Chapter 1: Fangs of Steel
A scream of raw pain tore through the operating room, rattling off the steel walls like a caged animal.
A hulking metallic arm, tipped with a syringe the size of a dagger, jabbed down into the thrashing patient. Machinery hummed low and steady, the vial on the arm draining with a slow, deliberate hiss.
"Subject 231 is developing a tolerance to sedation."
The elderly man's voice was calm, almost clinical. His left eye, glowing green, whirred as it telescoped outward, its lenses shifting quick and precise while he inspected his work.
With a sharp clink, the eye snapped back into his skull. The spidery metal limbs sprouting from his back folded inward, each segment hissing as it slid beneath his robes.
"Take the subject to recovery. Adjust the sedative to a 40% opium, 30% chloroform, and 30% chloral hydrate solution. Administer the second round of antibiotics once stabilization is confirmed."
Stripping off his bloodstained gloves, he handed them to the blonde-haired woman at his side.
Her pale blue eyes glowed faintly as she took the gloves, her movements slow and deliberate. The tight braid down her back hung sharp as a coiled whip.
"Yes, Herr Doctor."
Her gaze flicked to the unconscious patient, a cruel spark igniting in her eyes.
"Dr. Ashbourne, may I make a request?"
Dr. Ashbourne flexed his fingers, each joint bending at unnatural angles in jerky, erratic bursts.
"Make it quick. I'm already behind schedule."
"May I have this one?"
The doctor turned, his eye telescoping out.
"My dear Ingrid, have you grown attached? You did seem to savor 231's screams more than the others."
Her grip tightened around her braid, fingers squeezing so hard she didn't register the bloodied gloves still clutched in them. A shiver ran through her, and a thin curl of vapor slipped past her lips.
"I won't deny it, its suffering is... unique. I'm certain it holds a note I've been searching for—a perfect addition to my Symphonie des Todes."
Dr. Ashbourne chuckled as he crossed to the sink, unfastening his blood-soaked lab coat. He scrubbed his hands slow and methodical.
"Once its usefulness is spent, it's yours. Alaric will be pleased to hear this—we've been looking forward to it."
He paused, tilting his head slightly.
"What instrument?"
Ingrid darted to a metal cart like a child chasing sweets, her blood soaked braid swaying behind her. She snatched up a bulky device, its surface scratched and smudged with soot.
"I can hear it when it screams—longing, agony over something lost. The oboe will capture it perfectly."
"The oboe? Intriguing. I would've guessed the flute."
Dr. Ashbourne's tone held a hint of amusement as he reached for a black coat hanging from a hook. With a smooth motion, he swung it over his shoulders, fastening the buttons up to his neck.
"I assume this means you'll be missing service?"
Ingrid didn't glance up, but the tool in her hand whirred to life, humming like it answered for her.
"I apologize, Doctor. God's work is patient work."
Vapor hissed from the tip as it spun up to speed, the grinding of metal filling the air as she turned it toward the patient's restraints, her focus razor-sharp.
Dr. Ashbourne adjusted the cross around his neck, then pulled a large, weathered bible from a shelf.
"And God's work is never done."
Without another glance back, he started up the winding staircase, the grind of steel and the muffled, fevered moans trailing behind him. He gripped the book behind his back with both hands, thumbing its cover absentmindedly as he climbed. Each step was slow, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world.
----
Fire ripped through subject 231's chest. Each breath came ragged, raw, like he was sucking air through broken glass. His stitches burned, his wounds threatening to split open.
'Keep runnin'. Keep movin'.'
The sand sucked at his feet, cold and slick with his own blood. His left arm dragged at his side, useless. The faint pulse of amber light beneath his poncho mocked him. Each flicker might as well have been a signal flare—a beacon telling them exactly where he was.
A distant grind of metal. Gears clanking.
'Gettin' closer.'
Levi clenched his jaw. His fingers tightened on the blood-slick handle of his knife. He risked a glance back—amber eyes cutting through the dark.
'Shit!'
His chest heaved, lungs near giving out. He wasn't just running. He was hunting, looking for his place to make his kill.
Up ahead, the land dropped off suddenly—a dry riverbed cutting through the desert. Levi barely caught himself, boots skidding against the loose dirt.
'Here!'
Jumping down, pain shot up his legs as he landed, but he didn't stop. He threw himself back, pressing into the dirt wall. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, breath tight, knife ready.
He listened. Chest heaving, each breath a razor dragged through his ribs.
The night hung thick. Heavy. No wind. No movement. Just the slow, creeping hiss of steam.
Then—the clank of metal.
A deep, distorted bark cut through the dark. Too close. Another followed, then another—a chorus of steel-jawed hunters.
His fingers clenched around the knife hilt, knuckles bone-white. His arm shook, but the blade? Steady as stone.
The ground trembled. Steam vents hissed, iron paws striking dirt in measured steps.
'Come on!'
Levi pressed himself deeper into the dirt, lungs tight, heartbeat slamming like a war drum.
That arm. Dead weight. His fingers twitched, but the metal limb stayed stiff, useless.
'Breathe.'
A final burst of steam shot through the silence.
'Now!'
Dirt and stone exploded as the first hound dropped into the riverbed.
Pushing off the wall, he timed his attack with its landing. Aiming for the gap between the jaw and the skull, he drove the blade deep.
