The southern quarter was gone.Where once factories rattled and markets buzzed, only smoldering ruins remained. Brass twisted into grotesque shapes under the heat; bodies lay half-buried in cinders. Even the fog had changed—black, acrid, clinging to the throat like a warning.
Elric and Selene moved silently among the rubble, guiding survivors toward safe houses. Evangeline trailed them, her eyes glassy, lips whispering fragments of machine-song.
"This is no victory," Selene muttered, crouching beside the burnt corpse of a rebel who still clutched a hammer. "It's an execution. A message carved in fire."
Elric's jaw clenched. "Every tyrant writes his message in blood. But blood washes away. Fear fades. What remains is memory. If we carry their memory, their death is not in vain."
Evangeline shuddered suddenly. Her hands clamped over her ears as if warding off a scream only she could hear.
"He's learning," she whispered. "Every anomaly, every resistance, he folds into the design. We are teaching him how to kill us better."
Elric helped her steady herself. "Then we stop teaching him. From here on, unpredictability is our only weapon."
But even as he spoke, the fog stirred unnaturally—shifting in rhythm with distant gears. The city itself seemed to listen.