Location: Sector 7, The Supply Depot (The Flesh-Cathedral).
Time: 14:00 (One hour before the Raid).
Sector 7 did not have factories, it had incubators. It did not have smog, it had spores.
The command center was not built of steel or stone. It was located inside the ribcage of a deceased Leviathan—a massive, genetically engineered beast the size of a frigate, lobotomized and hollowed out to serve as a biological fortress.
The walls were warm to the touch. They were lined with pink, glistening mucous membranes that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat—thump-squelch, thump-squelch. Translucent veins ran across the ceiling like organic wiring, pumping nutrient slurry to the upper levels of the living building. The air was hot, humid, and smelled of copper, raw meat, and formaldehyde.
Overseer Gorm, the administrator of the Depot, sat on a throne made of calcified bone fused directly into the Leviathan's spine. He was a grotesque parody of gluttony—a bloated man, his skin stretched so tight it was translucent, revealing the blue roadmap of veins pulsing beneath.
"Let them come!" Gorm wheezed, his voice wet and rattling. He reached into a bowl made of a hollowed-out skull and popped a green nutrient capsule into his mouth. He chewed loudly. "The Red Baron is a relic. He fights with steam and iron. We fight with evolution!"
Around the circular table—which was a stretched diaphragm of leather—the other bio-mancers nodded in sycophantic agreement.
"Our scouts report movement in the Ash Wastes," a strategist said, pointing to a tactical map tattooed onto a sheet of stretched human skin. "Heavy armor. Steam-walkers. Tanks. The usual blunt instruments. They will hit the outer perimeter at sunset."
"And they will meet the Titans," Gorm sneered, wiping green slime from his lips. "Subject Alpha and Subject Beta are hungry. They haven't been fed a battalion in months. Iron tanks are just crunchy appetizers for them. The acid spit alone will melt their treads in seconds."
The room erupted in laughter. It was a wet, gurgling sound. They had held this sector for tens of years. No one had ever breached the Titan Wall. The sheer regenerative capability of their defenses made siege warfare an impossibility.
"I would not be so certain, Overseer."
The voice cut through the laughter like a cold scalpel through warm fat. It was quiet, calm, and utterly devoid of humor.
The room fell silent instantly. Even the ambient squelching of the walls seemed to pause.
Standing in the shadows of the aortic archway was a man.
He was unlike the others. He wasn't bloated, leaking, or mutated into a monstrosity. He was a statue of lethal perfection.
He was tall, lean, and possessed a deadly, predatory grace. He wore armor made of White Chitin—insectoid plating harvested from giant arthropods, lighter than steel but harder than diamond. It fitted him like a second skin. At his hip hung a long, curved blade wrapped in heavy bandages.
This was Valerius, the First Sword of the Garden. The Protector of the Flesh.
"Valerius," Gorm groaned, waving a dismissive hand that rippled like a water balloon. "You worry too much. You spend too much time polishing that bone-stick of yours. It's just the Iron Legion. We know their tactics. Bombardment, charge, retreat. Boring."
Valerius stepped into the bioluminescent light. His helmet was off, revealing a face that was handsome but unnatural. His skin was poreless, like porcelain. His eyes were not human, they were vertical slits, yellow and reptilian, designed to track movement at hypersonic speeds.
"The wind smells different today," Valerius said softly.
"The wind smells of sulfur," Gorm countered, rolling his eyes. "It's the War District. It always smells like farts and gunpowder."
"No," Valerius corrected. He placed a hand on the hilt of his bandaged sword. Under the cloth, the weapon pulsed, reacting to his anxiety. "It smells of... nothing. A void. There is something coming with the Baron. Something that does not belong to the cycle of life."
Gorm laughed again, the fat on his neck shaking. "You and your warrior poetry. Fine! If you are so scared of the rust-buckets, go to the front line. Take your squad. If the Titans miss a spot, you can clean it up."
Valerius bowed. It was a stiff, formal motion, governed by programming rather than respect.
"I exist to serve the Garden," Valerius said. "But remember my warning, Overseer. Iron rusts. Flesh rots. But the Void... the Void eats."
He turned and walked out of the pulsating room, his chitin armor clicking softly against the bone floor.
…
Location: The Outer Perimeter Wall.
Time: 14:30.
Valerius stood atop the living wall—a massive barrier of fused coral, bone, and calcified secretions that surrounded Sector 7. It was thirty feet high and regenerated damage within minutes.
He looked out over the Ash Wastes. The horizon was a shimmering blur of heat haze and toxic dust.
He reached for his sword. Slowly, reverently, he unwrapped the bandages.
The blade was not metal. It was a single, sharpened length of translucent red crystal, grown from the crystallized marrow of a Dragon-Class Chimera. It hummed in the air, a low, thirsty vibration that resonated in Valerius's teeth.
"Hungry, old friend?" Valerius whispered to the blade.
The sword vibrated in his hand, a low purr of agreement. It was alive, just as he was.
Valerius closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing.
He was not a mage. He could not cast spells. He was not an alchemist. He could not transmute matter.
He was a Physical Adept. A vat-grown homunculus designed for one purpose: kinetic supremacy. He had honed his body to the point where he could cut a bullet out of the air. He could run faster than a steam-horse. He could hold his breath for an hour.
He fought for Overseer Gorm not because he respected the fat slug, but because Gorm held the leash.
Valerius looked at his left hand. It was trembling slightly—a microscopic tremor.
The withdrawal.
Without his weekly injection of the stabilizing serum, his cellular structure would destabilize. He wouldn't just die, he would liquefy. He would turn into a puddle of genetic sludge. He was a slave to his own biology.
"A life for a life," Valerius murmured, gripping the hilt to stop the shaking. "That is the law."
He felt it again. That chill. That anomaly in the wind.
Far in the distance, a cloud of dust appeared. The rumble of engines began to vibrate through the soles of his chitin boots.
Valerius opened his eyes. His reptilian pupils contracted to razor-thin slits.
He saw the tanks—behemoths of iron and steam. He saw the walkers.
And then, he saw it.
A black hearse, reinforced with brass and spikes, roaring at the front of the formation like a mad dog off its leash. And riding in the passenger seat, leaning out the window, was a figure in a long coat.
Even from this distance, Valerius's enhanced eyes could see the face. The pale skin. The dead eyes. And the jaw that glinted silver in the harsh sun.
Valerius felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't fear.
It was recognition.
He saw a man who, like him, was not fully human. A man who was trapped in a cycle of consumption.
He gripped his red crystal sword tighter. The blade glowed brighter, sensing a worthy opponent.
"Finally," Valerius whispered, a sad, sharp smile touching his lips. "Someone who looks as trapped as I am."
He raised his blade, pointing the red tip at the approaching dust cloud.
"Come, Silver Face. Let us see whose chains are heavier."