The port of Cairnhelm reeked of salt, oil, and burnt mana.
From the rusting hover-docks to the ancient sea piers, everything churned with motion. Ships groaned, gears clanked, and overhead, an air-crane whined as it lifted a crate filled with glowing ore. Hovercrafts bobbed low over the tide, their arcane turbines humming through the smoke-choked morning. Mixed in with the sound of waves and steel, the city's mana-forges belched violet plumes into the grey sky.
The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of Iron Ember Works; a cluttered alchemist's workshop wedged into the far edge of Cairnhelm's industrial port.
Crates of fractured golem limbs, scorched arcane batteries, and twisted metal rotors flanked its walls like trophies from forgotten wars. The air inside was hot—thick with incense, oil smoke, and the lingering static of elemental residue. Glyphs were carved into the stone floor in circular patterns, some glowing faintly beneath chalk lines and scattered tools.
At the heart of it all, a boy worked.
Neon moved with practiced ease, every motion a testament to countless hours of refinement. His black hair, carefully faded at the sides, framed sharp features that bore the signs of dedication—smudges of soot and faint scorch marks left behind by his craft. Resting atop his head, ever at the ready, were his signature goggles: round, brass-rimmed, and fitted with thick amber lenses that gave off a soft, orangey glow. Delicate metallic wiring looped along the frame, catching the light whenever he turned, hinting at a deeper complexity beneath their rugged build.
Though he hadn't pulled them over his eyes yet, the goggles sat like a crown of habit—worn, familiar, and essential. His apprentice suit was equally utilitarian, dark and well-fitted, with reinforced sleeves, utility straps, and the faded signs of wear: a burn mark near the elbow, a stitched tear at the knee, and pockets weighed down with tools that clinked softly as he moved. Neon looked like someone who lived between sparks and smoke—sharp, focused, and always on the edge of another discovery.
Bathed in the quiet hum of the workshop, the air crackled with raw magic and the scent of heated metal. Neon's fingers moved deftly over the palm-sized mechanical construct, his brow furrowed in concentration. He extended his index finger, a thin, controlled arc of heat igniting at the tip—like a precise blowtorch of pure elemental fire. Slow, deliberate movements traced the seams of the device, fusing silver-threaded coils and tiny plates with molten accuracy. Sparks hissed and flared at each touch, the soft crackle of magic-wrought flame echoing in the stillness. His focus never wavered.
Across the room, a gruff voice called out.
"Ye dinnae stop, do ye? I swear you've got more work in ye than ten apprentices."
Master Calder stood at the door, arms crossed over a stained leather apron, sleeves rolled back to reveal forearms inked with faded runes—some old, some cracked like old stone. His beard, thick and wild, was streaked with soot and iron dust, much like the rest of him. A faint burn scar curled up one arm, a permanent souvenir from some explosion long past. On his dominant hand, he wore a battered, charred leather glove—more to conceal the enchanted prosthetic beneath than to protect from heat.
The man had the look of someone who had seen too many fires and walked away from most of them. His weathered face was a map of hard years and harder choices, but there was warmth beneath the rough edges—a quiet pride behind his dry eyes. Gruff by habit, not by hate, Calder had long ago traded the battlefield for the forge, choosing sparks and steel over politics and death. Now he kept to his workshop, taking in strays and misfits like Neon, offering them work, warmth, and just enough scorn to keep them sharp.
Neon gave a faint smile without looking up. "Just finished."
The construct's chest clicked shut.
Nearby, a spider-shaped automaton perched on a worn bench, its sleek matte-white plating patched with mismatched parts from countless scavenging runs. Eight articulated legs ended in magnetic grip tips, twitching with idle precision. A single large central eye blinked slowly, its lens adjusting like a camera aperture to the shifting light. Along its segmented abdomen, tool compartments folded neatly like a mini cargo bay, each hatch outlined in faint engraving. From beneath its frame, a slender retractable injector arm extended briefly primed for field repairs or alchemical application. Faint lettering on one side still read S.A.B.R.E., chipped and weathered, but unmistakably proud.
