The screech of docking clamps jolted everyone awake.
The military cargo train shuddered as it locked into the steel arms of Port 7, deep within the Armory's lower sector. Hissing hydraulics and the clank of magnetic locks echoed through the hull.
Though technically still part of the frontier, the Armory sat two weeks inland by rail from the active front lines. But make no mistake—this was still a warzone.
The cargo train was the only lifeline connecting the inner continent to the frontier. A constant flow of bodies and machines in both directions. Refugees. Replacements. Scrap.
They called it the Frontier because it was where the world ended and something worse began. The largest portal of feral biocore incursion known to mankind—an open wound no core weaver had ever been able to close.
From that breach came creatures, day and night.
And from humanity?
Blood.
The war had lasted for centuries.
A meat grinder that consumed millions.
