Time soon passed, and with their successful break-in and escape, the whole empire was instantly thrown into chaos

HISS.

Steam vented from the rusty pipes of the Scrapyard District, masking the sound of thirty heavy pairs of boots hitting the mud.

Damien pulled himself up through the jagged hole in the earth, coughing as the sulfurous air of the surface filled his lungs.

He was back in the graveyard of machines, surrounded by mountains of scrap metal and broken golems.

"Clear," Lyra whispered, her eyes glowing green as she scanned the skyline.

Above them, the artificial sky of Ironforge was in chaos.

Airships painted with the Regent's crest swept over the Industrial District, their mana-searchlights cutting through the smog.

Sirens wailed from the Upper City, a constant, droning scream that signaled a highest-level alert.

"Emergency. Seismic Activity Detected in Sector 4. Curfew is in effect. All citizens return to quarters."

"They think it was an earthquake," Hephaestus muttered, climbing out next to Damien. He looked at the massive, smooth tunnel the Pantheon Sword had bored through the earth. "They don't know we broke the prison. Not yet."

"They will soon," Brokk grunted, hauling General Thorgar up. "When Krog doesn't report in, Thrain will send the Inquisitors. We need to go underground."

"To the Clocktower," Damien ordered, sheathing the now-dormant Pantheon Sword and wrapping it in cloth. "We have twenty-nine days before the Coronation. We make them count."

….........................…..

[Brokk's Clocktower - The War Room]

An hour later, the Old Clocktower was more crowded than it had ever been.

The main workshop floor, usually cluttered with half-finished toys and clocks, had been cleared.

The thirty rescued loyalists, the finest smiths and soldiers of the Ironclan, sat on crates, eating rations and bandaging their wounds.

They were weak, gaunt, and scarred. But their eyes were alive.

In the center of the room, Damien stood around a large table covered in blueprints with the Guild Masters: Brokk (Artificer), Orin (Blast Furnace), Kida (Runes), Thorgar (Infantry), and Prince Hephaestus.

"Here is the situation," Damien said, placing a heavy bag of gold on the table.

"The Regent has the numbers. He has the Iron Legion, the City Guard, and the Twilight Cultists. We are thirty-five people against an army of ten thousand."

"Thirty-five angry dwarves," Thorgar corrected, crossing his massive arms. Even without his armor, his presence was imposing. "Give us weapons, and we are worth a thousand."

"I intend to give you better than weapons," Brokk grinned, his gold tooth flashing.

He walked to the wall and pulled a lever. A chalkboard descended. It was covered in drawings of the weapons he had used during the breakout, the Magitech Rifles and Cannons.

"Thrain builds armies of mindless cyborgs," Brokk spat. "He goes for quantity. We are going to go for Quality."

"We have twenty-nine days," Brokk pointed to the calendar. "In that time, we turn this scrapyard into a factory."

"Orin," Brokk looked at the Blast Furnace Master. "Can you refine the scrap metal out there into military-grade Mithril?"

Orin cracked his knuckles. "With enough heat? I can turn rust into diamonds. Just get me a forge."

"Kida," Brokk turned to the Rune Scribe. "We need shielding. If we start a war, they will rain fire on us. Can you ward the Scrapyard?"

Mistress Kida ran a finger over her reclaimed staff. "The Ley-lines here are messy... but strong. I can build a Stealth Ward that will hide our mana signatures. They won't know we are building an army until we knock on their door."

"And Hephaestus," Damien turned to the Prince.

Hephaestus looked up from a schematic he was sketching furiously.

"The Guardian Project," the Prince said, his eyes burning with intensity. "The Titans in the Royal Foundry... they are unfinished. But I have the Neural Link codes in my head."

"We can't steal them yet," Damien warned. "The Palace is a fortress."

"We don't need to steal them," Hephaestus slammed his hand on the table. "We'll build our own."

The room went silent.

"Build a Titan?" Orin frowned. "Here? Out of scrap? Prince, that takes a royal foundry and months of casting."

"We don't build a Titan," Hephaestus corrected. "We build Exo-Suits."

He turned the blueprint around.

It showed a design for a heavy, powered armor frame. Smaller than a Gundam, but larger than a dwarf. It was designed to amplify strength, carry heavy mana-cannons, and protect the wearer from void magic.

"Project: Ironclad," Hephaestus explained. "We use the scrap parts from the golems in the yard. We fit them to Thorgar's infantry. Thirty men become thirty tanks."

General Thorgar looked at the design. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"I like it," the General rumbled.

"It will cost a fortune in mana crystals," Kida noted.

"Money is not an issue," Damien interrupted.

He opened his Void Gem.

CLATTER.

A mountain of gold coins, jewels, and high-grade mana crystals poured onto the table, spilling over the edges and rolling onto the floor.

The loot from the Dragon's Tomb. The loot from the Slaver Fortress.

The dwarves stared, their mouths hanging open.

"I am the financier of this revolution," Damien said, his eyes gleaming. "You build the tech. I pay the bill."

"However," Damien leaned forward, his expression turning sharp. "I have a condition."

"Name it, lad," Thorgar said. "You saved our lives. We owe you."

"After the war," Damien said, looking at Hephaestus and Brokk. "When Thrain is dead and the King is awake... I want exclusive trade rights."

"Trade rights?" Hephaestus blinked.

"The technology you develop here. The Mana Engines. The Neural Links. The Alloys. I want the license to adapt them for the human world."

Damien pulled out a sketch from his pocket. It wasn't a weapon. It was a drawing of a sleek, four-wheeled vehicle powered by a mana engine.

The Mana-Car.

"I don't just want to win a war," Damien smiled, the Greedy King waking up. "I want to change the world. And I want the Voss Family and the Ironclan to own the future."

Brokk looked at the drawing of the car. He looked at the gold. He looked at the determination in the boy's eyes.

He laughed. A loud, rusty bark.

"You really are Theron's son! Just as crazy! Just as greedy!"

Brokk extended his grease-stained hand.

"Deal. You fund us, we'll build your toys."

Damien shook it.

"Then get to work," Damien ordered. "We have twenty-nine days to build an army that can kill that fraud."

…......................…

[The Streets of Ironforge]

While the Scrapyard began to hum with the quiet noise of industry, the city above was tightening the noose.

Patrols of Twilight Cultists, no longer hiding in shadows but walking openly with the City Guard marched through the slums.

They dragged dwarves out of their homes.

"By order of the Regent!" a Cultist shouted, holding up a scroll. "All able-bodied citizens must report to the Palace for 'Volunteer Work' for the Coronation!"

"We're starving!" a dwarf woman cried, holding her child. "We can't work!"

WHACK.

The Cultist struck her with a staff. "Silence! The Regent demands tribute!"

From a rooftop above, hidden by a camouflage cloak, Alfred watched.

He adjusted his glasses. Beside him, Barnaby and Cipher (who had successfully infiltrated the city via the smuggling tunnels) were taking notes.

"The unrest is growing," Cipher whispered. "The people are angry. They just need a spark."

"The Young Master will provide the spark," Alfred said calmly. "Our job is to pour the oil."

"Barnaby," Alfred turned to the merchant. "Use the gold. Bribe the gate guards. Buy up the food stocks in the lower district and distribute them secretly. Tell them it comes from the 'True King.'"

"We are going to start a rumor," Alfred said, his eyes cold. "That on the day of the Coronation... the mountains will shake."

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