ONYXSPIRE: THE DESCENT OF CLIVE COLLINS

Chapter 12. Metal and Smoke of the Foundry

    The Foundry District was the embodiment of a mechanical hell created by human greed.

    

    Here, deep within the lowest layers of Onyxspire's vertical structure, the air was no longer a gas fit for organic lungs. The atmosphere was thick with coal dust, microscopic iron shards, and sulfur vapor that burned the eyes red. The ceiling of the district was the underside of the upper sectors, a gigantic steel plate that constantly leaked black lubricant oil, creating an endless drizzle that smelled of rust.

    

    THUD! THUD! THUD!

    

    The pounding roar of massive steam compressors echoed every three seconds, shaking the foundations of the ground and the bone marrow of everyone standing upon it. Along the narrow streets flooded with black sludge, smelting furnaces the size of five-story buildings spewed streams of molten orange steel, illuminating the hollow faces of thousands of forced laborers. They moved like zombies, their bodies skeletal and their coughing relentless. Most wore cheap steam-powered prosthetics that squealed miserably from lack of lubrication.

    

    Clive Collins walked among the workers, blending into the darkness and uniform despair.

    

    He had traded his old cloak for Foundry worker clothes stolen from a drying line. Thick denim pants stiff with oil stains and a rough hemp shirt buttoned all the way to the neck. His left arm was now wrapped in chains of small iron mesh typically used for filtering combustion waste, a clever disguise because in this district, metal-wrapped limbs and bizarre prosthetics were perfectly ordinary.

    

    [Environmental Status: Air Toxicity Level 4.]

    

    [Carbon Monoxide Concentration: Dangerous to human brain tissue.]

    

    [WREN: Activating secondary respiratory filtration subsystem. Consuming 0.5% Lycus energy per minute to purify oxygen within your lungs. Clive, this location is extremely unhygienic, but tactically excellent. Heat radiation from the surrounding furnaces is disrupting Sheldon Mallory's thermal scanners by 94%.]

    

    "I don't care about hygiene, WREN," Clive thought tiredly. "As long as they can't track me here."

    

    Each step still carried a slight stiffness in his right leg, leftovers from the "meal" Lycus had taken during their escape through the root labyrinth. But the biological energy he had absorbed from Sheldon's four envoys in The Gutter had restored most of his vitality. Beneath the iron wrappings, his black arm pulsed with strength like a predator resting after feeding.

    

    "Heat... Clive... This place... reminds me... of home..." Lycus whispered, sending a strangely comforting wave through Clive's nervous system.

    

    "Home? A dump like this?" Clive scoffed softly, pulling his mask cloth higher as he passed an open trench carrying molten copper runoff.

    

    [WREN: Historical Analysis: Lycus biological tissue shares an 89% genetic match with ancient microorganisms discovered within the deepest mantle layers beneath Onyxspire. Technically, extreme heat is its natural environment. However, our current priority is not nostalgia. We need information regarding the layout of Sheldon Mallory's laboratory.]

    

    Clive stopped in front of a filthy drinking shack built from stacked cargo containers. Its rusted sign read The Leaking Valve. Inside, the harsh laughter of factory workers mixed with the clanging of metal cups and the distorted music of a broken steam gramophone.

    

    This was the best place to gather information.

    

    In an undercity like Onyxspire, secrets were the fastest-moving currency after narcotics.

    

    Clive pushed open the heavy iron door. The instant he stepped inside, the stench of cheap alcohol stabbed his nose, battling with sweat and black tobacco smoke. The tavern was packed. Workers with soot-blackened faces sat in groups mourning their miserable lives or gambling away their remaining wages in mechanical dice games.

    

    Clive approached the bar counter built from old railway tracks. Behind it stood a heavyset man with a prosthetic right eye made from an antique camera lens, cleaning glasses with a rag just as filthy as his clothes.

    

    "What'll it be, newcomer?" the bartender asked, his voice rough from inhaling sulfur smoke for too many years. His remaining human eye studied the iron chains wrapped around Clive's left arm with suspicion.

    

    "Distilled water. And information," Clive answered coldly.

    

    He placed a silver Lumerian coin onto the bar, one he had carefully preserved because in the deepest districts, pure metal from the upper levels still held immense value.

    

    The bartender's artificial eye rotated and focused on the silver coin. With swift practiced movement, he swept it into a drawer beneath the counter before pouring clear liquid from a rusted canister into a metal cup.

    

    "Silver from above," the bartender whispered, leaning close enough for Clive to smell his sour breath. "People carrying Lumerian silver into The Foundry are usually either running from something... or looking to die fast. Which one are you?"

    

    "I'm someone with business involving Sheldon Mallory," Clive replied immediately, without hesitation. His eyes glimmered red beneath the hood, a visual intimidation tactic he revealed deliberately.

    

    The bartender stiffened. His camera eye clicked as it adjusted focus. He glanced around the tavern to ensure no workers were listening before turning back to Clive.

    

    "You insane? Don't say that name out loud in here," the bartender hissed. "Master Sheldon owns half the smelting furnaces in this district. His black-robed soldiers, The Harvesters, would cut your tongue out just for saying their boss's name wrong."

