The data-slate’s crimson glyphs burned against the bazaar's dim shadows. Bato, who had just been buffing his polished brass hopper, froze mid-wipe. “Cosmic Annihilation Event? What kind of brew setup needs a countdown to *that*?” Szilard tilted the slate, green witch-light spilling over its desiccated cheekbones. “It is not for the mill, Master Barista. This is raw Crucible telemetry, straight from the underlying sub-routines. A muffled broadcast denoting total planetary eradication—a failsafe beacon if the perimeter grid collapses.” “Perimeter grid?” Dovjen’s fingers tightened on his tool-belt, studying the numerals. A sterile, familiar pressure built in his temples: another problem to be solved with a wrench and a butcher's precision. “Precisely,” Szilard rasped. “The tutorial serves dual functions. This slate accesses an unpatched diagnostic layer. It tracks an astral behemoth, a World-Eater designated *Vorlagath the Devourer*, projected to reach orbit within seventy-two standard hours.” Bato blinked, color draining from his ears. “World-Eater? You mean a rogue star beast that eats whole continents? Like the old holos?!” “Indeed. The Crucible Aegis is not merely an obstacle course. It is an planetary bulwark. Its algorithms force rapid lethal adaptation. And Margit…” Szilard paused, its ocular flames tightening to needlepoints. “Her trials are not designed merely to cull survivors.” “Then what is she building?” Dovjen asked. “Soul harvesting,” Szilard stated plainly. “The logs show astronomical psionic drain. Margit’s kill-floors funnel raw spirit-mass into a colossal atmospheric barrier designed to deflect Vorlagath.” Bato swayed, gripping the counter for support. “So all those people… all those horrible deaths… it’s to make a forcefield?” “Precisely,” Szilard said without inflection. “She serves as reactor chief for our final shield. If you strike her down, Dovjen, the manifold drops. The countdown accelerates to zero, and Vorlagath swallows this world whole.” Dovjen tapped the hilt of his serrated bone-saw. A foul contradiction: execute the tyrant brutalizing his companions, or permit her butchery so the sky-barrier remained intact. “We cannot simply split her skull,” Dovjen murmured. “We let her…” Pneumatic thuds echoed down the dreadnought’s rib promenade, followed by shattering sheet metal. Boots hammered the steel decking in cadence as a squad broke from the alley flanking the stall. “Purity Zealots!” an armorer yelled two stalls down, slamming iron shutters. Rioters swarmed the boardwalk clad in welded junk-plate, marked with Aegis sigils in yellow primer. They hefted hydraulic shears, carbide rotary discs, and industrial torches configured for structural dismantling. “For the Aegis! Cleanse the anomalies!” one of them bellowed, its voice distorted by a vocoder built into its helmet. They ignored the fleeing merchants, slamming demolition picks into customized displays, ripping apart unapproved augment rigs, and systematically pulverizing non-standard trade goods. A brute wielding a pneumatic sledge smashed a broth vat to splinters, clearing the lane for a lean scout who dashed toward the espresso booth. Slit visors fixed instantly upon Tibor’s lead-acid battery rig. “Unsanctioned frame!” the scout barked through a grated rebreather. “Scrap it for the furnace!” Tibor raised his laser-scarred vambrace, capacitor whine spooling up within his ribcage. Three zealots flanked him, spooling high-torque cut-off wheels that sprayed sparks across the flooring. “Tibor, step back,” Dovjen barked, unhooking the saw. A braided cable snare launched from a zealot’s wrist-rig, cinching the skeleton’s torso and pinning his weapon arm. A second attacker jammed an arc discharger directly against the car battery, discharging a blinding blue flare. Tibor’s ocular flames guttered, his joints stiffened, and his capacitor whine died. [ ALERT: UNDEAD SERVITOR 'TIBOR' TEMPORARILY DISABLED. ] “No!” Bato screamed, scrambling forward as two raiders dragged Tibor’s rigid chassis across the deckplates toward the alleyway, carbide teeth already biting into his shoulder pins. “Smash the non-spec rig!” a raider yelled, swinging a cutting torch into the bench legs. The K-series tumbled, smashing against the corrugated floor with a shriek of twisted brass and splintering enamel. Its dual boilers split, venting boiling steam across the boards. Bato dropped to his knees in the puddle, gripping a warped steam wand. “No… no, the brass valves…” he whispered, shoulders shaking over the crushed piping. The planetary stakes, the celestial devourer, and Margit’s soul-furnace vanished from Dovjen's calculation. His world shrank to the wet scrap heap at Bato’s knees and Tibor’s iron chassis bouncing over the curb. The pale grey in Dovjen’s irises collapsed into ink. He stepped past the ruined timber of the counter, the bone-saw purring to life in his grip. His voice stayed at a whisper, flat and razor-edged. “No one touches my family.”

The World-Eater's Shadow