Monsters.
The word sat foul in Alain's mind. The old man's account crawled into him like rot, rewriting his past into nonsense.
The creatures described weren't his. Not anymore. His monsters had been crafted to be soldiers, not incubators. Stripped clean of reproduction, driven only by the Orb of Dominion, built for war with precision. Multiplying through flesh-forging, not breeding with prey.
But the old man spoke it plain. Monsters now hunted humans, raped them, spawned children out of them. Beasts mingling with bloodlines. That, above all, broke Alain's expression into disbelief.
Impossible. His creations had no seed, no cycle. They obeyed, they killed, they died when severed from his control. So how had they come back? Who reshaped them? Who injected filth into his work?
His mind clawed through questions. If the Orbs had fallen when his castle collapsed, then the control was severed. His army should have withered. Yet here they were, centuries later, bastardized. Warped into something else. Not his. Not anymore.
The old man kept rambling, voice half-burnt from his smoke. "Doesn't matter what stories were told, kid. Fact is, monsters clawed up from nothing ten years after peace. And this time, they didn't march under a single banner. They bred, they swarmed, they tore into everything. The west bled rivers. The east only held because, well, your Demon King and his demons left behind good walls. Irony, eh?"
Alain kept his silence, though every word scraped his chest. His fortresses, his designs, handed to humans like gifts.
The old man spat and rattled off names. "Orcs. Trolls. Minotaurs. Great spiders the size of barns. Ogres pulling villages apart brick by brick. Anything you feared as a child, they came back larger, nastier. And worse… some twisted into shapes no man could describe."
Alain only tightened his fist in his lap. His blueprint… warped this way? No control, no command force. The old man was right. These were not his war beasts anymore. They were wild entropy. Carrion mockeries of his work.
"The wizards tried, sure," the man went on, scratching his beard. "But their magic washed off half of them. Not enough sorcerers anyway. Without numbers, humanity choked. Felt helpless all over again. Mostly waited for death."
Alain broke his silence. "What changed?"
The old man's grin curled bitter. "The weapon. Man's salvation, woman's crown. Told you before, didn't I? Only those who've taken the ceremony can wield it. As if the heavens threw down a bone just when we were starving." He laughed low. "But the catch? Only women hold that key. That's why men kneel today."
Alain's frown deepened, thoughts running threads. "So what weapon overturns an entire world?"
The old man leaned back, smoke curling like a veil around his head. "Hard thing to explain, boy. Better if you see it yourself."
That moment, the ground bucked.
Alain stiffened. The hut rattled around them. He thought of an earthquake before the sting of a second tremor cut that thought short.
"Hmph," the old man chuckled. "Right on time. Step to the window. You'll get your answer."
Alain rose, his body heavier than he wanted to admit, and shuffled to the window. He shoved it open. Red light from the setting sun spilled in.
The logging site spread below. Workshops thrown together out of lumber and dirt. Temporary homes scattered between. But past it, near the heart of the yard, space had been cleared. An open plaza cut flat against the ground.
The rumbling came again.
With it, a shadow moved. Alain blinked against the glare and then saw them.
Figures shaped like armored knights, blades larger than carriages. Their size dwarfed villages. Not two times a man's height. Not three. Four, maybe more. Giants of iron, colliding with a force that made the ground groan.
The duel was brutal and deliberate. Each swing dropped like thunder. Each step cracked the earth. The lumber shacks shook against the weight of it.
Alain's breath caught before he mastered it.
Golems.
The word answered itself as the old man rasped it behind him. "Some noble saw them once and muttered, 'To kill a monster, be a monster yourself.' That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?" He laughed like a knife against bone.
The clash ended fast. One giant's blade pierced into the throat joint of its opponent. Steel rang. A crest clattered to the dirt. Then, as though forgiveness had been granted, the fight stopped.
The colossi knelt down with a chorus of grinding gears. Plates hissed open.
From the openings stepped figures. Women. Silhouettes in the half-light, white surcoats glowing against red sun. Faces unclear but forms slender, human.
Pilots.
Alain narrowed his eyes, his mind already cutting ahead. Yes. With constructs like that, humanity might square against his largest beasts. To fight ogres, trolls, titans, you need titans of your own. Machines that turned feeble men into ants and women into giants.
He almost respected it. Almost.
Behind him, the old man grinned where Alain could not see. Watching the "amnesiac boy" nod in half-recognition. Thinking he understood. He didn't. Not entirely.
"He'll learn," the old man muttered, voice barely heard. "Takes two days. Then he'll see this camp for what it is. Hell dressed in timber."
He chuckled, phlegm vibrating in his throat. "Until then, let him play fool."