The Valve-Gate was the last barrier between the soot-choked safety of Vesper and the frozen death of the wastes.
It was a jagged hole in the city's hull, guarded by the Bone-Carvers—a clan of Iron-Blooded laborers who had turned into scavengers. They didn't care about the High Houses. They cared about the scrap in your pockets and the meat on your ribs.
"Ten credits for the girl," a brute growled. He stood two meters tall, his jaw replaced by a rusted iron hinge. "The heavy one stays. We can harvest his marrow for the furnace."
Ronan didn't stop walking.
His boots cracked the frozen slush. Every step was a dull ache. The Hunger was no longer a whisper; it was a physical hollow in his chest that demanded he tear the metal from the walls and eat it.
"Move," Ronan said.
The brute laughed. He swung a Pneumatic-Flail, the spiked head hissing as it accelerated.
Ronan didn't dodge.
He raised his forearm. The flail struck his Hardened Dermis with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. The spikes crumpled. The Bone-Carver's arm jerked back, the recoil shattering his own shoulder.
Ronan didn't wait. He moved.
He was a Level 3 Vein-Warden, but he fought like a cornered animal. He grabbed the brute's throat. His grip didn't just squeeze; it crushed.
[INTERNAL KINETIC TRANSFER: 88%]
[SKELETAL INTEGRITY: NOMINAL]
"Ronan, watch out!" Kaelen yelled.
Two more scavengers jumped from the overhead pipes, wielding Scrap-Shockers—jury-rigged cattle prods that hummed with blue electricity. They slammed the prods into Ronan's back.
A normal man would have smelled like burnt hair and collapsed.
Ronan felt the surge. He didn't fight it. He used his skeleton as a conductor, grounding the electricity through his heels and into the metal floor.
The shockwave didn't hurt him. It turned into heat.
He spun, his elbow catching a scavenger in the temple. The man's skull cracked like a dry log. Ronan grabbed the second one, lifting him off the ground with one hand.
"Where is the bypass?" Ronan asked, his voice vibrating with a violet hum.
"I... I don't..."
Ronan squeezed. The scavenger's ribs groaned.
"The bypass. Now."
"Under... under the primary steam-vent," the man wheezed.
Ronan dropped him. He turned to the massive iron wheel that controlled the Valve-Gate. It was rusted shut, meant to be turned by a team of six.
He grabbed the spokes.
[SOUL-COLLAPSE RISK: 6%]
[OUTPUT: MAXIMUM]
The iron screamed. The rust shattered, flying off in red flakes. With a violent, metallic snap, the wheel spun.
The gate groaned open.
A blast of -28°C air rushed in, instantly turning the steam in the corridor into ice-crystals. It hit Ronan's face like a thousand needles.
"The shroud, Ronan!" Kaelen shouted, pulling a heavy, matte-grey cloth from her pack. "Cover up before the sensors find the heat spike!"
Ronan pulled the Lead-Silk Shroud over his shoulders. The weight was a comfort. It dampened the violet glow of his veins, turning him back into a shadow.
They stepped out.
Behind them lay Vesper—a mountain of brass, smoke, and secrets. Ahead lay the Silent Stasis of the wastes.
Ronan looked at his hands. They were stained with the oil and blood of men he had just broken. He felt a flicker of the scribe he used to be, horrified by the violence.
Then he felt the Hunger.
He turned toward the dark horizon. "We move north. Toward the Lithos-Born."
"If we don't freeze first," Kaelen muttered, her breath a white cloud.
The gate hissed shut behind them. The city was gone. There was only the wind and the growing weight of the man Ronan was becoming.