Location: Sector 2, The Iron City.
Time: 11:30.
Past the border, the city revealed itself not as a metropolis, but as a fortification.
Sector 2 was not built for living, it was built for siege. Every building was a bunker, constructed of reinforced ferro-concrete with narrow slit windows designed for firing positions. The residential blocks were brutalist towers connected by sky-bridges that looked more like defensible gantries than walkways. The "parks" were obstacle courses filled with barbed wire, tank traps, and burnt-out chassis of vehicles used for cover drills.
Civilians walked the streets, but they didn't carry briefcases. They carried rifles slung over their shoulders like grocery bags. Even the children playing in the gutter were practicing disassembly drills with rusted pistols, timing each other with stopwatches.
"The Red Baron's philosophy," Dante mused, watching an elderly grandmother haggle over the price of a vintage grenade launcher at a fruit stand. She was checking the firing pin with the scrutiny of a jeweler. "War is the natural state of man. Peace is just the time used to reload."
"Barbaric," Prime noted, his voice sounding offended by the inefficiency of it all. "But statistically significant. The industrial output of this sector accounts for 60% of the city's GDP. War is profitable. These people are not citizens, they are shareholders in violence."
"Where is the Baron's Keep?" Dante asked, stepping over a puddle of oil that shimmered like a rainbow.
"Dead center," Silas pointed. "The Citadel of Mars."
It loomed in the distance—a massive fortress made of black iron, shaped distinctly like a closed fist punching the sky. It was surrounded by a moat, but the moat wasn't filled with water. It was filled with burning oil, the flames licking the base of the walls, creating a perpetual curtain of heat and smoke.
"How do we get in?" Silas asked, eyeing the anti-air flak cannons mounted on the turrets. "We can't ram the Citadel. They have bigger guns than the checkpoint. If we drive The Psychopomp onto that bridge, they'll turn us into scrap metal."
"We don't ram it," Dante said, adjusting his cuffs. "We knock."
He checked his pocket watch. The hands were ticking backward, a side effect of carrying the time crystals in his pocket.
"The Baron holds a War Council every day at noon. He invites the captains of the mercenary companies to bid for contracts. We're going to crash the meeting."
"We aren't mercenaries," Silas pointed out, checking his own pockets to make sure he hadn't accidentally brought any contraband illegal in a war zone (which was nothing, everything was legal here except pacifism).
"No," Dante grinned, the Silvergrin shifting into a predatory smile that reflected the burning moat. "We are independent contractors. Park the car, Silas. We're walking from here."
They parked The Psychopomp in an alleyway shielded by a dumpster filled with spent shell casings. Silas activated the anti-theft system—which involved electrifying the door handles with 10,000 volts of lightning mana—and they stepped out into the oppressive heat.
Dante walked. His long coat concealed his weapons, but his gait—the heavy, purposeful stride of a predator—cleared the sidewalk better than a siren. People stepped aside. They saw the silver jaw. They saw the black mechanical hand. They smelled the sharp tang of ozone and entropy.
They reached the drawbridge of the Citadel. The heat from the burning moat was intense, distorting the air. Two massive guards stood there, encased in full plate armor, each wielding a halberd that buzzed with lethal electrical current.
"Halt," one guard rumbled, his voice amplified. "State your Company."
"Company of One," Dante said calmly.
"No independents allowed. Council is for Captains only."
Dante didn't argue. He reached into his pocket. He had several fragments of the "Resonance Core" scavenged from Vespera's estate—crystallized seconds of time. He picked a medium-sized shard, pulsing with a faint blue light.
He tossed it to the guard.
The guard caught it. He looked at it. His eyes widened behind his visor as he saw his own reflection in the crystal—aging, withering to a skeleton, and then turning back into a baby, cycling endlessly.
"Trophy," Dante said. "From the Spire."
The guard looked at Dante, then at the shard. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"You're the one who killed the Witch."
"I'm the one who ate the Witch," Dante corrected softly, leaning forward so the firelight caught the liquid metal of his teeth. "Now, open the gate. Or I'll get hungry again."
The guard swallowed audibly. He pounded the butt of his halberd on the steel ground three times.
"Open the gate! High-Value Guest!"
The drawbridge groaned, chains rattling as it lowered over the fire.
Dante walked across the burning moat, the flames roaring beneath the grate. Silas trailed nervously behind him, clutching his bio-hazard sack.
"You know," Silas whispered, wiping soot from his glasses, "diplomacy usually involves fewer threats of cannibalism."
"In this district," Dante replied, staring at the black iron gates ahead, "that was diplomacy."
The Raid Council
The chamber was a cavernous hall, lit not by electric lights but by roaring torches set in iron sconces. The shadows danced violently on the walls, making the occupants look larger than they were. In the center sat a round table made of a single slice of a giant sequoia tree, the wood scorched and scarred by knives stabbed into it during heated arguments.
Sitting around the table four twelve of the most dangerous people in New Babel, including Dante.
There was Captain Grist, a man whose skin was entirely replaced by stitched leather patches, giving him the look of a walking scarecrow.
There was The Silent Sister, a sniper with a cybernetic eye that glowed red and took up half her face.
There was Iron-Head, an ogre-sized human with a literal steel plate bolted to his skull where his forehead used to be.
And at the head of the table sat The Red Baron.
He was not what Dante expected. He wasn't a giant in power armor. He wasn't a cyborg monstrosity.