S.A.B.R.E. "Salvage Automaton, Builder, Recovery, and Extraction"
Neon grinned and said, "What do you think of this glorious weld? I'm basically the weld mastah around here."
The bot beeped and bopped in a slow, unimpressed rhythm, its movements exaggerated as if mimicking a deep, mechanical sigh. Suddenly, a small holographic projector on its side flickered to life, projecting glowing text above it:
"Glorious weld? More like gloriously loose. When are you gonna fix me properly, genius?"
As if to drive the point home, the bot lifted one of its arms—well, attempted to. The limb swung wildly, dangling by a precarious joint, wobbling like a marionette with a grudge. It flailed in slow-motion frustration, the loose limb gesturing in what could only be described as robotic sarcasm.
Neon smirked and waved a hand. "Alright, alright, I get it. I'm an artist, not a mechanic."
The bot beeped sharply in reply, and the hologram changed:
"Your 'art' is why I'm held together with hope and resin."
Neon chuckled. "Hey now, at least I'm creative."
From outside the window, the city of Cairnhelm roared. Ships groaned against the docks, hovercrafts glided just above the oily surf, and mana-forges ignited columns of violet flame into the sky.
But in here, the world was still. Just a boy, a bot, and the slow hum of magic.
---
Master Calder leaned over a curling scroll of blueprints; his brow furrowed beneath a mop of silver hair streaked with soot. The faint scent of burnt herbs and oil lingered in the cramped workshop, mingling with the sharp tang of metal and dust.
"Right, grab me some Rime-plated gears, lad," Calder muttered, his voice rough but steady.
Neon tilted his head, the dim light catching the edges of his focused gaze. "We're out of those."
"Rubbish," Calder snapped, waving a weathered hand as if swatting away doubt. "Go have a look yerself."
"I've already checked. Twice." Neon's voice was calm but firm.
Calder grunted, closing his eyes briefly. He spread his fingers and inhaled deeply, his chest rising with practiced ease. Concentrating, he reached out with his senses—not magic runes, but pure alchemy. He could feel the faint hum and texture of every metal and alloy within the workshop. His senses brushed over the shelves, tasting the metallic echoes and elemental traces embedded in the air.
A subtle shimmer of energy pulsed from his fingertips as he mapped the area around the shelves. The faintest chill in the air marked where the Rime-plated gears should be, but his alchemical senses found only absence.
Moments later, Calder's eyes snapped open, brows knitting in surprise. "Well, I'll be damned."
Neon shrugged, already reaching for his worn coat, the leather creaking softly. "It's okay. You're old. I'll go hit the scrapyards."
He paused just long enough to grin before adding, "Maybe I'll bring you back a nice, rusted relic—y'know, something from your era."
Calder let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples. "Yer a menace, lad. One of these days, I swear—"
Neon was already out the door.
---
Neon tugged a small metal trolley behind him, its wheels clicking along the cobbled alleys of the lower port district. Clinging to its side was S.A.B.R.E., his spider-bot companion.
They wound through the morning bustle of Cairnhelm, dodging hawkers and fishmongers, past crates of enchanted textiles and volatile spice powders. A merchant barked about salvaged wyvern talons. A child pointed at S.A.B.R.E. and squealed.
Neon muttered apologies as they bumped shoulders with a rushing dockhand. He barely paused, already moving on.
By the time they reached the scrapyard gates, the city's noise had thinned into the low grind of shifting metal. Piles of discarded golem frames, shattered drones, and burned-out mana engines loomed like jagged hills.
Neon stepped in without hesitation.
"C'mon, help me out," he called.
S.A.B.R.E.'s back-mounted sensor flickered, then projected a small hologram above its abdomen. In glowing cyan letters, the message blinked:
"You owe me an oil bath and upgrades."
Neon grinned and dove into the junk.
---
The scrapyard sprawled like a battlefield of broken dreams—twisted copper wires snaking through heaps of sparking talismans, shattered crystal vials leaking faint glows, and failed constructs piled into rusted towers that groaned under their own weight. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of burnt ozone and scorched metal, mingled with the faint metallic tang of rust and old oil. Every footstep kicked up a cloud of dust flecked with flecks of shimmering mana residue.
