The world had become a series of flashes. The pain in my shoulder was no longer just a sensation—it had become a color, a biting crimson fog that clouded my vision. Every time Zeno took a step, the pins in my bone spun like drills.

  [System Status: 7%.]

  [Blood Infection: 22%. Pathogen spread accelerated.]

  [Warning: Hyperthermia. Body temperature 40.2°C. Brain approaching protein denaturation.]

  — Slow… down… — I rasped, clutching the cold steel back of Zeno with my left hand. — You’ll tear me apart before we even get there.

  — Your calculations are wrong, — the Golem’s voice rumbled somewhere beneath my chest. — If I stop, your chance of survival drops to zero in forty minutes. The entropy of your flesh is increasing, Iron. You are rotting.

  We reached a gorge where an old watermill perched among jagged rocks. Its massive wooden wheel had long since stopped, coated in ice and slick moss. The roof sagged, like the back of a sick animal.

  Ephrem, running ahead, suddenly froze.

  — Malek… there are people… — he whispered, retreating backward, almost tripping over Zeno’s leg.

  Figures began emerging from the mill and its annexes. About ten of them. Ragged, overgrown, wearing coats of poorly tanned hides. In their hands—pitchforks, heavy wood-splitting axes, and one old hunting crossbow. They weren’t Order mages. These were the “wilds”—those who survived in the mountains, far from the Citadel.

  They froze. Their eyes held no hatred—only a primal, paralyzing terror.

  Picture it: twilight, the wind howling, and from the fog emerges a three-meter-tall black mass of matte iron, a half-living man slung over its shoulder with a bloodied steel claw for a hand. Beside it trudges a mad old man.

  — Demon… — one of the villagers exhaled, the tallest one with a gray beard. He raised his axe, but his hands trembled. — The Iron Devil has come for our souls!

  Zeno took a step forward. The ground thudded heavily. The crowd swayed back like wheat in the wind.

  — Step aside, — the Golem rumbled. His ocular lens flared bright green, scanning them. — You are not the target. I require a temperature-controlled environment.

  — Back! — the villager with the crossbow shouted. — Don’t come any closer, beast!

  He pulled the trigger. The bolt clicked out of the mechanism and ricocheted off Zeno’s chest plate, flying somewhere into the darkness. Zeno didn’t even flinch. He simply lifted his massive hand, and the whine of mechanical drives forced the villagers to duck to the ground.

  — Wait… — I forced myself to unclench my fingers and slid down Zeno’s armor onto the rocks.

  My legs felt like lead. I leaned on my prosthetic, and steel fingers scraped into the frozen ground. I lifted my head, looking at the gray-bearded villager.

  — We… are not devils, — my voice cracked into a cough, pink froth appearing on my lips. — We’re fugitives. We need… only warmth. And a little grain.

  — Look at yourself, boy! — the old man with the axe stepped back, crossing himself. — Iron grows from your bones! And that… that monster behind you… Leave! There are children in the village!

  I could see how they looked at Zeno. To them, he was a living nightmare, a violation of every law in their small world. They feared him more than hunger or cold. But I also saw the mill was dead. The wheel wasn’t turning, meaning they had no flour.

  — Your mill… — I pointed with the claw at the frozen wheel. — The main shaft is warped. The teeth of the lower gear are worn down by forty percent. You’ll be eating bark soon because you can’t grind grain.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  The gray-beard froze. His eyes narrowed.

  — How do you… —

  — I’m an engineer, — I spat blood. — Let us inside. I’ll fix your mechanism. And my… companion… won’t touch you if you don’t shoot at him with toothpicks.

  Silence fell, broken only by the wind whistling through the roof gaps. The villagers exchanged glances. Hunger versus fear—a battle as old as time.

  — Let them through, Hans, — a woman at the doorway whispered, clutching her child. — He’s barely breathing. And the iron one… if he wanted to kill us, we’d already be dead.

  The old man with the axe slowly lowered his weapon, though his gaze remained wary.

  — Come in. But if that Golem even twitches wrong… we’ll burn the mill with you. Iron melts, boy. Remember that.

  Zeno lifted me inside. It smelled of dust, old flour, and mold. A large hearth stood at the center.

