Far above the Sanctum, chaos devoured Brasswick.
The automaton's limbs had reshaped into spires that scraped the heavens. Streets split apart like ribs, revealing a furnace-heart within. But even in the Machine's living body, the rebels fought.
Dour's lieutenants, bloodied and desperate, rallied what remained of their forces. Muskets roared, grenades lit the night, and Anomalists unleashed their last reserves of power—flames, shadows, storms—against enforcers pouring from every wall.
The Phantom's hymn still echoed, yet the people of Brasswick no longer knelt. They fought, tooth and nail, against the Machine that had devoured their homes.
"Hold the plaza!" cried a grizzled sergeant as he fired his last shot. "Give Veyne his chance!"
And so the rebellion—broken, splintered, dying—became the shield around Elric's final gambit.