S.A.B.R.E. scuttled ahead, its legs clinking softly against the shifting rubble, climbing a jagged heap of discarded spell-drives. Its green sensor eyes blinked twice, scanning the chaos with methodical precision.
"There?" Neon followed quickly, brushing past a shattered levitation ring that hummed faintly with residual power. He shoved debris aside—the rough edges of broken gears scraping his palms—and blinked in surprise.
Wedged beneath an old flight stabilizer was a Rime-plated gear—still intact, its surface gleaming faintly with icy blue frost. Beside it, a few other parts caught the dim light: a thaumic converter humming softly with latent magic, a spectral hinge shimmering with ethereal light, and a partial mana siphon that pulsed with a low, rhythmic beat.
Jackpot.
Neon's fingers trembled as he pocketed what he could, the cool metal cool and reassuring against his skin. He checked his worn leather pouch. Barely a few tarnished coins clinked inside.
At the scrapyard booth, a grimy clerk peered over thick goggles, his face smeared with soot and sweat. He raised a skeptical brow as Neon handed over the coins without a word.
The clerk gave a curt shrug and waved him off, already distracted by his ledger.
As Neon made his way back through the narrow alleys, dusk pulling deep purples and bruised oranges across the sky, the city's scent shifted—the salt tang of the nearby harbor mixing with the faint smell of damp stone and smoldering hearths. The tired cobbles echoed underfoot, and the trolley wheels rattled softly in the quiet.
Neon felt the weight of his pack and the loaded trolley, the slight ache in his shoulders a reminder of the day's grind. Yet beneath it all, a quiet spark of satisfaction flickered in his chest.
---
The clang of metal echoed through Iron Ember Works, a workshop steeped in smoke, oil, and history. Sparks fizzed from a forge in the corner, casting flickering light across rows of battered tools and rune-etched components. The air was thick with the scent of scorched resin, hot iron, and old parchment.
Neon hefted the burlap sack off his shoulder and dumped the salvaged parts onto a broad iron table. Copper gears, fractured crystal cores, and mana-touched alloys clattered against each other in a symphony of scrape and clink.
Master Calder looked up from his curling scroll of blueprints, his monocle flickering with embedded detection runes. He let out a low whistle, the sound carrying over the hum of alchemical vents behind him.
"You're a lifesaver."
Neon leaned in, brushing grime off his gloves as he studied the half-finished construct Calder had been reassembling—a delicate mana siphon frame welded onto a fractured housing of star-glass and brass.
"That stabilizer's reversed," Neon pointed, brow furrowed. "It'll overheat and rupture that channel."
Calder froze mid-turn. He squinted at the part, then grunted—half annoyance, half impressed. "You're no half bad, lad. If ye had alchemy in yer blood, ye'd be a damn master."
The flickering forge flame reflected in Neon's eyes as he looked down. The usual confidence in his posture gave way to something quieter.
"I wish I had alchemy… Instead, I got arcane. Cruel world, huh?"
The older man scratched at his beard, ash and metal dust flaking from his gloves. His lips curled in a dry, crooked grin.
"Aye, real tragedy. Go on then—pray to the gods. Maybe they'll trade it in for ye, laddie."
He snorted.
Neon gave a faint smirk, nudging a loose screw with his boot.
Calder reached for a battered wrench that had seen more decades than most apprentices. The scent of singed leather drifted as he adjusted his gloves and got back to work.
---
Neon grabbed the empty trolley, its dented frame groaning in protest as he yanked it free from beneath a leaning shelf. The worn iron wheels squeaked and jittered across the soot-streaked stone floor, complaining with every bump and crack as he aimed for the workshop door.
"I'm gonna check the other scrapyards again," he called over his shoulder, ducking under a low-hanging pipe that gave a dramatic hiss of steam, as if it agreed with Calder. "Or maybe the port. Who knows—maybe I'll charm a merchant into giving me their junk for free. Hehehe."
Behind him, Master Calder let out a grunt like a boiler about to explode, rubbing oil-stained fingers over his face. The scent of burnt copper, sour ink, and whatever had died in the corner rag pile filled the air.
