The wait was over.

  Every second stretched longer than the last, pulled tight by anticipation and dread. The sewer tunnel felt narrower now, the air heavier, thick with the stench of rust, oil, and stagnant water. Moisture clung to the walls, dripping in slow, uneven rhythms that echoed faintly through the darkness.

  Veyor and his team were already moving toward the furnace room, their footsteps fading into the distance.

  Here, beneath layers of concrete and steel, Luken stood still.

  Mira crouched near the marked section of ground, palms pressed flat against the concrete, eyes fixed upward. Voss stood beside her, shoulders tense, sweat rolling down his face despite the cold. His fingers hovered near the device he would need to activate—timing was everything. One mistake, one second too late, and the plan would collapse.

  No one spoke.

  Not even breathing felt allowed.

  Then—

  The steps came.

  Heavy. Measured. Unmistakable.

  Each footfall reverberated through the ceiling above them, sending vibrations rippling down the tunnel walls. Dust shook loose with every step. The rhythm was slow, deliberate, mechanical—too precise to be human, too controlled to be instinct.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Mira swallowed hard.

  Voss wiped his palms on his pants, eyes locked upward.

  Luken remained composed.

  His stance was relaxed but ready, feet planted firmly in the shallow water, blade held loosely at his side. His breathing was steady, controlled. He did not let the pressure seep in. He had trained for moments like this—moments where hesitation meant death.

  The steps stopped.

  For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

  Then Luken nodded once.

  Now.

  The ground split open.

  Concrete cracked and folded inward as if the earth itself had been peeled apart. Metal supports screamed as they tore free, and in the next instant, the massive form of Piston dropped through the opening.

  The impact was catastrophic.

  The beast slammed into the sewer floor with crushing force, sending a shockwave through the tunnel. Filthy water erupted outward, splashing violently against the walls and soaking everything in reach. The stench intensified instantly.

  Before the echoes could fade—

  Voss activated the device.

  A sharp pulse surged outward.

  Piston’s chest-mounted speaker crackled violently, emitting a burst of static before falling silent.

  Voss threw his head back, exhaling hard.

  “Hahhhh…! Did it!”

  Mira didn’t wait.

  She slammed her hands into the ground.

  The ceiling above folded shut, molten edges sealing together seamlessly, cutting off the opening completely. Darkness reclaimed the space, broken only by the dim emergency lights lining the tunnel.

  For the first time, Piston reacted.

  His head snapped toward them.

  And he spoke.

  The sound did not come from a speaker.

  It came from within.

  “Scenario not recognized.”

  The voice reverberated through the sewer, distorted, layered—multiple tones speaking in unison.

  “Initiating security measures.”

  Metal shifted across his body as components adjusted.

  “Unidentified entities detected.”

  Hydraulics hissed.

  “Mode set to: TERMINATION.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The word echoed unnaturally, stretching longer than it should have, vibrating through bone and water alike.

  Luken saw him clearly now.

  Piston’s body was entirely encased in metal, plates fused seamlessly into flesh. Where a spine should have been, two massive pistons ran vertically along his back, pumping rhythmically with every movement. Thick cables replaced veins, threading through his chest and arms, glowing faintly beneath translucent plating.

  His left arm was not an arm at all—it ended in an unfamiliar gun-like structure, barrels nested within each other, wires feeding into it directly from his torso.

  Hydraulics reinforced his legs, pistons driving every step with brutal efficiency. A thick exhaust pipe jutted from his back, venting bursts of heated vapor. His eyes—if they could be called that—were sharp, metallic lenses that adjusted constantly, narrowing and widening as they processed data.

  This wasn’t a monster.

  It was a machine that had learned how to wear a body.

  Piston took a single step forward.

  Water surged around his legs.

  Luken moved.

  He lunged forward, dragging his blade upward in a clean, decisive arc—aimed from Piston’s chest to his head.

  Metal screamed as the blade scraped along reinforced plating.

  Piston caught it.

  His hands clamped down on the blade mid-swing, stopping it cold. The force sent vibrations through Luken’s arms, nearly numbing them.

  For a fraction of a second, they locked eyes.

  Then Piston twisted.

  The blade wrenched free from Luken’s grip and slammed into the wall, embedding itself deep into concrete.

  Piston struck back.

  His free arm swung with piston-driven force, a blow meant to crush. Luken barely rolled aside in time, the strike detonating against the ground where he had stood moments earlier, spraying water and debris everywhere.

  Luken recovered instantly, drawing a secondary blade as he moved.

  Piston advanced.

  Every step was deliberate. No wasted motion. No rage. Just execution.

  Luken darted in, slashing at exposed joints, testing responses. His blade glanced off reinforced seams, sparks flying with every impact. Piston adjusted mid-motion, rotating components, sealing gaps faster than Luken could exploit them.

  A sudden blast erupted from Piston’s left arm.

  The sewer wall exploded inward, concrete shattering under the force. Luken was thrown backward, slamming into the opposite wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

  Pain flared.