Click. His thumb slammed the switch on his blade—PSSST!—a burst of vapor shot into the wound.
The hound screeched. Metal, bone, oil—shattered. It hit the ground twitching, leaking. Dead.
Levi ripped the knife free and ran.
Behind him—THUD. THUD. The others hit the dirt. Barks. Grinding metal. Claws and steel digging deep.
'Don't look back. Move!'
He pushed harder, boots hammering against the cracked riverbed. The bank rushed toward him.
Too steep to climb. Not steep enough to stop him.
He planted his foot, driving up the slope—one, two, three steps—then kicked off hard.
Twist. Flip.
The air ripped past. The hounds snapped at empty space.
He cleared them. Hitting the ground hard, he tucked into a roll and sprang to his feet.
The second hound—a hulking white-brute—skidded, clawing deep as it tried to stop. Steam bursting from its vents.
But Levi didn't wait. He dove forward, desperation and fury sinking his blade deep into the hound's hip.
Bone. A sick thud. A shattering yelp.
'Too deep.'
His fingers jerked at the hilt, but his bowie knife was stuck. The steam charge spent.
The hound bucked and thrashed, ripping the knife from his grip.
No time to react.
A blur of black. The second hound lunged, jaws snapping like a bear trap.
Too fast. Too close.
Levi threw himself back, arm raised on instinct.
Metal met metal.
A sickening crunch. Sparks burst. The hound's teeth clamped down—on his arm.
The arm that wasn't his. The damned thing he never asked for. The curse welded to his flesh.
The beast jerked, tore, twisted. Stitches ripped.
Levi snarled through bloodied teeth.
Pain. White-hot, ripping through him, but it was nothing compared to the fire boiling in his gut.
He wasn't dying here.
Spitting blood, his chest heaved.
"You wanna kill me?!"
His roar tore through the night, raw, edged with fury. Dripping. Bleeding. Staining the dirt. His heartbeat pounded—a war drum, a hammer, a warning.
His teeth ground tight, and he forced that cursed arm to move.
"You ain't got enough bite!"
Light flared—amber and blinding.
Levi roared, planting his feet, twisting his hips. All his weight. All his fury.
He wrenched his arm up, ripping the hound with it.
Then he slammed it down.
Skull met rock and blacksteel.
Teeth exploded from its maw with a sickening crunch. Sparks spat from shattered augments. Its body seized—jerking and twitching.
Levi rolled, his knees hitting dirt. His good arm wrapped tight over his chest, ribs screaming, vision flickering.
'No time!'
The white hound moved.
Still carrying his knife in its hip. Still hungry for blood.
It lunged. Jaws wide. Red eyes locked on his throat.
'MOVE!'
Levi's metal fist shot up.
It's jaw met blacksteel. A wet crack.
The beast flipped, crashing into the dirt, whimpering and weak.
Levi's hand shot to his hip. Fingers closed tight around the hilt of his second knife. He twisted the base of it's hilt—click. Steam primed.
With no hesitation, he threw.
Steel spun, whistling through the night and buried deep in the hound's neck.
The mechanism triggered upon impact, a sharp burst of vapor.
Pressure built—then ruptured.
The white hound's throat tore open, a burst of steam and gore painting the dirt as they knife burst from its flesh.
Levi moved.
His hand snatched the knife mid-spin. One motion. Brutal and precise.
Steel drove deep.
A sharp crack—it's skull split.
The glow in its eyes flickered. Dimmed, then died.
Levi planted his boot against its skull, wrenching the blade free. His chest burning as his gaze snapped up.
Amber eyes locked.
The last hound had recovered. Steam hissed through its mangled jaws.
A growl. Grinding metal.
No more time. He had to end this.
Levi broke first.
A sprint. Heart pounding like a steam engine.
The hound launched straight for his throat.
Levi dropped low. His momentum carried him under. His knife drove up.
Steel tore through flesh and metal, hot blood and oil bursting across him.
The hound twisted midair and slammed into the dirt.
Levi rolled, spitting blood as he shoved himself to his feet
His breath came sharp. Unsteady.
"I ain't fixin' to die today."
He wiped his face. Steadied himself.
"Not before I get what's owed."
The thought of the stitcher—the bastard who took him, cut him up, turned him into this—it's what kept him going.
That man had a debt coming. Him and every last one of his twisted men.
Levi shoved the thought aside.
He forced his legs forward. Stumbled to the hound's body.
His fingers curled tight around the knife's hilt, yanking it free. He reloaded the steam capsules and then wiped the blades clean.
Steel slid back into its sheath.
No more time.
No more hesitation.
His body screamed, but he pushed forward.
----
About an hour later and a few miles out, Levi stopped short, lungs wheezing like a busted bellows. His amber eyes caught the flicker of lights in the distance—right where he'd left those hounds in pieces.
Spitting blood into the dirt, he wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.
"They found 'em. Took 'em long enough."
He turned back toward the endless dark, his legs feeling like they'd been filled with lead.
"Where the hell am I?"
His voice barely held together, raw from the night's fight. His mind clawed at scraps of memory, searching for anything useful—names, places, a direction. But all he found was the same unyielding fog.
'No footprints. No road. No damn clue where I am.'
Didn't matter.
'Don't matter how long. I'll come back—and he'll wish he'd buried me.'
Broken, bleeding, and filled with fire, Levi ran.