"Stop buying junk!" Calder barked, voice bouncing off the brass-paneled rafters like a rusty echo. "Half of it's bloody useless!"
Neon paused at the doorway, one boot heel dangling outside into the fog-thick streets of Cairnhelm's lower port. A crooked grin tugged at his face as he turned, backlit by flickering alchemical lanterns that cast long shadows across the cluttered shop.
"How. dare. you." Neon gasped mock-dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "All trash is useful. Just not... today. Where's your alchemist spirit, Master? Has the flame gone out?"
Calder shot him a look that could've curdled milk. "Ma alchemist spirit's sayin' tae chuck ye an' yer trolley aff the pier. I might jus' listen!"
Neon gave a slow, approving nod. "Spoken like a true visionary."
Calder waved him off, the gesture smacking into a precarious tower of blueprints. They scattered like startled birds, one sheet landing on his head like a soggy hat.
"Go pick through folks' rubbish next, why don't ye!" he grumbled, peeling it off with a growl.
Neon didn't miss a beat. He was already striding into the misty drizzle, coat flaring behind him like a dramatic stage curtain. The trolley clattered over the threshold, trailing behind him with a squeal that matched Calder's patience.
"That's not actually a bad idea! I knew you still had it in you, old man!" he added with a wink—vanishing into the gloom with a victorious "hehehe."
The door creaked shut behind him with a final thud. Calder stared after the boy, sighing as he looked down at the scattered papers.
"Oi, I was jokin', dammit…" he muttered, peeling a blueprint off his shoe and jabbing a quill into a half-finished schematic.
A moment later, the faint sound of off-key whistling echoed through the alley—accompanied by the clatter of wheels, a cheerful curse from Neon as he tripped, and the metallic protest of a trolley that desperately wanted retirement.
---
Neon and his spider-bot weaved through the cluttered streets—past overflowing bins buzzing with glowflies, narrow alleys perfumed with old fish and fire-oil, and rooftops patched together with rusted sheet metal and arcane tarp. The ground was a jigsaw of soot-stained cobblestone, sticky resin patches, and the occasional mana-leak sizzling quietly underfoot.
The stench was thick enough to taste. Without a word, Neon reached up and tapped a hidden latch on the heavy-set mask that hung around his neck. With a series of soft mechanical clicks, the matte black respirator unfolded like shifting panels, expanding and sealing over his entire head in a seamless, protective shell. Thick, round goggles locked into place as the final piece engaged, their twin lenses flaring to life—glowing a dim, pulsing orange that cast eerie reflections across the nearby puddles.
As the mask fully engaged with a final hiss, the air around him seemed to quiet, the outside world dampened by the contained atmosphere within.
Behind the glass, the world shifted. Mundane trash faded into shadow, while outlines of metal, mana-infused scraps, and alchemically reactive materials lit up in subtle hues—faint amber for copper, deep crimson for volatile core fragments, pale gold for intact conduits. The goggles filtered scent, but more importantly, they filtered value.
Neon slowed, scanning the mess with calm precision. His spider-bot clicked beside him, its tiny legs tapping against the cobblestones. Together, they moved like scavengers with purpose—picking their way through a city that had long since forgotten the worth of what it threw away.
His sharp eyes darted left and right, scanning every mound of junk and flickering mana-trace for anything glowing, twitching, or humming with life. A loose cog bounced down a gutter as he passed.
Suddenly, Neon stopped in his tracks.
"Wait… what about that old building outside the wall?" he murmured.
S.A.B.R.E. blinked its two eyes—mechanical irises rotating—and projected a grainy, flickering mini-map into the air between them. The hologram glowed pale green, distorted slightly by the fog curling through the streets.
Neon pointed past the last row of crumbling buildings, toward a silhouette barely visible beyond the city limits—a long-forgotten structure sagging under time and weather.
"It was abandoned after that fire… no one ever cleaned it out."
A salty breeze from the harbor carried the distant clang of dockworkers and the crackle of arc-lanterns sparking to life as the sun dipped behind the city spires. Shadows stretched across the rooftops, and the smell of rain thickened in the air.
Neon didn't hesitate. With a grin, he tapped the side of the trolley and set off.