  Adrenaline spiked .

  Piston was already moving.

  Luken pushed off the wall just as a piston-driven kick slammed into the space where his head had been. The impact dented steel plating and sent another shockwave through the tunnel.

  Luken rolled, came up low, and slashed at the pistons on Piston’s back.

  The blade bit.

  Not deep—but enough.

  The pistons stuttered for half a second.

  Piston reacted instantly, venting pressure through the exhaust pipe. Scalding steam burst outward, forcing Luken back, skin burning where the vapor touched.

  Piston turned fully now, adjusting stance.

  “Threat adaptation in progress.”

  Metal shifted again.

  Luken steadied himself, chest rising and falling.

  This wasn’t about overpowering him.

  This was about timing.

  Voss shouted from behind. “Speaker’s still down!”

  Luken nodded once.

  Piston charged.

  The tunnel shook as the beast closed the distance, hydraulics roaring. Luken ran straight at him—not away.

  At the last moment, he slid beneath Piston’s swing, rolled through the water, and drove his blade upward into the joint beneath the gun-arm.

  Metal ruptured.

  Cables snapped.

  Piston staggered—not from pain, but recalibration.

  Luken didn’t stop.

  He pressed the attack, climbing up Piston’s frame, striking exposed ports, forcing pressure to build unevenly. Pistons misfired. Hydraulics screamed.

  Piston grabbed him mid-motion and hurled him across the tunnel.

  Luken hit hard, vision blurring.

  Piston advanced again.

  One minute has passed.

  The clock was ticking.

  Meanwhile at Furnace room

  The moment Piston’s signal cut off, the air inside the furnace wing changed.

  Veyor felt it first—not as sound, but as absence. The rhythmic hum that had guided everything in this place faltered, like a heartbeat skipping a beat. For an instant, the machinery around them hesitated. Conveyor belts slowed. Pressure valves hissed unevenly.

  That was their opening.

  Kael didn’t wait.

  The spear left his hand in a clean, brutal line, slicing through the air with terrifying precision. It struck the Surgeon square in the chest, punching through layers of reinforced flesh and metal alike.

  The impact echoed through the chamber.

  The Iron Surgeon staggered backward, eyes widening—not in pain, but in disbelief.

  For the first time, something had gone wrong.

  The cables connected to the walls—thick, parasite-infused conduits feeding commands and energy into the mechanized humans—jerked violently. One by one, they detached with wet, metallic snaps.

  Eighteen figures convulsed.

  Then froze.

  The furnace chamber was massive—cathedral-like in scale. Molten steel glowed behind reinforced glass, casting an orange-red light that twisted shadows into monstrous shapes. Heat pressed down from every direction, suffocating and relentless.

  The Iron Surgeon didn’t fall.

  The spear was still lodged in his chest, metal warped around it, parasite matter pulsing angrily. His body trembled as systems tried to compensate.

  Then he laughed.

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic.

  It was disappointed.

  “You severed the wrong line,” the Surgeon said calmly.

  The eighteen mechanized humans moved.

  Not in rhythm.

  Not in formation.

  They charged.

  No commands. No coordination. Just raw, unleashed aggression.

  The fight exploded instantly.

  One of the mechanized humans slammed into the ground with enough force to crack concrete. Another ripped a steel pipe from the wall and swung it like a club. Their reinforced bodies ignored pain, ignored damage that would have killed normal soldiers outright.

  “Formation!” Aera shouted.

  The team snapped into motion.

  Holt surged forward, hammer crashing down onto the nearest target. The blow shattered metal plating and caved in the creature’s chest, but it kept moving—arms snapping forward to grab him.

  Kael was already there.

  His spear punched through the joint of its shoulder, pinning it to the ground. Holt finished it with a second strike, this time aimed at the neck.

  Riven moved like a blade given will.

  He weaved between attacks, sword flashing, cutting cables, severing limbs, forcing the mechanized humans into disarray. Sparks flew with every strike, mixing with blood and oil.

  Veyor stayed back just long enough to read the field.

  These weren’t Lostbonds anymore.

  They were failed machines—too strong, too fast, and utterly uncontrolled.

  “Target joints,” Veyor shouted. “They’re burning out!”

  He raised his weapon and fired into exposed connection points, not aiming to kill, but to destabilize. One of the mechanized humans collapsed mid-charge, legs locking up as systems failed.

  Aera moved through the chaos, eyes unfocused—connected elsewhere.

  “Don’t kill them, there are still humans inside these.” She says in desperation

  The Iron Surgeon wrenched the spear from his chest with a sickening sound.

  Parasite matter poured from the wound, quickly hardening into a metallic seal.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I saved them.”

  “Humans were intelligent but flawed—brilliant minds trapped in fragile bodies. I corrected that.”

  “They don’t seem brilliant to me.” Aera replies.

  The battle continues between mecha-humans and soldiers.