The Manufactorum wasn't just a battlefield; it was a graveyard of kinetic potential. Isaac saw it not as a ruin, but as a collection of unprimed weapons. His eyes, trained to see supply lines and force application, now traced lines of force: counterweights, suspended loads, stored thermal energy in dormant crucibles, the potential energy in every hammer held high.
The key was the furnace. It was a massive, barrel-shaped structure of heat-blackened brick and iron bands, taller than two men. Its front was a sealed, heavy iron door. Above it, a network of rusty chutes fed into a hopper. Most importantly, next to it sat a lever connected to a massive, counterweighted mechanism—the dump system for pouring molten metal. The crucible inside would be empty, cold for centuries. But the machinery itself was mass and geometry.
"Whisperers are the priority," Isaac murmured to M-001 and M-002 as they crouched behind a silent grinding wheel. "They're the unknown variable. Psychic disruption could freeze our units, turn them against us, or worse. They need to die first, before they know we're a threat."
He pointed to the cluster of Gloomspawn eighty meters away, still fixated on the flickering barrier around the Control Node. The three Whisperers hung from the ceiling like ossified bats, their forms willowy and insubstantial, trailing strands of darkness.
"We can't shoot them from here. The range is extreme for smoothbores, and the moment we fire, we reveal our position to everything in the room," Isaac said. "We need a distraction. A big, noisy, terrifying distraction that pulls their focus away from the node and towards a specific point."
He looked back at the furnace, then at a heavy chain hanging from a ceiling trolley that ran on a rail directly over a central avenue between machine rows. A plan, audacious and crude, assembled itself in his mind.
"Here's the sequence," he said, drawing lines in the dust on the floor with his finger. "Phase One: M-002, you are on the furnace lever. On my signal, you pull it. The counterweight will drop, the chute will bang open. It will be incredibly loud. It will draw every eye in this room to that furnace."
M-002 gave a curt nod.
"Phase Two: The moment the noise happens, M-001, you will shoot the chain supporting that trolley." He pointed to the heavy chain. "It will drop the trolley and its hook onto the central avenue, creating a second crash and blocking the most direct path from the node to the furnace."
"Phase Three: The moment you fire, M-001, we retreat immediately back to the beachhead. Not to our current position—back through the breach to the doorway. We draw them into a pursuit."
"Understood, Commander."
"Phase Four: The main force at the beachhead will be positioned in a staggered firing line. Shield-1, you will be just inside the breach. You will not advance. You are the anvil. The rest will use the doorway and the corridor as a killing funnel. We let the swarm come to us, piecemeal, through the choke point."
It was a classic defensive bait. Make noise, appear vulnerable, retreat to a prepared position, and massacre them as they crowded through a bottleneck.
"But the Whisperers," Isaac finished, his voice dropping. "They may not take the bait. They may stay at the node, or worse, float above the fight and use their abilities. We need a contingency."
His eyes scanned the machinery near the node. There, partly hidden behind a toppled lathe, was another piece of equipment—a large, spring-loaded stamping press, its hammer held aloft by a thick, rusted coil. It was pointed roughly towards the node's alcove.
It was a one-in-a-million shot. Literally.
"M-001," Isaac said, a wild edge in his whisper. "After you shoot the chain, as we're retreating, I want you to turn and take one more shot. Not at a creature. At the release pin on that stamping press, near the node." He indicated the target in the distance. "If you hit it, the hammer will drop. It might not hit anything, but the noise and shock right next to them might spook the Whisperers, maybe even damage one. It's a lottery ticket."
M-001's grey eyes followed his pointing finger. "Target acquired. Probability of successful impact at this range with this weapon: estimated 8%."
"Take the shot," Isaac said. "Eight percent is better than zero."
They moved like ghosts through the forest of dead machines. M-002 took up position at the furnace lever, gripping the cold iron. M-001 found a vantage point behind a stack of ceramic molds, resting his musket on them for stability, aiming first at the chain, then mentally marking the distant, tiny release pin.
Isaac positioned himself halfway between them, his sword feeling like a toothpick. He was the conductor of this violent orchestra.
He took a deep breath of the metallic, rotten air. He looked at M-002, then at M-001. He raised his hand, held it for a three-count, and chopped it down.
KER-THUNK-CLANG-RRRRRRRRR!
M-002 threw his weight onto the lever. Rust shattered. The counterweight, a slab of iron as big as a coffin, dropped with a ground-shaking THUD. The mechanism engaged with a shriek of protesting metal. The furnace's dump chute slammed open, not pouring molten metal, but unleashing a century of accumulated soot, ash, and rust flakes in a roaring, choking black cloud. The sound was apocalyptic, a metallic avalanche that echoed through the vast chamber.
Every Gloomspawn head snapped toward the furnace. The Bloaters gurgled in confusion. The swarmlings chittered. The Whisperers detached from the ceiling, their forms wavering, turning their featureless faces towards the commotion.
CRACK!
M-001's first shot was barely audible over the din, but Isaac saw the spark. The chain holding the trolley snapped. The trolley and its half-ton hook plunged straight down, crashing onto the central avenue with a devastating BOOM, crushing a stray swarmling and sending shrapnel and dust flying. It created a perfect, noisy obstruction.
"Go! Now!" Isaac hissed.
M-001 was already moving, reloading on the run with practiced, furious speed. Isaac and M-002 fell in beside him, sprinting back through the maze of machinery toward the distant, glowing breach. Behind them, a chorus of enraged shrieks and roars erupted. The bait had been taken. The Gloomspawn tide, led by the two furious Bloaters, began to surge toward the source of the insult, funneling toward the blocked central avenue and spilling into the side lanes between machines.
