[Hogun – POV]
We stepped into the Iron Refuge—more of a fortified outpost than a true bunker, tucked beneath a jagged ledge on the knife-ridden slopes of Blade Mountain. The wind outside howled like a wounded god, but within these thick alloyed walls, it was still. Silent. Almost reverent.
The interior lights buzzed dimly, flickering just enough to remind you that even steel can age in this world.
Mounted on the far wall was a photo—old, faded slightly with time, but still sharp enough to stir something inside me.
Alessia and Alexa—the Fallhearth Twins.
They stood side by side, barely teenagers in the shot, armor far too big for their frames, their horns wrapped in colorful streamers. Alessia had her usual mischievous grin, while Alexa held up a peace sign with his scaled hand, fangs poking through his awkward smile.
Scrawled beneath the photo in childlike handwriting were the words:
"FALLHEART TWINS WERE HERE – STILL CLIMBING"
I exhaled slowly.
[Hogun]: They were just kids. Too young to be building death biomes… or fighting gods.
[Queen]: They looked happy.
[Red]: Crazy little geniuses. I still have scars from Alexa's first 'harmless' dragon bomb.
I touched the edge of the photo, my gauntlet clinking against the frame. A memory stirred—Alexa trying to build a flamethrower that ran on cola, Alessia turning butterfly wings into knives. They were chaos incarnate. But they were family.
[Hogun]: This bunker was their idea. 'For the next mad soul who wants to climb steel and storm,' Alessia said.
[Queen]: So, what now?
I pulled out the map again. Blade Mountain loomed above us—next came the Razor Pass, followed by the Wind Cleft, and after that… the summit. And the Vault Gate.
[Red]: We rest. Then we climb.
[System Notice: Temporary Safe Zone Activated – 'Iron Refuge']
The emergency lighting brightened slightly. Steam hissed through pipes in the corner. A small generator began humming, powering the kitchen corner and the secure locker room.
I dropped onto a metal bench, pulling off my gloves.
[Hogun]: Tomorrow, we hit the ridge. Then we reach Vault #7.
[Queen]: And if Trazyn's already there?
[Hogun]: Then I show him why you don't collect things that still bite.
[Back to the citadel]
[James]: I want the extra teams deployed to the front lines immediately. We're expecting assaults from Ursus and Kazdel on all fronts — and now Yan's joined the fray. Send the Phoenix Team to secure the VIPs from Rhodes Island. Alert every available ally: if the line breaks, we'll need reinforcements fast. Recall the general — we need command support on-site. And get the crime families to lock down and defend the research labs. Now MOVE OUT!
[Mastiff]: James, we've got a serious problem. The Kazdel royal court is here — and Theresis. Ursus didn't hold back either; they've deployed the Emperor's Blade along with a full legion. They're not just attacking. They want to wipe us off the map.
[James]: Wouldn't be the first time someone's wanted us dead. Open Vault 0-3. Deploy the sawblade golems — all of them. We need to buy time. Can I count on you, old friends?
[Mastiff]: They won't even make it past the wall.
Mastiff grabbed his twin hammers and stormed out of the command room.
[Logan]: That big guy's gonna need someone fast on his heels.
Logan cracked his knuckles and followed his friend.
James turned to the shadow lingering near the back of the room. A silent nod was all it took.
Shadowy13 melted into the hallway after them.
James just sat there and looked at the door, waiting for their return.
[Back to Hogun]
The Iron Refuge offered only the illusion of safety.
I sat on the bench, still chewing through the last of a terrible canned cake bar someone had labeled "Combat Birthday Rations – Chocolateish Flavor." It was dry. It tasted like powdered regret.
Across the small bunkroom, Red and Queen twitched in their sleep. The air was heavy, thick with the residue of corrupted dreams and unstable code. We'd all felt it the moment we crossed into Blade Mountain's shadow.
A presence.
Something about this place didn't just watch—it remembered.
Red woke first.
He shot upright with a guttural yell in German, sweat clinging to his neck. His hand reached for the sword on instinct. His face was pale, ashen, even under the emergency lights. Then Queen stirred, slower, but tears had already begun to roll before her eyes opened.
She didn't scream. She just sat there, knees to her chest, shaking.
I stood slowly, brushing crumbs off my coat.
[Hogun]: Did… a version of your in-game character visit you?
They both turned to look at me.
Red punched me.
Hard.
I caught his fist before the second hit could land, our eyes locked. My grip was firm, but not cruel. His whole body trembled—his knuckles white, his jaw clenched in a way that had nothing to do with anger.