He was a seemingly normal, older man. Scarred and grizzled, yes, with a white crew cut and a mustache that looked like a stiff bristle brush. He wore a simple, crisp military uniform, unadorned by medals. He didn't need medals to prove who he was. He was the General.
He was carving a rare steak with a combat knife, eating with precise, mechanical movements.
When Dante walked in, the room went silent. Twelve pairs of killer's eyes locked onto him. Hands drifted toward holsters, hilts, and hidden daggers.
"You're late," The Red Baron said, not looking up from his steak. His voice was gravel—low, rough, and commanding. "And you're not on the list."
"I hate lists," Dante said, his voice echoing in the silence. "They're so restrictive."
He walked to the table. There were no empty chairs. The circle was closed.
Dante stopped behind Captain Grist. The leather-skinned man smelled of unwashed sweat, tanning oil, and dried blood.
"Excuse me," Dante said.
Grist stood up, towering over Dante by a full head. He sneered, revealing yellow teeth. "Get lost, Tin-Man. This is the big boy table. Go play in the scrap heap."
Dante didn't blink. He didn't look up. He looked at the chair.
"Decay."
He touched the back of Grist's heavy wooden chair with his left hand—his human hand, channeling the Void.
Fzzzt.
The sound was like dry leaves being crushed. The sturdy oak turned grey, then black. It lost its structural cohesion instantly. With a soft whoosh, the chair crumbled into a pile of fine, grey sawdust.
"You don't have a chair anymore," Dante noted.
Grist roared, his face turning purple. He reached for the heavy pistol at his hip.
Dante moved faster. The Gentleman's Ripper flashed.
He didn't strike Grist. He grabbed the pistol barrel before it cleared the holster. The servo-motors in his arm whined with torque.
CREAAAK.
With a simple twist of his wrist, Dante bent the steel barrel into a perfect U-shape.
Grist stared at his ruined gun, then at Dante.
"Sit," Dante commanded, pointing to the floor.
Grist looked at the Baron. The Baron was chewing his steak, watching the scene with mild amusement, like a man watching a dog perform a trick. He didn't intervene.
Grist swallowed his pride. He sat on the floor, crossing his massive arms.
Dante kicked the pile of sawdust aside and looked at the Baron.
"I stand corrected," the Baron said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You are definitely the Pale King. Aurum sent me a memo about you. Said you were a 'bad investment'."
"So this is what it is about," Dante thought. "Aurum is poisoning the well."
"Aurum counts coins," Dante said aloud. "I count bodies."
"Is that a threat, son?" The Baron leaned forward.
The air in the room grew heavy. It wasn't magic, it was presence. The Baron wasn't an Aspirant of Magic, he was an Aspirant of Conflict. His mere existence made adrenaline spike in everyone's blood. Just looking at him made Dante want to punch someone, to fight, to conquer. It was a psychic aura of aggression.
"It's an interview," Dante said, fighting the urge to draw his daggers. "I want a job."
"I have plenty of soldiers," the Baron scoffed, gesturing to the table of killers. "Why do I need a scavenger?"
"Because," Dante said, placing his mechanical hand on the table with a heavy thud. "I need something you have. And I'm willing to trade a miracle for it."
The Baron raised an eyebrow. "What do you want?"
"A book," Dante said. "The Anatomy of Empires."
The room went deadly silent. Even the torches seemed to flicker.
The Baron stopped smiling. He put his knife down slowly.
"That book," the Baron said quietly, "is in my private vault. It contains the strategic defense codes for this entire sector. Asking for it is an act of war."
"I don't want the codes," Dante lied smoothly. Prime was feeding him the lines, calculating the optimal diplomatic path. "I want the chapter on The Origin. The historical text. I need the lore, not the logistics."
"And what is the 'Miracle' you offer in exchange?" The Baron asked, his hand drifting toward a heavy, custom revolver on the table.
Dante looked around the room.
"I see twelve mercenary captains here. You're planning a raid. Probably on Sector 7, the Supply Depots."
The Baron narrowed his eyes. "So?"
"So," Dante said. "Sector 7 is guarded by Bio-Titans. Genetically engineered monsters that are immune to bullets. They heal faster than you can damage them."
He looked at the Baron.
"Your men will die. You'll lose 40% of your forces. It's a meat grinder."
Dante tapped his chest.
"I can kill the Titans. Alone."
The Baron laughed. It was a bark of genuine disbelief. "You? A skinny alchemist with a metal jaw? Those Titans regenerate. They eat alchemical fire. You can't kill them."
"Regeneration is just biological construction," Dante said, the Silvergrin splitting wide, leaking a faint grey mist. "I am Deconstruction. I don't hurt them, I unmake them."
The Baron studied Dante. He looked at the bent pistol on the floor. He looked at the pile of sawdust that used to be a chair.
"A wager," the Baron proposed.
He stood up. He was short, but he cast a long shadow.
"We are raiding Sector 7 tonight. You join the vanguard. If you kill a Titan—solo—you get your time in my library. If you fail, or if you die... I mount your head on my wall next to the moose."
Dante extended his mechanical hand.
"Deal."
The Baron took it. His grip was iron, crushing, radiating heat and violence. But Dante's servo-assisted hand matched the pressure, the gears locking in place.
"Welcome to the Iron Legion, Scavenger," the Baron grinned, and for a moment, he looked like a wolf baring its teeth. "Try not to bleed on the merchandise."