Five days had passed since the foundation of his outpost had taken shape in the wilds of the Fifth Continent. Five days of tuning codex sequences, calibrating limb responses, and teaching Kindling how to move without groaning under the weight of its battered parts. Five days of observation and reconnaissance—tracking the pulse of skirmishes and charting the fragile lines of power in this fractured land.
Now came the test.
"All right," Fornos said, standing at the edge of a steep cliff. His eyes were fixed on the battlefield below, where smoke and chaos already brewed. "Time to move."
Behind him, the golems responded.
Brassheart stood in a makeshift disguise—tarps and mud-streaked cloth covering its polished shell. Beside it, the misshapen Kindling loomed like a malformed shadow. Its shape was still awkward despite the cloaking fabrics draped over its dented frame, but it had weight. And weight could be weaponized.
They followed Fornos silently, their footfalls muffled by dirt and moss. Below, in a sunken basin between two fractured forts, two ragged squads clashed—six golems to five, handlers shouting from opposing ridgelines.
One group favored bulk—heavy melee golems with crude shields and iron slabs for blades. Their movements were sluggish, but their armor was thick. The other team had lighter units with reinforced joints and long-limbed frames designed for quick impact and repositioning. Neither side had an edge. It was a tug-of-war of attrition.
Fornos watched for several seconds, unmoving.
Then he lifted his hand. The copper ring on his finger pulsed with a faint, rhythmic glow.
Kindling shifted forward.
Its heavy limbs moved without hesitation. Its hands found a nearby boulder, half-buried among the ridge stones. With a low, grating sound, it heaved the massive rock overhead. The motion was slow—but deliberate. It needed no grace. Only accuracy.
Fornos pointed down.
The boulder arced like a meteor. Fornos never looked away.
It landed in the center of the basin with a crack that shattered silence and bone alike. One of the heavy-armored golems beneath it was instantly crushed—core ruptured, limbs torn asunder. The impact kicked up a geyser of dirt and steel fragments.
The battle froze.
Handlers screamed. Golems hesitated, confused by the absence of new commands. The rhythm had broken.
Fornos remained where he was, arms folded.
"Again," he said.
Kindling obeyed.
A second boulder—this one slightly smaller—was lifted and launched. It struck an agile unit mid-dash, toppling the golem into a broken wall, where it lay twitching.
A ripple of panic surged through the squads below. One of the handlers tried to reassert command, scrawling new glyphs into the air. But the line of sight had already been compromised. His golem faltered and dropped its shield.
"Don't kill them all," Fornos muttered. "Let the survivors carry fear."
He directed Kindling with a slight movement of the hand—downward and to the right. The golem changed position, stepping over roots and uneven terrain to reach another vantage.
A third projectile followed.
It struck a golem's leg joint and shattered it. The golem collapsed, groaning under its own weight, core intact but inoperable. Its handler collapsed moments later, likely from feedback trauma.
The battlefield was in full retreat now. One squad fled into the trees, dragging wounded golems behind them. The others abandoned their cores and ran—handlers first, then whatever machines still followed the last embedded command.
Fornos tapped his ring twice.
Kindling ceased movement and returned to a passive stance, arms limp and posture wide to remain balanced on the incline.
The air was quiet again, save for the groaning of metal and the distant shouts of the dying.
Fornos exhaled through his nose. A soundless victory.
That night, in the shelter of the forest clearing, Fornos sat near the remnants of a fire. The Kindling stood beside a small pile of harvested parts—stripped plating, exposed codex fragments, and an inert golem leg from the crippled unit they'd scavenged after the fight. Brassheart had returned without damage, and now stood at the perimeter, motionless as a statue.
Fornos inked his notes by firelight.
Observation: Kindling's boulder throws are viable at short-to-mid range with controlled incline. Efficiency degrades with wind and uphill trajectory. Target response time: poor. Panic exceeds resistance.
He dipped the quill again.
Enemy tactics: outdated. Coordinated maneuvering absent. Single-focus codex trees vulnerable to environmental disruption. Future squads likely to vary, but general militia quality is abysmal.
He tapped the edge of the page, then added:
Fear is the asset. Strike from above. Disappear. Let rumor do the rest.
The fire hissed as a spark popped.
The night was still around them—except for the quiet hum of Kindling's core drawing ambient mana through a leeching stone. Fornos had embedded it into the frame earlier that evening. The stolen codex from the crippled golem was already queued for dissection tomorrow.
He looked toward the crate—still half-full from Prowler's last delivery. Half-used weapons. Half-tested codex maps. It was more than enough for now.
Phase one was complete.
Phase two would require bodies.
And those were never in short supply on the Fifth Continent.