[Red]: Tell us what that was, Hogun.
I let go of his hand.
[Hogun]: I don't know.
His glare didn't waver, but he didn't swing again. Not yet. I think he wanted to believe I had answers, but the truth was uglier: I had ideas. Not facts.
Queen leaned forward, hugging her legs, her voice a raw whisper.
[Queen]: She talked to me.
I froze.
[Queen]: She was me. But wrong. Hollow. Angry. She said she was tired of pretending we're still friends. Said we're just echoes now—glorified memories walking around like we still matter. And she was right.
She looked at her gloved hands, flexing them like they weren't hers anymore.
[Queen]: Then she skinned me alive. Wore me like a coat. And whispered in my ear the whole time. "See? Now you're real again."
Silence.
Then Red spoke, his voice like rusted iron.
[Red]: I turned into a bull.
He let that hang a second too long.
[Red]: A giant one. Horns like obsidian blades. And I ate myself. Devoured my own corpse. And when I reached the stomach, it was lava. I burned. I felt every second of it. And something inside me—me—laughed.
He looked at me.
[Red]: So what the hell is happening?
I exhaled slowly, sat back down, and let the hum of the old generator fill the space. Then, finally, I spoke.
[Hogun]: All I know is… parts of this server are cursed. They want to kill us. Or worse.
I glanced at both of them.
[Hogun]: What did you see? It might be from our fusion with our in-game characters. I had the same kind of dream—except it was me, standing on the other side of a mirror, trying to gut me with my own knife.
A pause.
[Hogun]: Good news? I had a brick in the dream.
Red blinked.
[Red]: You bricked yourself in a nightmare?
[Hogun]: And it worked. I'm here, aren't I?
[Queen]: This server is actually going to kill us.
[Hogun]: Probably. But at least it'll be our insane, glitch-ridden masterpiece that does it.
I stood, dusted off my coat, and checked the map again. The waypoint shimmered—our next stop lit in flickering red.
[Hogun]: Now let's keep moving. We have to pass through the Star Wars Zone soon, and I really don't want to deal with Darth Jar Jar again. Or Hulk Yoda. Or the gods-forsaken Banana Skywalker. So instead, we're going to the Dragon's Palace.
I hesitated, then added, quieter:
[Hogun]: I just… want to see them again. Even if it's only some painting on the walls.
Red and Queen exchanged a glance. There was worry there—worry that I knew I didn't hide well anymore.
[Red]: Hogun, it wasn't your fault they died.
His voice had dropped that usual half-joke tone. This was real. Raw.
[Red]: Whiteveil took someone from all of us. You think you're the only one who lost family?
He stepped forward, voice steady, like reciting a roll call of ghosts.
[Red]: Remember Bruce the Dwarf King? The guy who swore every third sentence and thought a battleaxe was a political solution?
[Queen]: Or Ironbat—who duct-taped technology to ancient magic and tried to copyright the moon?
[Red]: Or Legless, the elf who called himself "the last fanboy of Middle-Earth," even though he was born in a post-apocalyptic subway?
[Queen]: And MarlinoGandalf V Solomon. That weirdo wizard who mixed every magical trope known to man and shouted "Fusion Lore!" every time he cast a spell.
[Red]: The Fallhearth twins weren't the only victims, Hogun.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
[Hogun]: I know. But they were mine.
A long silence passed. Then Queen softly placed a hand on my shoulder.
[Queen]: So let's go. Let's climb the Blade Mountain, survive the Storm, fight off Darth Jar Jar if we have to… and see them again.
[Red]: Yeah. For the chaos crew. For the dumb little mad geniuses who made death butterflies and plague forests and said it was "for fun."
[Hogun]: Alright then.
I re-checked the coordinates. One red ping blinked near the peak—Vault #7. Just above it, flickering like a corrupted admin flag, was the marker for the Dragon's Palace.
[Weather Warning: Bladefall Storm Intensifying. Seek shelter or embrace glory.]
The door of Iron Refuge creaked open behind us.
Wind screamed outside.
I stepped through first.
[Hogun]: Let's go find the past.
And maybe—if the server still remembers mercy—we'll survive it, and I doubt it does.
[Back at the Citadel]
The temple was dim, lit only by the flickering shadows of a dark fire burning in a sunken brazier. Mastiff knelt before it in silence, armored hands folded, head bowed. He did not pray with words. Only resolve. Only memory.
When he stood, the firelight glinted off his battered war-plate. He reached for the heavy cloak folded beside him—black, lined with crimson—and draped it over his broad shoulders.
