The Hunter-Killer Mecha’s gatling cannon whirred, its barrel assembly a blur of motion. Lucang, pinned between the colossal machine and the reinforced blast door, merely tilted his head. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through him. Not fear, but a rising, delighted anticipation. The air shimmered around his hands, a distortion so subtle only Khulan, pressed against the cold metal beside him, might have felt it as a prickle against her skin. “A blast door, you say?” Lucang chirped, his voice impossibly bright over the rising whine of the mecha’s weaponry. “How perfectly dramatic. No escape, no retreat. Just us, and our new friend.” He took a step forward, a casual stroll into the maw of death. The violet glow on the mecha’s hydraulic blades intensified, ready to carve. [FLASH SALE! Upgrade your 'Neural-Glow' skin implants! Look radiant, feel invincible! Only 599.99 Credits!] Lucang chuckled, a sound like glass chimes breaking. “Oh, it seems even my host body’s implants want a piece of the action.” “You lunatic!” Khulan hissed, fear stripping her voice bare. “It’s eight meters of hyper-alloy! Run, you fool! Even *you* can’t—” Lucang ignored her. He was already in motion, not running, but weaving. The gatling cannon spat a torrent of depleted uranium rounds, tearing through the air where he had stood a nanosecond before, pulverizing the blast door behind them into a haze of shrapnel and dust. His movements were a blur, a dance older than the very concept of gunpowder, flowing like water around the deadly hail. He met the hydraulic razor bare-handed. His palm slapped against the edge, catching the edge rather than deflecting it. The vibrating steel screech stalled against his skin, hydraulic fluid sputtering as the machine's optical sensors flared red. “Naughty, naughty,” Lucang admonished, his cheerful tone utterly incongruous with the impossible feat he performed. He didn't pull the blade. He *pushed*. A ripple of crimson energy, visible only for a blink, emanated from his fingers, flowing into the mecha’s arm. It wasn't an impact. The pulse sank deep, setting the hyper-alloy shuddering from core to surface. A deep, resonant *thrum* echoed from within the mecha, like a colossal bell struck by an invisible hammer. Then, the sound changed. It became a frantic, high-pitched whine, followed by a series of wet, popping sounds. Sparks erupted from the mecha’s shoulder joints, then its elbow, then its wrist. The violet glow of its blade flickered, died, and then the entire arm convulsed, showering the narrow corridor with molten slag and ruptured wires. The hydraulic blade, now lifeless, snapped off at the hilt, clattering to the ground in two glowing pieces. The Hunter-Killer Mecha lurched backward, off-balance. Its remaining arm flailed, its optical sensors cycling through a frantic array of error messages. It let out a distorted, dying shriek as its internal systems suffered catastrophic failure, the Qi-infused shockwave having vibrated its delicate circuitry into a molten, useless mess. With a final, shuddering collapse, the eight-meter tall instrument of death crashed to the ground, its chassis groaning, its gunmetal shell now scarred with shimmering, heat-distorted patterns. Lucang dusted his hands, his smile wider than before. “See? Nothing a little Crimson-Marrow Bone-Crushing Palm can’t fix. So much for ‘obsolete’ combat.” Khulan backed against the scarred corridor wall, her lips parted. Neither her protocols as an adjutant nor her resistance drills accounted for composite plating torn apart without heavy ordinance. “An impressive display, Sovereign.” A new voice cut through the ringing silence. It was cold, synthetic, and carried a hint of grudging respect. “But even ancient power has its limits against a united front.” From the shadows of the collapsing service shafts and the labyrinthine pipe-work, a dozen figures emerged. Their bodies were a patchwork of chrome and scarred flesh, their eyes gleaming with optical enhancements. Each aimed an energy rifle at Lucang. Khulan recognized the insurgent insignia burned into their collars. “Khulan, you brought friends,” Lucang said, not turning, his smile still fixed. “And they brought toys. How quaint.” The leader stepped forward, his prosthetic arm whirring as the steel digits curled tight. Khulan knew him as Jarek, cell commander of the Iron Phantoms. “We are the Iron Phantoms,” he said. “And we have been watching you, demon. Your ‘Crimson-Marrow’ technique contains data that could change the war. Data we will extract. Surrender, Sovereign. Submit to our data-harvesting protocols, or face the consequences.” Khulan stiffened. This wasn’t the plan. This was never the plan. Lucang slowly turned, his cheerful expression unwavering, though a dangerous glint entered his eyes. “Data-harvesting? My dear man, you speak of me as if I were some kind of… information terminal. How terribly rude.” “Rude or not, it is necessary,” Jarek snarled, raising his prosthetic limb to signal his unit. “Your ancient martial arts are a threat to the Directorate, yes, but also a weapon for the people. We will not allow you to hoard such power.” Lucang sighed, a sound of theatrical disappointment. “Such a pity. Always the same, isn’t it? The little ants, forever trying to possess what they cannot comprehend. You know, I rather prefer my data where it is. Firmly within me.” His gaze drifted to Jarek’s raised mechanical arm, then back to the leader’s face. “And as for your ‘consequences’…” Before Jarek could react, before Khulan could even scream a warning, Lucang’s hand shot out. It wasn't a strike. His fingers grazed the elbow joint of the reinforced prosthetic. Servos whined, casing plates buckled, and with a sharp rupture, the metal limb folded backward into a knot of crushed plating and severed wires. Jarek choked on a shout, staggering back as neural feedback spiked through his shoulder graft. Lucang withdrew his hand, his smile still perfectly in place. “See? Far too fragile. You really should invest in better upgrades, my dear fellow.” Jarek collapsed onto his knees, gripping the ruin of his arm. His squad froze, the rifle barrels dipping as they stared. Lucang stepped over the groaning leader, his gaze landing on a horrified Khulan. “Are all your friends this fragile, my dear?”

Crimson-Marrow in the Machine