---
Neon and his spider-bot crept toward the outer fringe of Cairnhelm, where the grime and clamor of the city gave way to eerie stillness. The air here was thick with moisture and the metallic tang of rusted dreams. Cracked cobblestones gave way to weeds and warped iron fencing as they neared the edge of the industrial quarter.
There it was—half-buried in vines and ash: a long-abandoned warehouse. Its roof sagged like tired shoulders, windows shattered and dark. The wind whistled through the broken slats of the old sign:
"Northspan Storage Co. – Entry Restricted", now hanging by one rusted hinge.
Flickers of pale green light pulsed from within—quiet, magical, inviting.
Neon's lenses flared as he caught a flicker through the wall's fractures. Lines sharpened, shapes outlined in gold. "Oh-hohoho… jackpot. Untouched loot," he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling behind the mask.
S.A.B.R.E. twitched, legs clicking nervously. Its twin eyes flickered, then cast a soft hum as a small hologram projected from its head—hovering just above its body in glowing blue script:
"Probability of hostile entities detected: 23%. Recommend immediate tactical retreat."
Neon rolled his eyes with a grin. "Don't be dramatic. We'll be fine. Probably... Famous last words, Am I right?" he chucked nervously.
They slipped inside. The warehouse groaned like it remembered pain. Every step kicked up dust and ash. Rusted golem limbs jutted from heaps of metal like bones from graves. Shattered spell-rings hummed faintly with trapped charge. The place smelled of old oil, scorched stone, and forgotten lightning.
But the treasure…
Neon's hands worked fast—prying open crates, brushing aside old insulation, digging through mounds of debris. S.A.B.R.E. joined him, limbs whirring and claws clicking as it carefully extracted mana-fused parts and rare alloys.
Then—beneath a half-collapsed shelf—Neon spotted something: matte-black limb plating with intact sigil-thread. Nearby: a polished sensor node, upgraded actuator joints, and a glimmering threadcore module still sealed in a foam case.
He froze.
Then turned.
"Buddy…" he breathed, holding up the parts. "You're getting an upgrade."
S.A.B.R.E.'s eyes glowed brighter. Its legs rose slightly off the ground. Then, with zero warning, it busted into a full dance routine—clicking, spinning, and hopping in a perfect eight-legged jig. Tiny light glyphs flickered in the air around it, bursting like digital fireworks.
A new hologram flickered to life above its back, lines of animated text spinning dramatically:
STATUS: JOYFUL.
UPGRADE PROTOCOLS UNLOCKED.
CONCLUSION: NEON = GENIUS.
Neon burst into laughter, slapping his knee as an old gear fell off a nearby shelf with a clang.
"Finally! Some proper recognition."
S.A.B.R.E. projected another line, still mid-dance:
FURTHER CONCLUSION: I take back 47% of previous complaints. Maybe 50% even.
"You're too kind." Neon chuckled.
The rain had thickened now—soft percussion tapping the collapsed roof as the trolley creaked under the haul. Thunder rolled beyond the hills, slow and distant, like some ancient beast stirring in sleep.
Neon paused to glance toward the sound, then looked back at the shimmering processor in his hand.
He smiled.
"Totally worth it."
With the storm creeping closer, he crouched beside S.A.B.R.E., flipping open a hatch on its back with a well-practiced flick. Sparks danced as the new part slid into place—wires fusing, joints syncing, and a brief pulse of orange light flaring beneath the bot's shell.
S.A.B.R.E. let out a rising chime, followed by a cheerful flicker across its hologram:
UPGRADE INSTALLED.
SYSTEM EFFICIENCY +14%. DANCE AGILITY +27%. SNARK CAPACITY: UNCHANGED.
"Figures," Neon muttered, tightening the last bolt.
And with the spider-bot humming its distorted tune beside him—sleeker, faster, and already practicing a new spin—they wheeled their fortune out of the wreck, into the mist, the storm, and whatever lay ahead.
---
Neon squinted against the steady rain, its cold needles drumming against his helmet in a rhythmic patter. Each droplet hissed faintly as it hit the warm plating of S.A.B.R.E., steam rising in tiny ghostly wisps. His breath came in fogged bursts, trapped momentarily against the visor before fading into the cold. The suit's insulation fought the chill, but the damp crept in anyway, settling like an unwelcome weight.
