The sun hung low over Morhat, casting elongated shadows across the fractured streets and ash-draped ruins. The air was heavy with rust and the scent of old fire. Screams and metal echoed across the narrow alleyways.
Albert stood still near a collapsed archway, half-covered by its rubble. His brown-black hat shadowed his eyes, cloak blending with the burnt surroundings. His breath was shallow, blood trickling down his ribs from a recent cut.
Just ahead, two PCS F-31s—metallic beasts with blade-arms and wheel-like legs rampaged through the crossroad, spinning and slashing. Their movements were brutal, almost rhythmic. Sparks scattered every time their wheels scraped the broken road.
A group of Vanguards were holding the frontline across the square, caught in a desperate backpedal. One screamed as a blade pierced his shoulder. Another tried to fire a pulse rifle, only for the PCS to rush in faster, carving through the air with an inhuman shriek.
Albert remained hidden and watching.
A glint. Too late.
One F-31 suddenly pivoted, its lens locking onto him as if it sensed his presence.
It lunged.
Albert rolled sideways, the spinning blade missing by a whisper. His cloak tore at the edge, exposing a scarred flank.
The second PCS joined in from behind—fast. Its wheels tore through gravel, a shriek of momentum.
Albert exhaled, low. "Feather."
His feet lifted slightly—no wings, no wind, just a soft pull upward. He glided inches off the ground, swift and graceful like mist dodging fire.
The blades missed again. He twisted midair between both units, his body folding in tight arcs. The machines, built for speed and brutality, weren't prepared for fluidity.
He soared upward briefly, landed softly on a rusted car hood.
A Vanguard nearby turned to him—almost recognizing.
Albert vanished again into the broken alley shadows.
The F-31s stopped.
They scanned. Confused.
But Albert was already on the move silently. Calculating.
He emerged from behind one of them just as it tore toward another Vanguard. His heel struck the back of its wheel—not enough to disable, just enough to nudge it off-track.
The Vanguard fired a bolt that hit dead center. Sparks flew. The unit screeched.
Albert had already vanished again, dodging low beneath the next strike, blood dripping down his side, but eyes calm.
He wasn't fighting for glory.
He wasn't fighting to be seen.
Two Vanguards passed near a scorched tunnel entrance, their boots clanking as they hauled a wounded comrade.
Albert crouched behind an overturned steel crate. His breath stilled. One wrong flick of movement and they'd see him.
He needed to draw the enemy away—quietly.
The F-31 unit he had agitated earlier screeched in the distance, its wheel-legs revving as it searched the perimeter. With a slight motion, Albert picked up a cracked fragment of pipe and tossed it across a rubble mound. The clang echoed like a gunshot.
The Vanguards turned. Alert. Distracted.
Albert moved.
He sprinted silently along the side wall, each footstep light, his Feather Trait keeping him slightly lifted—barely skimming the ground. The screeching unit followed, spinning fast. Not toward the noise. Toward him.
Good.
Albert darted into a collapsed section of Morhat—the old Rust Valley, an abandoned repair yard tangled in razorwire and fallen signs. No patrols. No cameras. Just echoing silence and rust.
The PCS F-31 arrived moments later, cutting a furrow through the metal-littered earth. Its lens flickered red. It had chosen its prey.
Albert faced it, still panting. His cloak fluttered in the heat haze.
Then he raised his hand.
A flash of white metal spiraled out of his palm—forged not by forge, but by sheer will and precision. A narrow, curved blade. Thin. Imperfect. It flickered with instability, but it was enough.
His fingers clenched the hilt. A sword born in disadvantage. Used a Luck Point and bend it.
The F-31 didn't wait.
It lunged—spinning, slashing—its twin arm-blades singing like bone saws. Albert dodged right, blade scraping across his thigh. He winced, spun low, and sliced at the machine's ankle joint, sparks flying.
But it didn't slow.
It turned, one wheel catching Albert in the ribs and sending him flying against a corroded wall. He hit with a grunt, blood spraying from his mouth. The sword nearly flickered out but he gripped it tighter.
He stood.
His body trembled. Sight blurred.
Yet the moment the F-31 charged again, Albert moved first.
He ducked under a blade, sidestepped a wheel-slam, and drove his conjured sword deep into the side joint of its rotating hip. A grind. A screech.
The unit jerked, slowed.
Albert's eye flicked to the left. Another F-31 was approaching.
He tightened his grip, blood dripping down his fingertips. Alone. Outnumbered. Bleeding.
....
The second F-31 spun toward Albert with relentless speed, its wheels grinding across rusted plates, twin blades raised to dissect. The first unit sputtered behind him, limbs half-shattered but still twitching with blind aggression. Albert stood between them—bloodied, breath shallow, body trembling.
His sword flickered, fading fast.
"I'm cornered."
A deep breath.
Then—he whispered beneath his breath, a sound swallowed by the wind and the crackle of sparking cables.
"Inventory."
Suddenly, the world stopped.
The shriek of wind halted mid-scream. Blades froze inches from his throat. Dust suspended in the air like dying fireflies. Even Albert's chest no longer rose or fell. He stood still—completely still. His legs, arms, even the beat of his heart frozen in time.
Only his mind remained awake, ticking like an isolated metronome in a dead world.
A soft mechanical chime echoed in the silence, and a translucent hexagonal interface materialized before him. Blue light, fragmented like stained glass. Inside it—his belongings floated in liminal stasis.
But he couldn't move. Not yet.
Albert grit his teeth inside his own skull. "I'll need to spend it."
Another Luck Point. The second this week.