Outside, the priests waited. As he crossed the threshold, they began their rites, stepping forward one by one, casting handfuls of colored petals into the air as they walked in solemn procession behind him.
[Blue Priest]: May the Flame of Knowledge be with you.
[Red Priest]: May the Flame of Rage be with you.
[White Priest]: May the Flame of Hope be with you.
[Black Priest]: May the Flame of Death be with you, Chosen.
Each prayer rang like a bell in the silent courtyard. A benediction… or a farewell.
Logan stood at the base of the steps, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked at Mastiff. Then, at his own hands, scarred and shaking slightly.
[Logan]: You big oaf… don't you dare drop that cloak. If you die on me, I swear I'll drag your ass out of hell myself just to kick it back to life.
From the shadows beside the temple archway, another voice—low, dry, dangerous.
[Shadowy13]: I second that. Idiot.
Mastiff didn't respond. He didn't have to.
He simply kept walking through the courtyard, past the stone statues of fallen generals, and toward the outer gate where the storm of war waited.
The Citadel walls loomed ahead—blackened steel and blessed stone, cracked from weeks of siege. Beyond them: fire. Artillery. Shadows the size of buildings. A battlefield on the verge of becoming a grave.
As the trio approached the gate, Logan squinted toward the horizon.
[Logan]: Y'know… I still say we should've just nuked 'em. One cannon barrage. Boom. Done.
[Shadowy13]: The cannons are busy. They're keeping the enemy siege engines disabled, targeting their long-range batteries. And we've lost sixty percent of our shield fields thanks to whatever cursed 'hero units' Kazdel sent. We diverted power from half the grid just to keep the front-line shields alive.
[Logan]: Great. So, plan B is... heroically die in melee?
[Mastiff]: It's time.
He stopped at the gate—feet planted, back straight—and reached for the clasp of his cloak. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, softly—clearly—he began to speak.
[Mastiff]:
"From ash I rose, and to ash I return,
But let my fire burn black in the dusk.
I take the oath of the Death Flame."
"Let pain be my banner. Let rage be my prayer.
I cast aside mercy. I shatter the end.
I do not fear Death.
I invite it."
The priests fell silent behind him. Even the wind stilled.
With a final pull, Mastiff unclasped the cloak. It drifted from his shoulders—slow, weightless—and struck the stone beneath him like thunder.
And then it happened.
The petals in the air turned to embers. Shadows crawled unnaturally across the ground. Black flame ignited from the stone, spiraling up his legs, across his armor—not consuming him, but crowning him. His eyes flared with burning crimson light. The runes on his twin hammers sparked awake, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat no longer his own.
He had taken the Oath of the Death Flame.
He was no longer just a warrior.
He was a Chosen.
[Logan]: …Well, shit.
[Shadowy13]: You absolute lunatic.
The gates groaned open, revealing the battlefield—a burning plain of steel and blood. At the center stood Kazdel's warlords. The Emperor's Blade. Theresis himself.
[Mastiff]: I am ready.
He took the first step through the gate.
The sky cried flame.
The war began.
From the molten horizon, Kazdel war-machines and Ursus shock-troopers advanced, rank upon rank, armored in death and forged for annihilation. The Yan windblades shimmered above them, near-invisible units shifting through the air like razor ghosts.
And standing in front of it all—Theresis himself. Towering. Watching.
[Logan]: Last chance to run.
[Mastiff]: Not my style.
[Shadowy13]: Focus. They brought heroes. We bring legends.
Mastiff lifted his twin warhammers—Tax Evasion and Emotional Damage—and slammed them together.
A shockwave rolled out. The rune-carved ground behind them split open as dozens—hundreds—of ancient Sawblade Golems rose from hibernation…
Each one stood nearly ten feet tall—engines growling, eyes glowing crimson, their metal bodies engraved with forgotten code. War-forged titans from a war before time.
[System]: Vault 0-3 Override Activated. Golem Directive: EXECUTION.
[Logan]: You hear that, Kazdel? That's the sound of your fancy boots getting shredded.
He surged forward first, gauntlets glowing with kinetic amplifiers. The closest Ursus line met him with a roar—
—and Logan smashed through it like a train made of fury.
He leapt high, shoulder-checking a power-armored brute mid-swing and flipping him into his allies. In one seamless spin, he crushed two helmets with a ground slam, then hurled an energy disc that detonated a Yan blade-dancer midair.
[Logan]: That's one! Who's next?!
To the left, Shadowy13 was already moving.
Where Logan was a storm, Shadowy was a scalpel.