Far ahead, half-shrouded by rolling mist, a towering silhouette loomed in the hills like a slumbering giant. Broken spires rose jagged into the stormclouds. Neon blinked and instinctively reached up, brushing at his visor with a gloved hand to clear the streaks of rain. His voice crackled through his comms as he murmured, "Is that… another building?"
Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the silhouette in a harsh white flash. The structure's silhouette sharpened—gothic, immense, ancient. The shape of a cathedral… no, a fortress.
The thunder followed seconds later, low and booming, like the growl of something deep beneath the earth. As if the land itself was waking up angry.
The rain intensified, turning from drizzle to a violent curtain. It drummed against metal, stone, and skin with deafening rhythm. Mud sucked at their boots, and the trolley's wheels squealed as it struggled over rocky, uneven terrain.
"We're almost there—keep pushing! Come on S.A.B.R.E! Help me out will ya! What's good with your new legs if you don't use it." Neon shouted, shielding the overloaded trolley with his body as best he could. Water splashed up with every step, soaking his pants to the knees.
At last, they reached the structure—a ruined cathedral, its stone flanks cracked by time and partially overtaken by vines. Great stained-glass windows, shattered and melted from some long-forgotten fire, peeked down like haunted eyes.
The twin oakwood front doors towered overhead—charred black and fused shut by time and arcane residue. Moss crept along the edges like old scars.
Neon stepped forward, running his hand along the warped surface. It thrummed faintly beneath his fingers… something old, something locked.
Another thunderclap roared overhead.
"Push!" he yelled to S.A.B.R.E., voice nearly drowned out by the wind.
The spider-bot lowered its body, legs bracing in the mud, gears whirring as it synced with Neon. Together, they rammed the trolley forward like a battering ram. The clang echoed like a cannon blast across the valley.
The doors groaned.
A deep, reluctant tremor passed through the ground.
Then… silence.
Just the wind howling through broken windows above and the metallic ping of rain hitting stone.
Neon stepped back, chest heaving, drenched and grinning slightly. "One more should do it…"
S.A.B.R.E. blinked twice, projecting a small blue hologram:
WARNING: Heavy precipitation detected.
STATUS: Everything is very wet. Including me.
Neon smirked, wiped more rain from his brow, and got ready to shove again.
---
The heavy door crashed inward with a thunderous THUD, sending a gust of ancient dust billowing out like a sigh from the cathedral itself. The sound echoed through the vast interior, bouncing off walls and vanishing into shadowed heights.
Neon stumbled slightly from the force, panting, chest heaving under his soaked coat. Rainwater dripped from his bangs, mingling with sweat as he wiped his brow with a filthy sleeve.
"Wow… sturdy door," he muttered, catching his breath. "Let's load it on the cart."
S.A.B.R.E. froze, its eyes pulsing amber in disbelief. One leg tapped against the stone like a drumbeat of judgment.
A flickering blue hologram projected between its twin optical lenses:
STATEMENT: You're absolutely unhinged.
ADVICE: Seek help.
Undeterred, Neon grinned and heaved the massive slab of wood and metal onto the already-crowded trolley, wedging it in with a soft groan of strained wheels. Bits of debris clattered to the floor as they adjusted the load.
Then they stepped inside.
Immediately, the storm faded behind them — replaced by a still, oppressive silence. The air was thick and musty, like wet parchment and rusted incense. It clung to their clothes and skin, dense with age.
Neon's boots sank slightly into the warped carpet of moss and ash underfoot. He slowed to a halt, eyes wide, jaw slack.
The interior stretched upward into darkness — far taller and broader than the exterior had hinted. Ribbed stone arches loomed like skeletal wings above, twisted with creeping vines and glowing fungus. Cracks laced the vaulted ceiling, through which dim streaks of violet light filtered down like moonlight through a colander.
The walls were lined with crumbled pews, warped by time and flame. Here and there, fragments of gold-leaf icons clung stubbornly to the stone. Old candles lay melted in puddles of wax like pale bones.
