf's eyes.

Then, he turned to the console controlling the machine. He raised his rifle butt and smashed it.

CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.

He smashed it until it was sparks and scrap.

"Thrain," Brokk growled, his voice low and vibrating with a fury that made even Leona step back. "I'm going to pull your spine out through your throat."

"Grandmaster," Lyra whispered, pointing to a heavy blast door at the end of the room. "Mana signatures. Weak…but they're definitely in there."

Brokk took a breath. He composed himself, though his mechanical eye was whirring erratically.

"Leona. Open it."

Leona nodded. She walked to the blast door. She didn't use technique. She grabbed the edges with her claws and pulled.

SCREEECH.

The metal tore.

….............…

[High Security - Cell 1]

The room beyond was dark.

Chained to the wall, suspended by anti-mana shackles, was an old dwarf. He was emaciated, his once-proud beard singed and patchy. His skin was grey from lack of sunlight and food.

Master Orin of the Blast Furnace.

Orin lifted his head weakly as the light from the hallway spilled in. He squinted, his eyes adjusting.

"Brokk?" Orin rasped, his voice like sandpaper. "Is… is that you? Or have I finally cracked?"

"It's me, you stubborn old mule," Brokk walked in, cutting the chains with a laser-cutter built into his multi-tool.

Orin fell into Brokk's arms. He was light. Too light.

"You fool," Orin coughed, clutching Brokk's coat. "Why did you come? The Warden… Krog… he's a monster. He'll turn you into one of them."

"Let him try," Brokk said, helping his friend sit up. "I didn't come alone. And I didn't come to mourn."

Brokk looked at the other cells lining the hall. Mistress Kida. General Thorgar. They were all there. Broken. Starved. Hopeless.

Orin shook his head. "It's too late, Brokk. We can't fight. We can barely stand. Leave us. Save yourself."

Brokk looked at his friend. He looked at the despair in their eyes.

Then, he slapped Orin. Hard.

SMACK.

The sound echoed in the silent cell. Orin blinked, stunned.

"Did you hear that?" Brokk shouted, his voice booming. "That was the sound of me waking you up!"

Brokk stood up. He kicked open the massive spatial bag he had been carrying on his back.

CLATTER.

Dozens of heavy, gleaming weapons spilled out onto the stone floor.

They weren't swords. They were Magitech Rifles. Steam-Cannons. Runeblades.

"I didn't come here to rescue prisoners!" Brokk roared, picking up a heavy cannon and shoving it into Orin's chest.

"I came here to recruit soldiers!"

He looked at the starving dwarves in the cells.

"Thrain stole your freedom! He stole your dignity! He stole your craft!"

"Are you going to rot here? Or are you going to pick up a gun and remind that usurper who built this damn city?"

Orin looked at the cannon in his hands. He felt the hum of the mana core. It felt familiar. It felt like power.

Slowly, the despair in Orin's eyes faded, replaced by a spark of the old fire. A fire that demanded vengeance.

Orin gripped the cannon. He used it to pull himself to his feet.

"I…" Orin's voice cracked, then hardened. "I need ammo."

Brokk grinned, a savage, toothy expression.

"Top shelf. High explosive."

"Good," Orin racked the slide. The cannon whined as it charged up.

"Let's go kill the Warden."

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