The reply came swiftly.
By midnight, zeppelins blotted the sky. Brass rain — molten shards of shrapnel — poured upon the southern quarter. Enforcers marched with flame-throwers, reducing entire streets to cinders. The Phantom Engineer did not speak through pipes this time. He did not whisper.
He sang.
Every machine in the city groaned in harmony: trains, factories, lamps, even pocket-watches. Together they formed a hymn of steel and steam, a song of inevitability that rolled across Brasswick like thunder.
"You strike your little sparks," the voice boomed, echoing from every gear. "But sparks are only fireflies. And fireflies die when the dawn comes. I am the dawn."
Elric and his companions huddled in a ruined chapel, the hymn vibrating through its iron ribs. Survivors of the uprising gathered there — bloodied, broken, their eyes flickering with dwindling hope.
Selene's shadows curled tight around her like armor. "He wants to break us with fear."
"No," Elric said quietly. His face was drawn, yet his voice remained iron. "He wants us to believe the war is already lost. But wars are not equations. Wars are chaos. And chaos, by its nature, cannot be measured."
He lifted his cane, tapping it once against the chapel floor. The survivors turned their eyes to him.
"We do not fight to win tonight," he said. "We fight to remind him that Brasswick still breathes."
And in the heart of the machine-city, for the briefest moment, the Engineer's hymn faltered.