They were halfway back when Isaac glanced over his shoulder. He saw the three Whisperers floating above the charging horde, not following directly, but drifting forward, their attention now split between the noise and their precious node.
"M-001! The shot!" Isaac yelled.
M-001 skidded to a halt behind a thick forge column. He dropped to a knee, shouldered his musket in one smooth motion, and aimed back across eighty meters of chaotic, charging enemies at a pinhead target. He didn't breathe. He didn't hesitate. He fired.
CRACK.
The shot was lost in the growing cacophony of the approaching horde.
For a second, nothing. Then, a sharp, high-pitched SPANG of metal on metal.
The release pin on the stamping press sheared.
With a groan of long-unused springs and a shriek of corroded metal, the massive hammer of the press, a block of steel the size of a desk, dropped.
It didn't hit a Whisperer. It slammed down directly onto the back of one of the lagging Bloaters, flattening it into a sizzling, acidic pancake with a wet, terminal SQUELCH.
But the hammer's descent didn't stop there. It struck the stone floor with colossal force right at the edge of the node's flickering barrier.
The shockwave was physical. A ring of dust and debris exploded outward. The pale blue barrier flared, crackled violently like stressed glass, and with a sound like breaking crystal, it failed. The light winked out.
The two remaining Whisperers, drifting just above, were caught in the backwash of the failing energy field. They convulsed, emitting piercing, mind-agony shrieks that made Isaac's vision blur and his nose bleed. One seemed to unravel, dissolving into black mist. The other recoiled, spinning wildly, disoriented and clearly damaged.
Tier-1 Hostile Eliminated (via Environmental Hazard).
Tier-1 Hostile (Whisperer) Incapacitated.
It was more than he'd dared hope for.
"Move!" Isaac screamed, the psychic aftershock making his teeth ache.
They scrambled the last distance to the breach and dove through. "Shield-1! Now! Firing line, ready!"
The beachhead was ready. Shield-1 planted its ruined shield just inside the Manufactorum side of the breach, creating the last, desperate barricade. The other six Militia were arrayed in two ranks in the corridor behind it, muskets leveled at the hole.
The Gloom tide arrived.
It hit Shield-1 first. Swarmlings scrambled over the broken shield, only to be met by a forest of bayonets from the militia behind. They were stabbed, clubbed, and thrown back. The second line fired volleys into the packed bodies trying to squeeze through the breach. Smoke filled the corridor. The noise was a continuous roar of musketry, shrieks, and the wet sounds of butchery.
It was a grinder. The perfect, narrow funnel made their numbers a weakness. Only two or three creatures could press the attack at once. Isaac stood behind his firing line, his sword useless, shouting commands. "Reload by rank! Focus fire on the Bloaters! Ignore the swarmlings at the shield!"
A Bloater forced its way to the front, its tongue lashing out. It wrapped around Shield-1's helmet. The unit didn't cry out, but its head was jerked sideways with a sickening crack of synthetic vertebrae. It went limp, but its body, braced, still held the shield in place.
"Fire!" Isaac roared.
Four muskets boomed. The Bloater's head vanished in a spray of acid and bone fragments. It fell, its weight adding to the clog in the breach.
The fight became a brutal, minute-long exercise in attrition. Ammunition dwindled. M-004 took a barbed tongue through the shoulder and fell, struggling to reload with one arm. M-006's musket misfired, and he was dragged forward by a swarmling; M-005 bayoneted the creature off him.
Just as the pressure seemed inexorable, the attacks began to falter. The endless tide had an end. They had killed most of it at the stamping press and the furnace, and the rest here at the door.
The last creature, a wounded Whisperer trailing darkness like blood, floated into view outside the breach. It raised a wispy hand. A wave of disorienting nausea hit Isaac, and the militia units shuddered, their movements becoming sluggish.
But it was alone, and badly hurt.
"All units! Target that Whisperer! Volley fire! NOW!"
Every remaining Militia that could aim, including the wounded M-004, leveled their weapon. A ragged, thunderous volley, the last of their coordinated ammunition, erupted.
Five lead balls passed through the Whisperer's insubstantial form. It didn't scream. It simply came apart, dissipating like smoke in a gale.
Silence.
The only sounds were the hiss of acid eating stone, the clatter of a dropped ramrod, and the ragged breathing of Isaac Travis. Smoke drifted through the breach.
The Manufactorum was quiet.
Combat Concluded. Essence Acquired: +78 Units from multiple hostiles.
Unit Status: Shield-1 – Destroyed. M-004 – Damaged (Mobile). All other units – Minor to moderate damage. Ammunition reserves critical.
Primary Objective Updated: Secure Manufactorum Control Node.
Isaac stepped over the dissolving carcasses, past the silent, headless body of Shield-1 still holding its ruined shield. He walked into the newly silent Manufactorum. The air was thick with gunpowder and death. He moved through the carnage, past the stamped Bloater, past the fallen trolley, until he stood before the Control Node.
The barrier was gone. The node was intact. He placed a bleeding, soot-stained hand on it.
Facility: Manufactorum (Level 0) – Control Node Secured. Status: Dormant. Repairs Required: 75 Essence, 40 Salvage (Stone/Metal), 20 Salvage (Advanced - Conductive Crystal).
The cost was staggering. But he had 150 Essence now. He had the crystals from the depot. He had won the factory.
He turned and looked back at the breach, at his battered, bloodied, silent soldiers already beginning to police the area, collecting cores with their bayonets. They had been the hammer. The Manufactorum had been the anvil.
He had paid for this victory in broken metal and synthetic blood. But he had paid it. The machinery of war was now his.