Three days later. Early morning.
The air on the Iron Plateau was sharp, carrying the scent of stone dust and cold wind. The land stretched in all directions, rolling with jagged shelves of slate and iron-veined rock. Sparse tufts of hardy grass clung between cracks, their roots drinking what little life the land offered. The horizon seemed endless—an ocean of gray and rust under the pale wash of dawn.
"Why is he staring around that much?" Masen rumbled as he adjusted the strap of his cuirass.
Lucy followed his gaze. Logos was perched on the edge of the supply cart, his small figure framed against the rising sun. His pitch-black eyes, unsettling to most, were fixed far in the distance as if trying to drink in every shadow of the plateau. He wasn't blinking much.
"It's his first time being truly outside the estate," she explained, brushing windblown strands of hair from her face. "He tends to go into a daze when he sees something new."
Masen snorted, but his weathered expression softened. "He's like a little bird."
"More like what I said," Bal muttered from behind, voice thick with sleep. "Creepy child."
A sharp thwack followed.
"Ouch!"
Lucy lowered her hand with a satisfied nod. "He is still a child, you know."
Bal grumbled, rubbing the back of his head. "Didn't feel like it…"
The convoy wound across the plateau for hours. The path was harsh, carved from old trade roads and broken stone slopes. Even with one hundred soldiers rotating in shifts, dragging the machine had been backbreaking labor.
The great construct groaned as its reinforced wheels grated over the uneven ground. Thick ropes cut into calloused palms, and armor plates clanked with every heave. Sweat soaked through gambesons despite the cold air, and boots left a dark scar on the pale rock.
Yet they moved forward, one foot at a time, as though hauling a siege engine to the gates of an enemy city. The construct's bulk was immense—its steel ribs and rune-marked panels like the skeleton of some ancient beast bound to wheels. Even dormant, it radiated a quiet menace, a reminder that this was not just a tool but something bordering on alive.
Logos walked beside it, small and unbending, his eyes always on the machine as if afraid it might vanish. He barely noticed the soldiers' grunts or the wind's bite. Every sound of rope creaking, every clank of gear, he marked in silence.
After five hours, the mouth of the mine finally loomed into view. It yawned black and wide from the mountainside, its wooden support beams half-rotted, its pulleys rusting. The air that drifted from within was cold, smelling of old dust and forgotten labor.
The soldiers let out a collective sigh of relief.
"At last," Masen muttered, wiping his brow.
Logos stopped before the dark entrance. "Let's start."
He walked to the machine's side, craning his neck up. The control handle was too high. He stretched, stood on his toes, even jumped slightly, fingertips grazing air. Behind him, low chuckles rippled through the soldiers.
Lucy hid her smile. "Don't worry, you're still growing."
"Shut up," Logos snapped without looking back. His cheeks flushed slightly.
"Didn't you say he can't act like a child?" Masen murmured to Lucy.
"I guess she was right," Bal chimed in.
Logos ignored them. He turned to a nearby knight. "Open it."
The man blinked, startled. "Ah—me?"
"Yes. Pull."
The knight looked at Masen, who simply gave a shrug. Stepping forward, the soldier grasped the iron lever with both hands and heaved. At first it resisted, then gave way with a deep, echoing clank.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the panel fell open with a thud, revealing a hollow socket within.
"Did it break?" Bal asked flatly.
"No." Logos reached into his satchel and withdrew a small mana crystal. It gleamed faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, he slotted it into the port.
The effect was immediate. The machine stirred.
A low hum vibrated through the metal, subtle at first, then growing into a deep thrumming that reverberated across the rock face. The etched runes along its plates lit up in sequence, flaring pale blue as though the construct itself had begun to breathe.
Logos placed his hand on the back panel. More engravings shimmered into view, forming a lattice of light across the steel.
"When did you engrave runes on it?" Masen asked, brow furrowing.
"It's only a display," Logos replied. "The real magic is in the crystal."
At his touch, the runes shifted. The great machine lurched forward with ponderous steps, moving on its wheels toward the mine's mouth. The soldiers instinctively fell back, watching with raised shields and wary eyes.
The machine slipped into the dark like some beast returning to its den. It rolled down the old rails until it reached a collapsed section where the rock had caved in decades ago.
The construct halted. Its front unfolded with grinding precision, the chassis splitting as the circular blades extended outward, aligning themselves until they covered every span of the tunnel.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the blades spun.
The roar that followed was like thunder trapped underground. Sparks flew as metal teeth bit into ancient stone. The air shook. The ground trembled beneath the soldiers' boots. With each rotation, the rock screamed in protest, shards flying outward in a spray of deadly confetti.
Shields snapped up instinctively. Stone fragments clattered against steel. Dust billowed from the tunnel mouth like smoke from a battlefield. The grinding was deafening, a relentless shriek that drowned out thought.
Some soldiers shifted uneasily, hands tightening on weapons, though there was no enemy—only the monstrous machine chewing through the mountain as if it were flesh.
Lucy shielded her face with her cloak, squinting into the haze. Her eyes flicked toward Logos. He stood perfectly still, unflinching, watching his creation at work. His black eyes reflected the storm of sparks, unblinking, almost reverent.
Minutes stretched. The blades tore deeper, carving the collapsed rock into rubble. Then, as suddenly as it began, the machine slowed. The roar faded. Dust settled, drifting lazily to the ground.
The construct reversed, rolling out of the mine mouth. Its blades folded back into place with a metallic hiss.
Logos walked toward the rear panel. This handle was set lower, within his reach. He grasped it firmly and pulled. The hatch opened with a grinding sound.
A cascade of ore poured from the belly of the machine—chunks of iron-veined stone tumbling out in a clattering heap. Logos stumbled back as the pile nearly buried him.
"Don't do that again," Lucy scolded, darting forward to brush dust and gravel from his shoulders.
"That handle was within reach," Logos replied simply, voice muffled by the stones at his feet.
The soldiers stood in silence, staring at the mound of fresh ore. Their faces were drawn tight, not with fear, but with something heavier—realization.
The machine worked.
And the world would not be the same.