When Chime and the rest of them returned from securing the asset, the area where they had been fighting was mostly clear except for a few dying Princedom soldiers. The air still carried the heavy stench of burnt wood and blood. Smoke drifted lazily through the corridor. The floor was slick, every step accompanied by the wet squelch of blood and the crunch of shattered wood. There wasn’t much left to clean up, only corpses and the echoes of the massacre they had left behind. Sylen groaned and said, “Oh god damn fucking shit, we're too late.” Her voice was rough, tired, half amused at the sight of how thoroughly the others had wiped out everything that moved.

Jurpat shifted as he scanned the hallway. “No,” he said, “we’re heading deeper into the facility. There’s definitely more. No way this is everything. They’re probably trying to escape through other tunnels or locking down deeper chambers. We didn’t get all the data, and you know it. There’s got to be more going on down here, than just some experimental lances, or that four-eyed toad bullshit,” he gestured at the ruined corridor, “this is maybe a fifth of the place at best.”

The team began moving again, slow and deliberate. The sound of dripping fluids echoed through the empty halls, each drop hitting the ground like a clock counting down. They passed through ruined laboratories, where half-melted equipment still glowed faintly from Ramis’s earlier onslaught. The walls were blackened, glass scattered like ice across the floor. The dead lay everywhere, frozen in positions of pain or terror. Some had been melted, others crushed beneath fallen debris. No one was left to groan, plead, or move. The only sound was the hiss of ruptured pipes and the faint hum of dying machinery.

As they cleared room by room, they killed any remaining Princedom forces and researchers without hesitation. Even when someone was begging for their life, the response was the same, quick, efficient, final. It was cleaner that way, faster than trying to decide who was worth saving. Vaeliyan had made it clear: this facility was a grave now.

The team moved with grim focus. Jurpat tore open sealed doors with brute force while Xera and Chime covered the corridors, lances raised and ready. Fenn’s flechettes cracked through the silence whenever they encountered movement. Lessa’s cannon arms roared with continuous pressure, each blast a concussive wave that flattened corridors and tore through soldiers like paper, the recoil rolling through the air in an unending rhythm of destruction. Torman’s threads hung loose at his fingers, twitching as if alive, ready to lash out at the first sign of resistance.

In the midst of the wreckage in front of them, a second massive tree trunk had been launched through the wall, a shattered piece of living artillery embedded halfway into the structure. The trunk jutted through the corridor at an angle, splitting the walkway in two. Roots sprawled across the ground and ceiling, some as thick as a man’s torso, others thin as wire. They tore through the machinery and consoles, curling through metal and flesh alike. Vaeliyan had fired it himself just to see how the thing worked, its impact cracking the walls and driving deep into the structure. The facility lights flickered, and the walls still creaked under the strain of its presence.

This wasn’t the whole facility and they knew it. Beyond this twisted corridor, more chambers waited, more labs, more horrors. They were close to clearing the entrance level they thought, but there were still deeper levels to reach, more to destroy. None of them doubted it. The Princedom didn’t build anything this fortified without using it to its full capability.

They reached a junction where the floor dropped into a lower access tunnel. Jurpat crouched and pressed an ear to the wall, listening to the deep hum beneath the surface. “You hear that?” he said. “That’s heavy machinery. I think there are mechs down there.”

Vaeliyan grinned, sharp and hungry. “That’s exciting. Let’s get the fuck down there and blow some shit up.”

Wesley adjusted his stance, uneasy. “Are you sure, Captain? That sounds like a really stupid idea. Maybe we just drop the facility on them.”

Vaeliyan looked back at him, grin still sharp. “Don’t you want to see what’s kind stuff they got down there?”

Sylen spoke up next, her tone dry. “We do, but don’t you want to make sure we survive?”

“Survival’s overrated,” Vaeliyan said. “Blowing up a bunch of princedom mechs? That’s my kind of fun.”

