Location: Sub-Basement 4, Silas's Laboratory (The Garage).
Time: 09:00 AM.
The garage did not smell like a garage. It smelled of aggressive engineering, and the copper tang of dried blood masked by heavy grease. It was a cavernous space, carved directly into the bedrock of Sector 9, damp and echoing with the drip of leaking steam pipes.
"Behold," Silas announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He walked to a heavy industrial breaker switch on the far wall.
He threw the lever. KA-CHUNK.
Bank after bank of halogen floodlights flickered to life, buzzing loudly before stabilizing into a harsh, clinical white glare. The light revealed the monstrosity parked in the center of the bay.
It was not a car. It was a bunker on wheels.
The chassis belonged to a pre-war funeral hearse, long and sleek, but that was where the elegance ended. Silas had elongated the frame and reinforced it with plates of riveted naval brass and matte-black iron. The tires were massive, sporting solid rubber treads deep enough to lose a hand in—treads meant for crushing skulls and debris, not for smooth asphalt.
A cow-catcher made of serrated steel jutted from the front bumper like a shark's underbite. It was stained with patches of deep rust (or perhaps dried organic matter that Silas hadn't bothered to scrub off).
But the centerpiece was the engine. On the hood, exposed to the air like an exposed heart during surgery, sat a V-12 engine block. It breathed steam through twelve individual exhaust pipes, arranged vertically like the pipes of a church organ.
"I call her The Psychopomp," Silas said, patting the reinforced fender affectionately. The metal rang with a dull, heavy thud. "Because she escorts souls to the afterlife. Usually screaming. And occasionally in pieces."
Dante walked around the vehicle. His boots clicked on the oil-stained concrete. He ran his new mechanical hand along the armor plating, feeling the cold, dense texture of the metal.
"Is that... reactive armor?" Dante asked, pausing at a brick-like slab bolted to the passenger door.
"Better," Silas grinned, his goggles reflecting the floodlights. "Alchemical reactive plating. I infused the ceramic with a shock-sensitive transmutation circle. If a shell hits it, the plate instantly transmutes into a cloud of high-density aerogel foam to absorb the impact. It prevents penetration and shrapnel." He paused. "It's incredibly expensive, so try not to get shot."
"We are going to the War District, Silas," Dante said, circling to the back. "Getting shot is the local greeting. It's how they say hello."
Dante grabbed the handle of the rear door. It opened with the heavy seal of a bank vault.
The interior had been stripped of the plush velvet seats usually reserved for grieving families. In their place was a mobile war room. Weapon racks lined the walls, ammunition crates were stacked and strapped down with leather belts, and in the center sat a small, gimbal-stabilized chemistry station. The vials and burners were mounted on gyroscopes to keep them level, even if the car rolled over.
"Load up," Dante ordered, checking the suspension. "We leave in ten."
Dante stood at the workbench in the corner of the garage, organizing his inventory. The preparation was a ritual. In a world where magic was chaotic and machines were prone to rusting, precision was the only religion that mattered.
The Transmutation Daggers:
He picked up the stiletto blades. They were made of "Dead Iron"—a metal that absorbed light rather than reflecting it. He ran a whetstone along the edge. Shhhk. Shhhk. They didn't need to be sharp to cut, they needed to be sharp to conduct. He tested the balance, then slid them into the spring-loaded sheaths hidden in the sleeves of his coat. A flick of the wrist would deploy them instantly.
The Bandolier:
He checked the vials, ensuring the wax seals were intact.
Mercury: Heavy, liquid silver. Essential for fluid weapon construction and fusing with his jaw.
Carbon Dust: Pitch black and ultra-fine. For hardening air or smoke into solid barriers (Diamond/Graphite transmutation).
White Phosphorus: Suspended in water. For light, heat, and terror.
Rock Salt: Coarse and simple. For disrupting biological barriers and desiccating flesh.
Distilled Water: The universal solvent. The base of all life, and therefore, the base of all alchemy.
The Gentleman's Ripper:
Dante flexed his new prosthetic. The servos hummed—a sound that was becoming comforting. He rotated the wrist and opened the breach on the forearm. It was a cylindrical chamber, perfectly sized for a standard alchemical vial.
He selected a vial containing a mixture of Potassium Nitrate and Sulfur—the precursors to black powder. He slotted it into the arm.
Click-Hiss.
The arm accepted the load. The internal pneumatic piping primed itself, pressurizing the mixture.
"Explosive payload loaded," Dante muttered, checking the pressure gauge on his wrist. "Impact trigger set to high sensitivity."
The Fuel:
He turned to the lead box on the table. He took the remaining two bars of Enriched Uranium. He placed one in a shielded, lead-lined pouch on his belt.
The other, he broke in half. Snap.
He brought the half-bar to his mouth. The Silvergrin parted, the liquid metal retracting to expose the void. He then ate it.
CRUNCH.
The rush was instantaneous. It wasn't just energy, it was mass. The green radiation flooded his veins, anchoring his flickering existence to reality. He felt his physical density increase. He felt heavy. Real. The constant sensation of fading away—of being a ghost in his own body—vanished. His weight locked in at 85 kilograms of solid force.
"Efficiency noted," Prime's voice echoed in his skull, sounding clearer than before. "Core stability at 99%. However, relying on Aurum's supply creates a dependency. We are essentially drug addicts, and he is the dealer. We must secure our own source soon."
"One problem at a time, Prime," Dante thought back, flexing his fingers. Sparks of excess mana danced between the metal claws. "First, we steal the book. Then we worry about the grocery bill."
Silas emerged from under the hood of the car, wiping grease on his face, leaving a streak of black war paint across his cheek. He looked manic, vibrating with caffeine and adrenaline.
"Engine is primed. The boiler is at full pressure," Silas reported. He pointed to a small, red button on the dashboard, covered by a safety case wired with duct tape. "I added a Nitrous-Oxide injector, but instead of Nitrous, it uses condensed Lightning Mana harvested from storm-catchers."
Silas looked at Dante with dead serious eyes.
"Do not push the red button unless we are airborne, or dead. If you use it on the ground, the torque will likely tear the axle off the chassis."
"Noted," Dante said.
He grabbed his long coat—a new one, reinforced with leather patches on the elbows and shoulders—and swung it over his frame. The tails of the coat flared.
He looked at his reflection in the darkened window of the hearse. The pale skin, the sharp eyes, and the glittering, liquid metal grin. It was the mask of a monster. But it was the only face he had left.
"Open the door, Silas," Dante said, stepping into the passenger side.
Silas jumped into the driver's seat. He turned the key.
ROAR.
The V-12 engine detonated into life. The garage shook. Steam blasted from the organ-pipe exhausts, filling the room with white fog. The sound was a rhythmic, guttural thrum—like the heartbeat of a giant.
Silas hit the remote for the garage door. The heavy iron gate groaned and began to rise, revealing the smog-choked, grey morning of Sector 9.
"Let's go to war," Dante said.
Silas slammed the gearshift into first. The Psychopomp lurched forward, its massive treads biting into the concrete, carrying them out of the sanctuary and into the fire.