He focused, mentally unlocking the node tied to the odds. A pulse of golden light shimmered through the frozen world.
And then—he moved.
Only for ten seconds.
But that was enough.
Albert lunged backward, narrowly slipping between two halted blades. His feet barely touched the ground, floating with his Feather Trait's aid. His fingers snapped, and from the Inventory—a long, jagged scythe blinked into existence. Twisted. Dark metal. A relic of another age. Something he'd once vowed not to use.
But today—there was no room for mercy.
The first F-31, its wheel half-broken, remained locked in the act of crawling toward him.
Albert didn't hesitate.
First isecond, He drove the scythe downward. The blade split through the steel cranium of the machine like an axe through rotted wood. Sparks and artificial fluids burst upward in a silent display of gore. The lens flickered. Died.
Second second, He spun. The second F-31 was inches away, caught mid-swing in the timeless plane. Albert stepped aside.
Third second, He jammed the scythe upward, piercing the motor coils of the F-31's back.
Fourth second, It vibrated. Time rippled around the strike. Metal bent.
But not enough.
The unit twitched, lens still active. A slash left a gash on Albert's shoulder as he barely dodged. Blood floated, bright red bubbles in still air.
Fifth second, He turned the blade. Pulled.
The spine of the machine cracked.
Sixth second, The F-31 flailed. It was resisting the death written for it.
Seven seconds: Albert let go of the scythe and summoned a new weapon from Inventory—a spear of crystal alloy. He jammed it straight through the back of the lens.
Eighth second, The F-31 shook. Wheels spun uncontrollably. It screamed, though no sound reached him.
Ninth second, Albert raised his hand again.
Tenth second, He twisted the spear, a final, sharp snap echoing in his mind.
And then, Time returned.
Everything surged back at once—the sound of metal rending, the crash of falling bodies, and a flood of pain through Albert's limbs. Both F-31 units collapsed, spilling broken gears and thick black fluids onto the stained Morhat ground.
He stood amidst the wreckage, eyes heavy, chest heaving.
The scythe vanished back into Inventory. The blood remained.
His Luck Point was gone.
He knelt, wiping the blade of the spear against his cloak before dismissing it. His hand trembled—not from fear, but from the exhaustion of bending the odds once more.
Silence returned, but it wasn't peace.
The corpses of steel beasts lay around him, like offerings in some forgotten war shrine.
Albert didn't smile. He didn't speak.
He simply whispered again, almost to himself,
"Inventory… Close."
....
The wind whispered through the skeletal remains of ancient stone towers. Vines coiled like veins across the broken walls, and the sky above glowed with the purple hue of a setting sun. At the very edge, above a collapsed chapel arch, Emilia hung effortlessly—her body swaying as if suspended by an unseen thread.
Her pale feet dangled. Her crimson dress fluttered.
She was humming.
Softly.
A childlike tune, one that echoed like forgotten lullabies woven with madness.
"Ashes fall and stars ignite,
Dreamless flame in sleepless night...
Tread not near, for I shall sing,
And fury wakes beneath my wing..."
Her voice carried on the wind—faint, yet eerily magnetic.
From the crumbled streets below, three PCS-F~31 units emerged, drawn by her presence. Their wheels spun without sound, blades and hooks already extending from their arms, eyes aglow like red moons.
They raised their weapons.
But then they halted.
Mid-motion. Mid-strike.
Their sensors twitched violently.
A strange scent drifted through the air like blooming lilies laced with iron and ember. It was subtle at first, but intoxicating. A scent not meant for machines.
They trembled.
Then, without warning, the F~31s collapsed one by one, metal limbs twitching before going limp.
Asleep.
Silent and powerless.
Emilia smiled from above, lips curling gently. She spun in the air as if caught in a ghostly waltz, her arms gliding with delicate precision.
Her feet never touched the ground.
A faint golden glyph glowed beneath her skin on her back, the sigil of ' Route –4 Fury ' shimmered.
The scent had been her veil. Her melody, the trigger.
"Good night, rusted puppets,
You tried to chase a storm...
But even storms obey me now,
I am Fury, born and torn."
She kept dancing, alone in the ruins. The machines would not rise again tonight.
....
Albert sat in the gutter, gnawing on a piece of hard bread. The world above had forgotten him, and he'd long stopped trying to climb back up.
Rainwater dripped from the cracked stone above, trailing down rusted pipes and pooling around his boots. His coat was damp, torn at the sleeves, and his once-black hat sat limply beside him, soaked in grime. The bread in his hands was stale, days old, but he chewed with the patience of a man who had made peace with hunger.
To his side, wrapped in an old cloth sack, were two tiny kittens. Mimi, Marsh, Jeena. Curled against each other, their ribs lightly showed, but they slept warm, trusting him with their fragile lives. Albert tore off the last good chunk of bread and tucked it near them.
"That's yours," he muttered, voice coarse and low. "Don't go starving on me now."
He leaned back against the stone wall. A slow exhale left his lungs. In the distance, the sounds of the city's chaos echoed faintly—metal clashing, faint shouts, machines whining in war but it all felt like another world. One he no longer belonged to.
A smeared phrase was etched into the wall beside him. "Those who fall too far never make it back."
Albert stared at it a moment, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.
"They weren't wrong," he whispered.
He reached out and gently brushed a strand of wet fur from little Mimi's imaginary face. His eyes were tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep cured but the deep, soul-eating kind that came from knowing you were never meant to win.
He had no legacy. No miracles left in his pockets. Just two kittens and the silence of the underground.
And maybe… for now… that was enough.