    

    "I know how dangerous he is," Clive said, his right hand tapping rhythmically against the bar. "I just want to know where he hides his private laboratory. I heard he has a special project somewhere around this sector."

    

    The bartender chuckled, a sound like sandpaper grinding against metal.

    

    "Laboratory? Everybody knows Sheldon Mallory has a secret facility beneath Furnace Number Nine. That place is guarded tighter than the Onyxspire central bank vault. They bring sealed cargo containers there every night... and sometimes they bring people from The Gutter who are never seen again."

    

    [WREN: Information Validated. Consistent with secondary architectural data recovered from the Lumeria internal network before our escape. Furnace Number Nine is located at the northern edge of the Foundry Sector, approximately six hundred meters from our current position.]

    

    "What else do you know about security there?" Clive pressed, sliding another silver coin across the counter.

    

    The bartender stared at the second coin, greed overpowering fear. He pocketed it and lowered his voice further.

    

    "Their armor... The Harvesters guarding that facility wear different armor. Anti-energy plating supplied directly from Lumeria. And don't forget... The Golem. Sheldon has a giant mechanical monster powered by a high-pressure steam core guarding the laboratory's main gate."

    

    "Golem..." Clive muttered.

    

    [WREN: Heavy Mechanical Structure Detected. Steam Golem Model S-4. Estimated Weight: 4.5 Tons. Exterior Armor: Dual-layer Carbon Steel. Weaknesses: Pressure release valve located behind the neck and central steam core beneath the chest hydraulic plating. Your biological weapon, Lycus, can penetrate the steel if synchronization reaches 35%.]

    

    "My synchronization is only at thirty percent right now," Clive thought. "I need another five percent. Which means... I need more biomass before attacking that place."

    

    Suddenly, the door of The Leaking Valve exploded open with a deafening bang that instantly silenced the gramophone music.

    

    An oppressive silence swallowed the tavern.

    

    The workers who had been shouting moments earlier immediately lowered their heads, staring into their drinks as though their lives depended on it.

    

    Three men in black leather robes and insect-like masks entered the tavern.

    

    The Harvesters.

    

    Sheldon Mallory's private soldiers.

    

    But what truly made Clive tense was the figure walking behind them.

    

    A tall woman clad in elegant silver armor that sharply contrasted the filth of The Foundry District. Her jet-black hair was cut short, and her gray eyes radiated deadly coldness. At her waist hung an electro-magical rapier crackling with faint blue sparks.

    

    "Captain Vesper," the bartender whispered beside Clive, his fat body trembling so violently the metal cup in his hands rattled. "S-she's Sheldon Mallory's right hand. The cruelest executioner in the undercity."

    

    Vesper strode into the center of the tavern, her sharp eyes scanning every corner with open disdain. In her hand she carried a handheld scanner similar to the devices used by the envoys in The Gutter, though larger and fitted with a rotating antenna.

    

    Beep... Beep... Beep...

    

    The scanner emitted increasingly rapid high-frequency detection tones as she moved closer to the bar.

    

    [HIGH-LEVEL WARNING!]

    

    [WREN: Military-grade Alchemist Scanner Detected. Iron chain camouflage no longer effective within five meters. Clive, Vesper is a high-level combatant with cybernetic nervous system modifications. Your probability of victory at current synchronization stands at 42%.]

    

    Clive didn't move.

    

    He remained seated with his back toward Vesper while his right hand slowly slid beneath his hemp shirt, gripping the handle of Kael's axe. Underneath the iron chains, his left arm began heating up, scales grinding softly against one another with a faint hissing sound masked by the machinery roaring outside the tavern.

    

    "Woman... Strong... Clive... Silver blood... I... want..." Lycus squeezed Clive's mind with overwhelming bloodlust.

    

    "Easy, Lycus," Clive thought through clenched teeth. "If we move now, this whole district goes into lockdown."

    

    Vesper's footsteps stopped exactly three paces behind him. The scrape of her military boots against the oil-slick wooden floor sounded unnaturally loud in the tavern's silence.

    

    "That scent..." Vesper spoke, her voice clear yet as cold as the peaks of Lumeria. "The rotten stench of parasitic tissue trying to imitate human life. This detector is never wrong."

    

    The woman slowly drew her electro-magical rapier from its sheath. The high-voltage hum of electricity began filling the tavern air, raising goosebumps on every person present.

    

    "Turn around, Porter," Vesper ordered, the glowing blue tip of her blade aimed directly at Clive's back. "Or I'll sever your spine before you even see who's killing you."

    

    Clive closed his eyes briefly.

    

    The moment of peace he had felt in Mina's shack now seemed impossibly distant.

    

    The world refused to let him remain human.

    

    The world demanded he become a monster, and in this place of smoke and metal, he had no choice except to obey.

    

    Slowly, Clive rose from his chair.

    

    He turned to face the executioner, Kael's massive axe already drawn in his right hand while his left arm began snapping apart the iron chains wrapped around it with ringing metallic clang... clang... sounds echoing across the floor.

    

    The battle at the heart of The Foundry was about to erupt.

    

    And this time, the stakes were the path toward true revenge.