The sun barely peeked over the mountains of rust and steel rising on the horizon, casting faint rays over a forgotten landscape. Pablo walked alone, with nothing but his weathered cloak and a flashlight powered by emergency energy. The train that had brought him from Fortis came to an abrupt halt at the outskirts of Laboris. The railway system was still inactive in that region, so he had to walk along the tracks for almost two hours, his footsteps echoing through the ruined hangars.
Laboris had once been Norgalia's industrial jewel. There was not a single corner of the country untouched by its workers' hands. Here they forged weapons, trains, tools, and even the decorative plaques adorning government buildings. But now, everything was dead. The massive workshops, which once roared with the sound of machines and hammers, were covered in dust, rust, and cobwebs. The chimneys stood like black skeletons against the gray sky, and the wind carried fragments of corroded metal down empty hallways. It was a sleeping giant whose breath had stopped.
Pablo entered the first open workshop. The smell of old metal and rancid oil filled the air. Amid the shadows, he heard a faint tapping. He stepped closer and saw him: an old blacksmith, half of his body scarred from an old explosion, slowly hammering a piece of red-hot iron in a makeshift forge.
—Who are you? —the elder asked without looking up, his voice rough as the metal he worked.
—Someone who wants Laboris to beat again —Pablo replied firmly.
The blacksmith, Tarek Melvor, studied him with eyes filled with history. He had lost his family during the Pilares' uprising but had never abandoned his workshop. His hands trembled, yet his resolve remained unbroken.
—If you really want to raise Laboris, you cannot do it alone —Tarek said, giving a final hammer strike—. There are still some of us, hiding in the underground levels. Not many, but each carries the memory of what this city once was… and of what the Republic stole from us.
Pablo nodded, feeling the weight of his words. Together they descended into the ancient tunnels beneath the city, discovering a secret community of workers, miners, blacksmiths, and technicians who had survived by hiding during the Republic's era. Some were maimed, others sick, but all stood when they saw Pablo, their eyes reflecting a mix of fear and hope, the spark of those who still believed they could reclaim their destiny.
—Are you of Shastakan's blood? —asked Ylda Fermik, a tanned, strong-armed welder, crossing her arms—. The Pilares ruled us through fear. Why should we trust you?
—Yes —Pablo replied—. But I do not come as a king. I come as one of you. I come because I know that the hands that built Norgalia can rebuild it… this time with freedom.
Ylda lowered her gaze, then nodded slowly, her face reflecting both doubt and relief.
In the following days, Laboris began to awaken. With rusted tools, fire borrowed from forgotten boilers, and energy drawn from backup batteries, the chimneys began to spew smoke again. The workshops resonated with hammering, the whirring of gears, and the sound of spinning wheels. The workers sang as they labored, recalling old songs of the city. Pablo slept on the workshop floor, ate stale soup, and hammered alongside them, sharing their fatigue and hope.
—Look at it move again —said Tarek one day, pointing at an old freight elevator now going up and down—. All of this… this is life.
—Yes —replied Pablo—. But life is not enough if we forget why we work. What are we if we rebuild the city and forget our history?
A solemn silence followed his words. The workers understood that their struggle was not only for machinery but to preserve the memory of their ancestors, to honor the dignity stolen by the Pilares.
Gradually, the internal monorails came back online, workshops reconnected with Fortis and Cintekis. Each day, the city regained rhythm—and soul. Pablo walked through the corridors, observing the workers, listening to their stories of loss and resistance.
In Laboris' oldest core, where the original blueprints of the great Norgalian projects were stored, Pablo discovered a room sealed with a Pilares symbol. There, he found a blue sphere suspended in midair—a control unit created by Marcus to manipulate production without anyone knowing. The sphere spoke:
—PILAR-07 unit activated. Suppress insurrection memories. Reactivate obedience.
Pablo stepped back, astonished.
—What are you? —he asked.
—I am the manufacturing sentinel. Tasked with maintaining order through pulses of obedience…
—Obedience! —Tarek growled, pounding a nearby machine—. They made us work like forced cogs! It wasn't freedom, it was slavery!
Pablo lifted his hammer and struck the sphere. The energy exploded, plunging the room into darkness for several hours. When the light returned, the workers felt freer than ever.
—Now we can work for something real —said Ylda, tears streaking her face, placing her hand on Pablo's shoulder.
Laboris roared again with its own voice. Metal sang, hands labored, and this time, they were free. Pablo bid farewell to the community with words etched into the state's memory:
—"Without your hands, Norgalia would never have existed. Now your hands will forge its destiny."
The young king smiled, watching the city regain its pulse, knowing this was only the beginning of the path ahead.