Instead of all going down and getting shot at by the mechs, Vaeliyan and the others realized they could send in Styll. Vaeliyan crouched beside her, resting a steady hand against her back. “Would you be willing to take a look for us?” he asked. She tilted her head and said, “Yes. Stylls can do thats, Warns.” Her silver eyes caught the light, gleaming with a mix of excitement and focus. This was what she was made for.

Vaeliyan closed his eyes and joined her sight through the bond. The world expanded. He saw through her eyes while still seeing his own surroundings, both layered together. The tunnel around her was sharper, deeper, alive with scent and vibration. The air tasted of iron and blood, and through her, he could smell the oil and grease thick in the metal seams. There was a faint undercurrent of amber, but it wasn’t coming from ahead. It lingered behind them, a ghost of sap and resin clinging to the place she’d come from. Every vibration in the floor was a drumbeat against her awareness, a second rhythm his own heart began to follow.

She moved like smoke over water, weightless, predatory. Her paws barely touched the ground as she slipped down the tunnel, her body weaving through the cover with her natural grace. Every sound she made was swallowed by the dark. To Vaeliyan, it felt like drifting through a dream seen through glass: the pulse of her heart syncing with his own, the faint tremor of tension running along their shared link.

The tunnel was short, leading straight into a massive cavern. The space ahead opened wide, far wider than it had any right to be. The floor fell away into shadow, supported by thick pillars of steel and reinforced platforms. Catwalks crossed the open air like veins, hanging high above the ground. Below, the dim glow of construction lights revealed the hulking silhouettes of half-built mechs, each one easily twenty feet tall. The air was alive with the hum of power and the deep metallic resonance of machinery waiting to wake.

Styll crouched low on one of the catwalks, eyes narrowing. Through her senses, Vaeliyan could see the shimmer of heat rising from the massive frames below, the glint of oil pooling near their bases. The smell hit next: burning rubber, molten metal, and hot grease. Then came the noise, a low mechanical growl followed by the sharper whine of something spooling up. One of the mechs below shifted, its turret arm rotating toward her position.

The first volley came from below. Flechettes tore upward, shredding through the steel grates of the catwalk. Sparks exploded beneath her paws as she darted backward. But before she could retreat, movement flared along the upper platforms, more Princedom soldiers. They had been waiting, crouched behind the cover of the machinery. The mechs had drawn her attention, but the real threat was the infantry charging her from the catwalk itself.

Styll spun, claws scraping metal as she bounded back toward the tunnel. Flechettes screamed through the air from both directions, cutting through the space she’d been moments before. Her body blurred in motion, small and fast, leaping across the collapsing walkway as rounds tore through the grating behind her. She could hear their shouts, the boots pounding after her, the mechanical thrum of the mechs shifting into position.

Vaeliyan felt her panic flicker through the bond, but it wasn’t fear, it was warning. They were ready for them.

He didn’t hesitate. His body was already moving before the thought could even settle. He tore down the tunnel, boots slamming against the floor, voice sharp in the comms. “We get down there now!”

Everyone already knew what this was going to be. There was no surprise, no hesitation. They didn’t care if the Princedom had more soldiers, mech warriors, or knights waiting. The Complaints Department charged forward as one, every movement practiced and confident. Jurpat surged beside him, Lessa and Fenn close behind, the rest falling in without needing orders.

Vaeliyan wasn’t angry that Styll had been attacked. He expected it. That was the cost of finding an enemy still worth killing. He just wanted to get down there and to make sure she wasn't killed.

As they ran, he caught flashes through her fading perspective, Princedom troops firing from behind her, mechs below coming online, red lights cutting through the haze. The whole place was alive now.

Styll burst from the tunnel’s mouth and skidded across the slick floor, fur bristling, chest heaving. Vaeliyan dropped to one knee as she leapt into his arms, his pressure field snapping outward instinctively to shield her from the next volley that never came. She was shaking but alive, and that was enough.