His form blurred, vanishing and reappearing mid-strike—his twin blades silent, efficient, poison-coded, every cut disabling a nerve cluster or burning out a limb's motor functions. One Kazdel elite raised a staff—
—and Shadowy reappeared behind her, blade already through her throat.
He moved between explosions like smoke, each shadow flicker leaving behind a corpse.
[Shadowy13]: Two. Four. Seven.
[Logan]: Stop counting out loud, creep!
A new sound joined the chaos.
The screaming whirl of the Sawblade Golems as they slammed into the Kazdel frontlines.
They didn't walk. They charged. Buzzsaws spinning. Some with arms shaped like rotating axes. Others had hydraulic pike-launchers built into their shoulders. They cut through tanks like metallic sharks through frozen sea.
Ursus warbears were ripped apart, their power armor peeled like tin. Yan's aerial squads were torn from the sky as golems launched grappling saws that reeled them in before shredding them midair.
The Kazdel casters tried to conjure a firestorm.
They barely finished the incantation before one of the ancient constructs leapt 20 feet and crashed down with a saw that bisected them clean.
Then came Mastiff.
He walked. He didn't run. He didn't need to.
Every step made the air ripple. Every swing of his hammers turned the world into splinters.
He struck the ground, and the earth shattered beneath the first squad of Imperial Blade Guards. Those still standing were caught in the gravitational pull of his secondary hammer, which distorted space with every hit.
Theresis raised his spear.
A Kazdel hero—one of the Royal Executioners—teleported behind Mastiff with a soul-cleaver in hand.
But Mastiff turned with divine timing and caught the blade in his gauntlet.
[Mastiff]: Not today.
His hammer slammed the Executioner so hard into the dirt that it created a crater. Bones broke through metal. Soul fragments screamed free.
More enemies flooded in.
They didn't make it ten feet.
Mastiff swung Tax Evasion in a wide arc—molten flame erupted in a half-moon, incinerating half a dozen enemies.
Then it happened.
Emotional Damage slammed down like a divine judgment, lightning roaring from the impact point. The bolt snaked across the battlefield, latching onto metal, armor, and circuits. It chain-reacted through the Yan blade units, overloading their systems, twisting their elegant forms into sparking, scorched ruins. Smoke curled in geometric spirals as one by one, they collapsed—silent, sudden, permanent.
Behind the collapsing front, Logan limped through the chaos, dragging injured defenders through the breach between every swing and shot. His arm was slick with blood—some his, some not—but his grin never faded.
[Logan]: This is just like the old days, huh?
[Shadowy13]: Except the part where we don't win.
[Mastiff]: We're not here to win. We're here to give them a story they'll choke on.
Then the Sawblade Golems began to change.
Adaptation protocols engaged. Their armor cracked, shifted. New limbs unfolded like blooming steel flowers. Cannons replaced claws. Shields grew like tumors of alloy. They were learning, building themselves into the enemy's worst nightmare mid-battle.
The Kazdelian vanguard started to falter. Yan's elite formations broke rank, retreating under cover. Ursus, ever the brute, doubled down—sending in monstrous siege units and shock troops bristling with old war curses.
And high above, unmoved, Theresis raised one hand and pointed.
At the Citadel.
The ground trembled as something ancient and wrong stirred in response.
Once more, the battlefield cracked beneath the weight of fury and rot.
Riding a bone-chariot drawn by eyeless warhorses, The Sanguinarch stood like a rotting emperor under a bleeding sky. His voice echoed like torn flesh.
[Sanguinarch]: Drown in what you've shed!
He raised his claws, and from the scarlet clouds came the roar of a blood tsunami, screeching with the memories of every life lost to his name. It raced across the scorched earth, a wall of cursed ichor filled with jagged bone and screaming ghosts.
Only one man stood in its path.
Mastiff.
His cloak whipped in the stormwind. His eyes didn't blink. He stood still, as if daring the flood to try.
[Logan]: MASTIFF, MOVE!
He didn't.
He planted his boots. Lifted his warhammers.
Tax Evasion in his left.
Emotional Damage in his right.
Shoulders rolled. Muscles tightened like steel cables ready to snap.
[Mastiff]: You want me to drown, vampire?
He roared, and brought Tax Evasion down in a world-ending arc.
The Earth ruptured. The air howled. The blood wave froze—then surged backwards, reversed by pure force and defiance. It slammed into the Sanguinarch like karmic artillery, obliterating his chariot and burying him beneath his own damned tide.
[Mastiff]: Claim your own taxes.
And then, Emotional Damage struck.