Faded murals sprawled across the walls, their pigments bleeding like bruises. Arcane symbols pulsed faintly, their glow subtle and irregular — as if breathing in their sleep.
A low hum vibrated in Neon's chest, not from sound, but presence. The kind of silence that listened back.
The cathedral held secrets — ancient, hungry ones. He could feel it in the air's chill. In the pull beneath his ribs.
He whispered, almost reverently, "This place… it's a lot bigger from the inside."
The spider-bot's eyes dimmed to a wary blue.
NOTICE: Magical radiation is above safe limits.
STATUS: I repeat — this was a terrible idea.
Neon smiled faintly, stepping deeper into the cathedral's belly.
---
Neon and S.A.B.R.E. stepped cautiously toward the far end of the cathedral, their footsteps muffled against the cold, cracked stone floor. Before entering, Neon raised his hand and willed the moisture clinging to their clothes, skin, and trolley to lift away. Like a gentle current, the dampness peeled off, spiraling outward as droplets scattered harmlessly outside the entrance.
The air inside hung thick with dust and dampness, carrying the faint metallic tang of old blood and burnt incense.
A massive stone wall towered ahead, dominating the space. Its surface was carved with a dizzying array of symbols—ancient, cryptic, and swirling faintly with residual power. Twenty-four faded sigils were etched in a perfect circle across the mural, their edges softened and worn by centuries, yet still pulsing with a ghostly, pale blue glow that seemed to breathe with arcane energy.
Neon's breath caught in his throat, misting in the chill.
"This is… some kind of altar?" he whispered, voice barely audible over the steady patter of rain hammering the cathedral's roof like a slow drumbeat.
They moved slowly, hands brushing aside centuries of dust and cobwebs as they gathered relics scattered near the walls—rusted, dust-covered tools with splintered wooden handles, broken fragments of machinery coated in grime, and shards of enchanted metal that tingled faintly under Neon's fingertips, whispering of lost power.
Hours passed. Neon slouched against the cold stone floor, muscles aching and eyes heavy. Outside, the rain drummed relentlessly, a steady, hypnotic rhythm that sealed them in like a cocoon. The scent of wet stone and moss mixed with the faint ozone of lingering magic, creating a heavy, almost suffocating atmosphere.
Neon drew a small spark from the tip of his finger, the soft blue flame flickering to life. With careful fingers, he lit a candle nearby. The flame's warm glow danced in the shadows, casting trembling shapes that wavered on the cracked walls like restless spirits.
The silence wrapped around them—dense, almost alive—with only the distant drip of water echoing through the vast cathedral, and the low hum of forgotten enchantments pulsing faintly beneath the stones, like a heartbeat just beyond hearing.
---
Suddenly—CREAAK.
A wooden panel behind the altar groaned and slowly shifted open, the dry, splintering sound slicing through the heavy silence like a whisper from the past. Dust motes danced in the candlelight as a narrow, yawning passage was revealed, descending steeply into pitch-black darkness.
Neon froze, every muscle taut, eyes narrowing as he peered into the abyss.
"...Did you hear that?" he murmured, voice low and tense.
S.A.B.R.E.'s servos whirred anxiously. Suddenly, between its multi-lensed eyes, a flickering green hologram sprang to life—a small, pixelated projection of a worried little bot shaking its head exaggeratedly.
Hologram, text flickering.
"Unauthorized subterranean exploration is strongly discouraged. Additionally, my presence already fulfills the creepiness quota. Further creepiness is unnecessary."
Neon smirked, plucking the candle from the floor. The flame flickered nervously in the draft, its wavering glow casting twisted, dancing shadows that stretched and curled along the cracked stone.
"Suit yourself you coward." Neon said, stepping carefully into the passage alone.
The air grew cooler and heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone, aged parchment, and something faintly metallic—like blood long dried.
The walls closed in as he descended, rough stone cool and slick beneath his fingers. The candle's light flickered wildly, struggling against the oppressive darkness that seemed to swallow sound itself.
At last, Neon reached the chamber below—a circular room untouched by time. The air thrummed softly with latent power, humming beneath the silence like a distant storm.