  — Lay me on the table, — I commanded. — Ephrem, find strong alcohol. Anything. We need at least seventy percent. If not—fermented grain will do; we’ll distill it now.

  Zeno set me on a sturdy oak table. I felt consciousness slipping away.

  [Warning: Intoxication 28%. “The Will to Live” skill switching to vegetative support mode.]

  — Zeno… — I grabbed his steel wrist. — Listen carefully. In the right shoulder blade… around the pins… pus. We need to flush it with alcohol and… cauterize it.

  — I don’t have medical modules, Iron, — the Golem’s voice carried strange notes, almost… concern? Though programs don’t have emotions. — My manipulators are too crude for that work.

  — Use a spark. A micro-arc at the tip of your index finger. Millisecond impulse. We need sterility and high temperature. Ephrem! Where’s the alcohol?!

  The old man brought a dusty bottle.

  — Here, Malek… “Mountain Tear.” It’ll tear your throat out, make sparks fly from your eyes.

  I bit the cork off and poured half onto my stump.

  A scream got caught in my throat. The world exploded in white light. I felt the liquid sear through the infection and remaining nerves. My steel hand jerked, the claw scraping into the edge of the table, splintering it.

  — Now… Zeno… go.

  The villagers in the shadows gasped in fear. Zeno leaned over me. A thin, blinding blue electric arc leapt from his finger. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

  I didn’t scream. I simply ran out of air. “The Will to Live” tried to translate my agony into dry statistics for my brain, but it didn’t help. I felt the steel pins expanding from the heat inside my bone.

  — Process complete, — Zeno finally said. — Surface temperature normalized. Bacterial load reduced by 80%.

  I lay on the table, staring at the ceiling. Sweat stung my eyes.

  — Ephrem… — I whispered. — Let me finish… the rest.

  I took a few sips and fell into a heavy, black sleep without dreams.

  I woke to a sound sweeter than any music: the creak, the crash, the grind of metal.

  I opened my eyes. Early morning. The fever had receded, leaving only terrible weakness, like a wagon had run over me.

  [Status: 18%. Infection: 9%. Trend positive.]

  I turned my head. Zeno was by the main mill shaft. He looked absurd in the wooden room, resting his head against the beams. His massive hands cradled the huge wooden gear almost tenderly, while the gray-bearded Hans drove wedges into the loosened slot.

  The villagers worked alongside him. They still flinched whenever Zeno moved or his systems let out a hydraulic sigh—but they no longer fled. They saw how this iron giant could straighten a wheel shaft that ten men couldn’t budge.

  — Awake, engineer? — Hans wiped sweat from his brow and looked at me. Fear had given way to grim respect. — Your… friend… did more overnight than we’ve done in five years.

  — He likes… mechanisms working properly, — I tried moving my prosthetic. The claw clicked obediently. Pain was almost gone, just heaviness.

  — He said you’re the head, and he’s the tool, — the old man nodded toward Zeno. — Strange tool. But useful. The flour will be ready by noon.

  I sat on the table. Ephrem slept right there, on the sacks, clutching my toolbox.

  — Hans, — I called. — Valerius will send enforcers here. Yesterday’s scouts were just the beginning. If they find us here, they’ll burn the mill with you inside.

  The old man froze. He looked at his wife, at the children peeking out from behind sacks, studying the “iron uncle.”

  — We know, — he replied quietly. — But without flour, we’re dead anyway. Mountain winter is long.

  I looked at my steel hand. Fresh grease gleamed—Zeno had found oil supplies.

  — We have a couple of days, — I told Zeno. — Teacher, we need to fortify this place. Not with magic. With ballistics and chemistry.

  — Understood, — Zeno turned his visor to me. — I’ve already found sulfur and saltpeter in the basement. The villagers used it for tanning hides. Mix it with charcoal from the hearth…

  — We’ll make gunpowder, — I finished for him. — Ancient, unstable, filthy gunpowder.

  I smiled—not a kind smile.

  — Let them come. Let’s see how their “Holy Fire” handles the energy of detonation in a confined space.

  Hans looked at the two of us—at the cripple with a claw and the black steel demon—and for the first time, didn’t cross himself. He just nodded and went back to work.

  We were strange. We were terrifying. But we were the only chance for this village to survive until spring. And my only chance to live to the day I could squeeze Valerius’ throat with this very steel claw.