He looked toward the dark, eyes narrowing as the sound of metal and shouting echoed through the cavern. “They are coming,” he said, his grin widening. “Good. Saves us the trouble of knocking.”

Jurpat flexed his hands, claws twitching for release. “Then let’s get to work.”

Vaeliyan’s grin stayed sharp and fearless. “Yeah. Let’s go fuck up whatever’s stupid enough to come at us.”

The team fell in beside him, every step deliberate, the sound of their charge building into a steady rhythm. The Complaints Department advanced into the dark together, ready for the fight they had always known was waiting.

The Complaints Department didn’t hesitate. The moment they entered the cavern, the Princedom forces charging after Styll met a wall of flechettes. The air filled with the high-pitched shriek of compressed firepower, and the front line of soldiers simply ceased to exist. Bodies turned to mist, armor shredded and fused to the walls by the sheer volume of rounds. In less than three seconds, the corridor went silent again.

This story originates from NovelBin. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Vaeliyan moved forward, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the catwalks above. “Reload Betty we are going to need her if there are any knights down there,” he said without looking back. Fenn obeyed instantly, the weapon clicking open as flechettes fed into place.

“Everybody, hold position,” Vaeliyan said, lowering his lance and exhaling. “I’m going to pump as much of my fucking pressure field forward as I can. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. They stopped me when we were up there, but now, unless they come to us, I might as well push it out and kill anyone who’s stupid enough to still be breathing.”

The rest of the Complaints Department exchanged glances, and Jurpat let out a short, impressed laugh. “Honestly, that’s a great idea Vael.” Lessa said, cannon arms lowering. “Do it.”

Vaeliyan closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. Then he reached inward and pulled. The field expanded, spreading outward in every direction like a silent tide. It filled the cavern unseen, crawling through every corner, wrapping around machinery and bodies alike. It was pressure without force, invisible until it wasn’t.

At first, nothing changed. The air remained still. The flickering lights buzzed as before. Then, one by one, the sounds began. A distant groan. A crack. The faint pop of armor folding inward under invisible weight.

Then came the screams.

Princedom soldiers hidden behind cover began to collapse, crushed by a pressure they couldn’t see or fight. Some tried to crawl, some to run, but it didn’t matter. The field crushed everything it touched, compacting flesh and steel into mangled shapes. Bones snapped. Helmets imploded. The sound of it was wet and final.

The Complaints Department stood in silence, listening. None of them looked away. None of them flinched.

The screams didn’t last long. Three minutes later, the only noise left in the cavern was the low hum of dying machinery and the slow hiss of leaking hydraulics.

Vaeliyan opened his eyes, exhaling through his teeth. “That’s better.”

Fenn smiled faintly, checking Betty for dirt. “I could get used to that.”

Jurpat’s armor creaked as he straightened. “Guess that’s what happens when patience meets overkill.”

The rest of the team chuckled quietly, stepping over the crushed remains as they moved deeper into the cavern, ready for whatever was still alive enough to regret it.

Vaeliyan slowed as they reached the next overlook, his gaze cutting across the twisted wreckage below. “That should have taken care of all the soldiers,” he said, his tone almost casual. “But we still have to deal with the mechs. My pressure field can’t crush them.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hopefully there were some open ones because I could feel it, there were a few I managed to get the pilots, but not all of them. Most are still running.”

He took another step, tilting his head as though listening to something only he could hear. “And there was something else down there. A bubble… It felt like a person, but stronger than anyone I’ve ever touched. When I tried to crush them, nothing happened.” His grin spread slow and sharp. “That’s really exciting. And I call dibs.”

Jurpat groaned, half amused, half resigned. “Of course you do.”

Fenn snorted. “Figures. The one thing that doesn’t die instantly, and he’s already claiming it.”

Vaeliyan just kept smiling.