Lightning burst from the earth like a wrathful god's scream. It followed the receding wave—a railgun of vengeance—and detonated the entire bloodstorm into a fine red mist, which fell like cursed rain over stunned armies.
Silence.
Shadowy13 let out a low whistle.
[Shadowy13]: That's a refund with interest.
Logan just laughed.
[Logan]: God, I love that big bastard.
But Mastiff wasn't finished. He raised both hammers and walked through the crater, smoke curling around him, gore dripping from the edges of his resolve.
He didn't look back.
Above them all, Theresis watched. He did not speak in rage—he spoke in command.
[Theresis]: Bring out the Archons. Burn it to the bedrock.
The skies turned red, and the royal court's other members started to move.
And behind the Citadel's iron walls…
Vault 0-4 began to wake.
Its locks uncoiled like serpents.
Its engines rumbled with memories of old wars.
The last of the forbidden defenses is prepared to be unleashed.
[Extra: A Rabbit and a Fixer in the land of knights]
[Hast Pov]
[Roland]: So, Miss Hast… care to explain why we're stuck in a world full of talking animals, corporate-sponsored knights, and armor that smells like wet depression?
He adjusted the mismatched pauldron hanging off his shoulder, the metal flaking like old toast. The cloudy Kazimierz sky made him look even more miserable—black mask, sharp posture, a Fixer through and through... just with more rust and less dignity.
[Hast]: Don't glare at me like some angry, off-brand villain from a budget tabletop campaign. You pressed the big glowing portal button, not me.
I held up a crumpled, fresh-printed newspaper titled:
"NEW SAINTS ARRIVE"
Beneath the overhyped headline were grainy, enchanted images:
Red mid-charge on his absurd warhorse.
Queen, cloaked and crackling with raw power.
And there he was—Hogun. Still alive. Still dangerous.
My ears twitched. The wind reeked of scorched alloy, blood, and grilled skewers. Definitely Kazimierz: where greed wore a breastplate and everyone thought cosplay counted as military rank.
[Hast]: If the Citadel's here… my old lab might be too. And Hogun's a cockroach. Can't kill him. I've tried. He'll get us back to the Library. And it's good to know they're still breathing. I've missed them.
Roland sighed like a man slowly realizing his isekai adventure came with zero relaxation and one hundred percent unpaid trauma.
[Roland]: Right. You're betting on a walking trauma factory, a megalomaniac horseman, and an unstable pirate with guns for a ride home. What could possibly go wrong?
I flicked my ears at him and smirked.
[Hast]: Everything. Which is why it's going to be fun.
I crumpled the newspaper and pointed ahead—neon signs bleeding into cobblestone alleys. A colosseum loomed behind towers of slum scaffolding, flickering with advertisements for "Open-Grade Blood Tourneys" hosted by the Armorless Union, and proudly co-sponsored by something called Blood Cola Xtreme™.
[Roland]: Please tell me we're not signing up for that.
[Hast]: That's exactly where we're going. Think about it, flashy battle, attention, cameras. If they're in Terra, someone's watching. We'll lure them to us.
[Roland]: ...You're insane.
[Hast]: And you're stuck with me, mister Ex-Fixer turned budget Lancelot. Let's go win ourselves a bloody spotlight.
[Scene Transition — Kazimierz Tournament Grounds]
The arena was a cathedral of blood and steel.
Banners flapped like wings above roaring crowds. Animalfolk in neon fur coats screamed beside grim knights, all lit under flickering arcane billboards and corporate mascots. Magic-tech drones buzzed overhead, broadcasting the slaughter.
Up next?
"Team Library Trash" vs. "The Chrome Paladins"
The announcer's voice boomed, drenched in irony:
[Announcer]: And now! Two unknowns from the slums, dressed in sarcasm and literal garbage—give a warm, bloody welcome to: THE STRAY FIXER AND THE RABBIT DOCTOR!
[Roland]: I hate everything about that name.
[Hast]: Smile for the camera. I laced your sword with adrenaline mist. You'll thank me later.
[Roland]: You did WHAT—
The gate groaned open. Spotlights screamed. The arena floor cracked with the heat of summoned constructs.
And far above, on a rain-slick rooftop…
A cloaked figure watched with wide eyes, clutching binoculars.
[???]: Hey... isn't that Miss Hast? Y'know, the one with the bounty that made four guilds go bankrupt trying to catch her?
[???]: That does look like—OH MY GOD SHE IS—GET RHODES ISLAND ON THE LINE NOW. BEFORE WE LOSE THEM AGAIN!
[Chapter end]