Location: The Border of Sector 2 (The War District).
Time: 10:45 AM.
Sector 2 was a trench.
The transition was jarring. As The Psychopomp roared down the trans-sector highway, the environment began to decay. The manicured cobblestones and mossy overgrowth of Silas's domain gave way to cracked asphalt, pockmarked with craters that had been lazily filled with gravel. Eventually, even the asphalt dissolved, replaced by packed dirt, crushed rock, and layers of spent shell casings that crunched beneath the tires like gravel.
The scale of the district was oppressive. Stretching out to the horizon was a landscape of fortified bunkers, razor-wire fences, and industrial fortresses the size of mountains. The sky here was different. It didn't taste like coal or rot, it tasted like cordite, and copper. The clouds were a permanent, hazy orange, illuminated from below by the constant, strobe-light flashing of distant artillery fire.
Silas gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the leather. The hearse's suspension groaned as they hit a pothole the size of a bathtub.
"Checkpoint ahead," Silas warned, his voice tight.
Dante looked through the reinforced windshield.
The "Checkpoint" was a fortress. A massive wall of sandbags, concrete blocks, and scrap metal spanned the entire width of the six-lane highway. It was a brutalist monument to paranoia.
Manning the wall were soldiers of the Iron Legion. Instead of men in uniforms, they were tanks in human shape. They wore bulky, steam-powered power armor painted in drab olive and rust. Pistons hissed with every movement. Heavy machine guns—triple-barreled Gatling style—were mounted on tripods, tracking the approaching car with mechanical precision.
"They're hailing us," Silas said, tapping the dashboard radio. "Open frequency. They're locking on."
Dante flipped a toggle switch. The radio crackled to life, the static sounding like frying bacon.
"Unidentified vehicle," a voice boomed, harsh and distorted by a mask's vocoder. "You are entering the Sovereign Territory of the Red Baron. We do not accept tourists. State your business or be reduced to scrap."
Dante picked up the heavy microphone.
"This is the Pale King," Dante said calmly. "I'm here to browse the library."
There was a long pause on the other end. Static hissed.
"The Pale King?" The voice returned, sounding amused, perhaps even intrigued. "The one who ate Vespera? The Baron has heard of you. He says you have guts."
"I have several," Dante replied dryly. "Mostly my own."
"The Baron says if you want to enter, you have to survive the Welcome Mat."
"The Welcome Mat?" Silas asked, glancing nervously at Dante. "What is a Welcome Mat?"
Click. The line went dead.
Suddenly, the top of the wall exploded into activity.
Sirens wailed—a low, mournful sound like a diving Stuka. The Gatling guns spun up. A dozen barrels rotated, blurring into invisibility as the pilot lights ignited.
"Silas!" Dante shouted. "Drive!"
"I hate this district! I hate it! Everyone here has anger issues!" Silas screamed.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator.
The Psychopomp roared. The alchemical V-12 engine screamed like a banshee as the condensed mana hit the pistons. The heavy hearse lunged forward, kicking up a rooster tail of dirt and brass casings.
BRRRRRRRRT.
The sound was a physical wall of noise. A storm of lead hammered the car.
Sparks flew in torrential showers as the high-caliber bullets impacted the brass armor. The alchemical reactive plating did its job, where the heaviest rounds hit, the ceramic plates hissed and expanded into a dense, grey aerogel foam, absorbing the kinetic energy and trapping the bullets before they could penetrate the cabin.
Inside, it sounded like they were inside a church bell being rung by a giant with a sledgehammer. CLANG-THUD-PING-CLANG.
"Shields holding at 70%!" Silas yelled over the noise, wrestling the steering wheel as the impacts tried to push the car off the road. "They're using armor-piercing rounds! The foam won't last forever!"
"Get us through the gate!" Dante ordered, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I'll clear the path!"
"What are you doing? Don't open the window!"
Dante ignored him. He climbed into the passenger seat, hit the release for the armored shutter, and rolled down the window.
The wind whipped his coat violently. The smell of gunpowder was intoxicating—sharp, peppery, and alive.
He looked ahead. Amidst the hail of gunfire, he saw the biggest threat. On the left side of the wall, a heavy cannon emplacement was swiveling. It wasn't a machine gun, it was a tank-killer. A 80mm smoothbore cannon aimed directly at their engine block.
"Target analysis," Prime's voice cut through the chaos, layering a tactical grid over Dante's vision. "Wind speed: 60 mph. Distance: 150 meters. Probability of direct hit: 12%. Suggestion: Target the structural integrity of the barrel."
A red reticle appeared in Dante's vision, highlighting the cannon's muzzle.
Dante raised his right arm—The Gentleman's Ripper.
"Target lock," he whispered.
He pointed his open palm at the cannon. The gyroscope in his arm whirred, stabilizing his aim against the bouncing of the car. He triggered the firing mechanism in his forearm.
THUMP.
The vial of Potassium Nitrate and Sulfur was ejected from the pneumatic port in his palm. It didn't fly like a bullet, it arced like a grenade launcher round, tumbling end-over-end through the air.
As the vial flew, Dante didn't look away. He extended his index finger.
A thin, barely visible shimmer distorted the air between his finger and the flying vial. It was a Mana Thread—a concentrated stream of highly volatile mana acting as a wireless fuse. It connected him to the payload.
The vial smashed against the lip of the enemy cannon's barrel, shattering and coating the metal in black powder and sulfur.
"Combust."
Dante snapped his fingers.
The snap sent a pulse of ignition mana racing down the invisible thread. It traveled faster than sound.
FLASH.
The spark hit the chemical mixture.
BOOM.
The explosion wasn't massive, but it was surgical. The force didn't destroy the cannon, it warped the metal. The tip of the barrel bent inward, crimped like a pinched straw.
A split second later, the gunner inside the emplacement pulled the trigger.
The 80mm shell fired. It hit the crimped end of its own barrel.
The shell detonated instantly inside the gun.
The entire emplacement vanished in a spectacular fireball of twisted metal, steam, and flying sandbags. The shockwave knocked the nearby machine gunners off their feet.
"Strike confirmed!" Dante yelled, pulling himself back inside the cabin and rolling up the armored shutter.
"Hold on!" Silas warned, his eyes wide behind his goggles. "Ramming speed!"
The Psychopomp hit the wooden barricade at eighty miles per hour.
CRASH.
Wood shattered into toothpicks. Sandbags exploded, filling the air with dust. The heavy hearse plowed through the checkpoint, shaking violently as it crushed debris beneath its treads. It went airborne for a terrifying second, then slammed down on the other side, skidding on the loose gravel.
Silas corrected the spin, drifting the heavy vehicle like a rally car, and accelerated into the wasteland beyond.
"We... we made it?" Silas wheezed, checking the rearview mirror. "They're not shooting."
Dante looked back through the rear window.
The Iron Legion soldiers weren't pursuing. They weren't reloading.
They were standing on the ruins of their checkpoint, amidst the burning wreckage of the cannon. They were... cheering.
The Commander, a massive figure in red-painted power armor, stood atop the broken wall. He raised a massive, armored hand and gave a distinct, rigid thumbs up.
Dante looked back, confused. "They're... clapping?"
"It's the War District, Dante," Silas wiped sweat from his forehead, his hands shaking on the wheel. "They don't hate intruders. They just hate boring intruders. If you die, you're weak. If you survive, you're a guest."
Silas laughed, a high-pitched, hysterical sound.
"I think we just passed the entrance exam."