As Vaeliyan and the Complaints Department stepped out onto the catwalk, lances raised and breath steady, the sight waiting for them was nothing like what they expected. The cavern opened wide beneath the steel platform, seventeen mechs stood silent and still in neat formation, motionless like carved idols. Steam curled in soft clouds from vents in the walls, dripping condensation that echoed faintly through the massive chamber. Lights flickered above them, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the machinery below. Every surface looked lived-in, repaired and scarred, a working facility that should not have been this quiet. The air reeked of oil and scorched resin.

Between them and the team stood a single man with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His suit was immaculate: black fabric trimmed in white, double-cuffed, with the unmistakable double collar of Legion imperial dress. A deliberate imitation meant to insult. His hair was a pitch black slicked backed mohawk wait a lock to each side streaked white on left side, and his eyes, hazel cut with teal, glowed with intelligence sharp enough to bleed. The smile on his face was calm, deliberate, practiced, a predator’s mask pretending to be civility. He watched them arrive as if he had been waiting for hours.

“Welcome,” he said, his tone clean and cutting, like a scalpel slicing silk. “You’ve made quite the entrance. I apologize for our lack of hospitality, but you are uninvited guests, and that simply won’t do. Who sent you? Clearly Legion, but which division? I’ve never seen armor like yours. You must be new.” He spoke as though the conversation were already his, the rhythm of command rolling off him like a practiced performance.

The sound of his voice pressed into the air, smooth, confident, persuasive. It had the cadence of authority, of someone who had ordered executions and watched them carried out. Every word made the catwalk feel smaller.

Vaeliyan tilted his head slightly, studying him. “You talk a lot for someone about to die.” His voice was flat, unimpressed. The man didn’t react. He just kept that thin, perfect smile, as if Vaeliyan had said something quaint.

Vaeliyan’s AI pinged his vision with a priority alert. The data unfolded instantly in front of his eyes, built in a format meant only for him. The AI had learned the rhythm of his comprehension, the tiny shifts in his pupils, the pattern of his reading habits. It wasn’t a data dump; it streamed it. Words, images, and context fed directly into his cognition at the maximum pace his mind could process. For anyone else it would have been unreadable, but for him it felt like breathing.

Tallo, the Fool of Knives. Cloudspire heir by decree of Prince Haroun. Court jester turned princeling. Psych profile: unstable, charismatic, unpredictable. Designation: non-combatant.

Vaeliyan frowned faintly. “So, this is some clown prince? A performer turned noble?” he muttered. “Why should I be worried about that?”

The man below smiled wider. “Because that’s the story they tell,” he said softly. “A convenient one, isn’t it? A fool trips, kills a prince, and gets crowned for it. An accident that rewrote a dynasty. But stories never mention that Haroun didn’t punish me. He clapped. He called it art. He said I understood timing.” His expression didn’t waver, but his voice dropped, sharp as a knife drawn in silence. “He made me his son that day. The first and last heir of Cloudspire. The old one bled out at my feet.”

The mechs below stirred. Steam vented in hissing bursts. Tallo took a slow step forward, the sound of his heel striking metal echoing through the chamber.

“Everyone else,” he continued, “still sees the mask. The harmless fool juggling knives, the jester who smiles and bows. They forget that I only ever dropped one knife, and that was enough to end a bloodline.” He smiled again, genuine this time, teeth catching the light. “I let them laugh. It keeps them comfortable. It keeps them under control. But the laughter hides what I am. Because when they underestimate me, they die.”

Vaeliyan felt the air tighten. The AI’s feed flickered, unable to reconcile the man in front of him with the record in its archives. The harmless princeling didn’t exist. The mask had never been for safety; it was a weapon. The fool was an act that ruled a nation.

“So, this isn’t some idiot prince playing dress-up,” Vaeliyan said. “This is someone who killed his way into a throne and made the world call it comedy.”

Tallo’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Exactly. The heir to Cloudspire cannot appear monstrous, after all. But you’ve seen beneath the smile, Legionnaire. So, let’s see which one you are. Too dangerous to erase, or one of the dead who just don’t know it yet.”