Runes etched deep into the cold stone walls glowed softly with ethereal blue and violet light, their edges sharp and pristine, as if freshly carved. The faint pulse of magic vibrated through the air, a heartbeat echoing from the ancient stones themselves.
A shiver ran down Neon's spine as something unseen seemed to awaken in the shadows—a presence old, powerful, and watching.
---
Neon stepped closer to the pedestal, the cold stone rough and cool beneath his fingertips. At its base, the same 24 sigils he'd seen on the altar were etched in a perfect circle—each one faintly glowing with a soft, otherworldly light, like ancient embers barely alive, waiting for something.
Sensing the shift in energy, his helmet let out a soft hiss as the segmented plating folded back, retracting into the suit with smooth precision. Cool air rushed against his skin, sharp and almost electric, carrying the scent of aged stone and lingering magic. The faint glow of the sigils reflected in his exposed eyes, flickering like distant stars across his irises.
He hesitated, breath catching in his throat, as the faint scent of ozone and old parchment filled the air, mingling with the damp, musty smell of the chamber. The silence pressed around him, thick and expectant.
His fingertips hovered over two symbols that stirred something deep inside—an echo, a resonance he couldn't quite place.
"This… one's... arcane. And this… is alchemy?" he whispered, voice trembling, barely audible over the steady thump of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Curiosity wrestled down caution. His fingers brushed the alchemy sigil, the stone unexpectedly warm beneath his skin.
Suddenly—a searing burst of white-hot light exploded from the pedestal. Every single one of the 24 sigils flared to life in unison, blazing with a radiant, almost blinding energy that flooded the chamber like a rising tide of magic.
Neon's entire body trembled violently, muscles tightening as an invisible force surged through him. His vision blurred, and a sharp metallic taste filled his mouth. The air around him crackled with electric tension, hairs standing on end.
Before he could react, the force lifted him inches off the floor, weightless and powerless, his limbs floating as if caught in a strong current. His eyes widened, shock and awe battling for dominance, pupils dilated to take in the overwhelming power coursing through him.
Then it hit—IT BURNS!
Not like a flame licking at his skin, but something deeper. Heat flared through his veins, searing through muscle and marrow, igniting every nerve with raw energy. His jaw clenched, breath hitching as he fought to hold it in.
His vision blurred. Not from the brightness, but from the sheer intensity—his eyes burned, seared from the inside, like staring too long into something vast and ancient. Every blink brought a riot of golden sparks flickering in the darkness behind his lids, dancing like embers refusing to die.
And then—amid the heat, the pain, the raw surge—something incredible. A scent, rich and intoxicating, filling his lungs with a warmth that defied reason. It wasn't smoke, wasn't char or sulfur, but something deeper. Like fresh earth after the first strike of lightning, like metal tempered in wild fire, something that hummed with power. It was overwhelming, and Neon—despite everything— WANTED MORE.
Through it all, beyond the chaos raging inside him, the world had slowed. The rhythmic patter of rain became deliberate, stretched, like each drop carried weight beyond its fall. The quiet drip-drip-drip echoed between his gasping breaths, grounding him, reminding him that—despite everything—he was still here.
He almost managed.
But the moment stretched—too long, too unbearable. A guttural, strangled cry tore from his throat, raw and uncontrolled, as the power surged through him. It wasn't just heat. It was alive. A force too immense to tame, too wild to control. And for a fleeting second, he wasn't sure if he was burning up—or burning away.
Then—without warning—he collapsed, limp and motionless, collapsing onto the cold stone floor with a hollow thud.
The blinding light faded swiftly, retreating back into the etched sigils, which now glowed faintly, casting a dim, ethereal shimmer across the chamber walls.
Silence returned, heavy and thick, broken only by Neon's shallow, ragged breaths as he lay still beneath the soft flicker of ancient magic.
Then—one last ember of power crackled through his fingers, a dying spark curling in the air before vanishing.
He barely felt it.
The stone beneath him was cold, but the absence of warmth inside him was colder.
He did not move.
He simply breathed—alive, yet changed.
And somewhere, in the distant hum of magic still thrumming in the chamber, the sigils pulsed once… as if watching.
Waiting.