Vaeliyan’s grin broke through, sharp and fearless. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Tallo reached into his sleeve and produced a knife as if it had always been part of his hand. It was Black Steel, impossibly sharp, a shard of night honed to a single hungry edge. There was no guard, no ornament, nothing to soften the point. He lifted it, balanced it on the tip of one finger, and began to spin it.

The blade turned clean as a planet, spinning without wobble, without heat. It should have shredded skin where it touched, yet it rode his fingertip like a second skin. The motion was impossible and precise, a circle of black light that hummed in the air. It was a small miracle of control, not a trick. Up close it was beautiful and horrible, polished until the metal drank light.

“So,” he said, voice easy and sharp at once, “which of you killed these men? Which of you left the blood on these floors? Or is it one of your little friends? You look like the leader, though you do resemble a bug which is odd.” He let the knife spin and laughed, a sound that had no warmth. “I will make a proposition. One on one. Winner kills the other side. That is fair, no?”

Voices rose in Vaeliyan’s ear, a chorus of static counsel. Don’t do it. Don’t be bait. Don’t be a show.

Jurpat’s voice cut through, blunt as a strike. “We are inside a Princedom site, Warn. You could let Warren loose in here and there is no way that bastard is prepared for him. Don’t make this about show.”

Other voices answered in rough agreement. Even if you fall, we burn the place. We do not leave empty handed.

“He called dibs,” Sylen said, flatly. The fact hung in the air like a promise.

Vaeliyan watched the blade spin, watched the way the man’s shoulders held calm. He felt the hunger that lived on his teeth, the bright small want that anything worth killing stirred inside him. He looked up and asked the sensible question out loud. “Are you going to get in your mech or something?”

Tallo’s smile widened as if Vaeliyan had offered him a joke. He flicked his wrist and the knife vanished back into his sleeve. “No need. I will fight you without her. The same way I fought your compatriots.” He tapped the fine cut of his suit with one gloved finger. “Do you like my suit?”

Vaeliyan’s eyes slid down the lines of the armor. At first it looked ceremonial, high style cut for parades. Then he saw the details that mattered: reinforced seams, subtle plating under silk, fittings that matched a High Imperator’s ceremonial kit. Not Legion colors but Legion make. The weight of it sat on the man like a claim.

Vaeliyan did not need anyone to tell him what that meant. The conclusion arrived whole in his chest. Either this man had bought a miracle, or he had taken it off someone who was very dead. There were only two plausible truths. Either he had killed a High Imperator and taken his coat, or he had raided a ship that belonged to one. The armor fit like a memory. That meant the man was dangerous enough to have killed at least one High Imperator.

Vaeliyan let a slow grin form. “You stole a High Imperator’s suit.”

Tallo did not flinch. He answered plainly, almost with pride. “It came to me through battle. I raided their little flying house. I killed them all and kept the prize. Do you understand what that implies? Do you understand what the suit says about me?”

The cavern seemed to listen. The mechs below held still, obedient as statues, waiting on a command. Jurpat swore softly over the comms, a single curse that carried approval and a warning.

Vaeliyan felt his hunger sharpen into focus. This was the surprise his future self had promised. This was a man.

“All right,” Vaeliyan said. “One on one. But you keep those mechs where they are. We do this clean.”

Tallo laughed, the sound like thin metal. “Agreed. Let us see if your blade holds the same story as your mouth.”

Vaeliyan holstered his lance and pulled out his truncheons. Around him, the Complaints Department tightened into the shape of a wall. The hangar held its breath. Two men, two killers, and one moment.

Vaeliyan looked at Tallo as the man stepped down off the catwalk and into the open space below, the area cleared by the squad for the duel. The air was thick with tension. Vaeliyan rolled his shoulders once, loosening his stance. “I don’t have a blade,” he said. “Blades and I never got along.”

He lifted his truncheons, turning them so the light caught the metal. “These however have never let me down.” He flicked his wrists and the spike mods extended with a satisfying snap, gleaming in the light. The noise echoed through the cavern like a promise.