Albert drove the needle into the sole of his right foot, nearly beneath the toenail.
"Ow!" Iron flinched, almost knocking over the tool tray with his elbow.
Albert pulled the needle out. He looked spryer than he had a month ago—his cheeks had filled out, his smock was clean, and he smelled not just of blood, but of fresh mint.
"Yelling. Means he's alive," the doctor grunted.
Iron exhaled, trying to steady the trembling in his knee.
Lumon, status, he called out mentally.
[Status: 4.8%]
Nerve Endings: Active restoration stage.
Note: Insufficient biomaterial to activate "Lumon" mode. System operating in passive monitoring mode.
4.8%. Almost five. But that was it. Stand up? Forget it.
"Well, what do you think?" Iron pulled his trouser leg back down. "When will I at least be able to walk to the latrine on my own?"
"When you stop trying to do everything yourself," Albert said, packing the needles into a box. "You’ve raised a town from the ruins this past month, but legs aren't hinges. They need time. And proper food."
Iron grunted, spun the wheels of his chair, and rolled out of the infirmary onto the ramp.
The sun struck his eyes. The mud was gone. Elyria had outdone herself—vibrant green grass surged from every crack in the stone, from every gap in the rotting boards. Ivy choked the ruins, and tiny white flowers now bloomed where puddles used to fester.
"Scowling again?" a voice called from above.
Iron looked up. Count Wayland stood on the steps of his makeshift headquarters.
"Too much green, Wayland," Iron countered. "It's easy to hide in."
"You're paranoid." Wayland stepped down, his stride firm. "A month of silence. Not a single one of Reinhart's soldiers. Not a single complaint from the neighbors. We've restored the mines, the people are fed. Maybe it's time to admit that we simply... made it through?"
"I don't know," Iron said quietly.
The wheels of his chair no longer bogged down. Before, every meter had been a battle, but now the packed earth, interwoven with grass roots, had become as rigid as timber decking. Iron rolled toward the eastern gates.
By the gates, Noah was tinkering with the hinges. Hearing the creak of the wheels, he turned and wiped his palms on his trousers.
"Look at this, we mounted them on bearings just like you drew. Moves with a single finger. Even the grease isn't burning off."
Iron rolled closer, touching the cold metal. "Conserve the grease. The heat will set in soon; it'll run, dust will stick to it, and it'll jam to hell and back."
"Whatever you say, my lord," Noah said sarcastically, leaning against a post. "Not a single problem for a month. People are actually sleeping normally. Walter even scaled back the watchtower post entirely. Says there's nothing left in the woods but squirrels."
Walter was just climbing down the rung ladder.
"Squirrels are fine," the captain grunted, approaching them. "But I don't like the silence on the highway. Not a single merchant, not a single stray mercenary for a whole month. It's like we've been covered by a dome."
"Isn't this enough for you?" Noah waved a hand toward the town. "Look how it's bloomed. If Reinhart dropped dead somewhere, I'm all for it."
"Walter," Iron called out. "What about the patrols deep in the woods?"
"There aren't any. I sent two men out five versts. They came back empty-handed. The road is overgrown."
Iron frowned.
"Noah," he turned his chair around. "Gather everyone who works at the smelting house tomorrow. We need to check those 'defective' parts we prepared for the Count."
"Why?" Noah asked, surprised.
"I want to make sure they're still ready to break."
Evening fell unnoticed.
The workshop smelled of gun grease and raw timber. Iron slid the bolt shut on the door, rolled over to the cot, and hoisted his legs onto it. He grabbed his trouser legs and hauled them over.
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Wayland and the others have gone soft. Let's hope this doesn't spiral into something worse, Iron thought.
Alright, Lumon! Trigger forced regeneration. Skill activation.
[Failure]
Insufficient nutrients and energy. Severe exhaustion of the nervous system. Activation will result in physical trauma.
I said, trigger it. Squeeze whatever is left out of the reserves.
The cold struck instantly.
Iron frantically gripped the edge of the cot. His vision blurred violently.
[Forced Activation... Critical Error. Overload.]
The pain came right after. It felt as though boiling water had been dashed across his back. The muscles in his legs, which had barely responded to commands all month, suddenly twisted into a savage spasm. Iron groaned hoarsely through gritted teeth, his spine arching. Something snapped inside his nasal cavity, and blood began to trickle over his lips.
He shook for what must have been two minutes. His body shuddered with violent tremors until the skill shut itself off, finding no fuel left to operate.
Iron collapsed back onto the hard mattress. His chest heaved heavily, air whistling from his lungs. His face was slick with sweat. He wiped his chin with his sleeve—a thick red streak remained on the gray fabric.
[Status: 4.8%]
Multiple micro-tears detected in muscle fibers. Progress rollback. Restoration slowed by 72 hours.
"Wonderful..." Iron rasped.
Morning turned out miserable. His muscles burned.
Iron sat in his chair in the middle of the new war room. The skin under his nose felt tight—the blood he hadn't fully wiped away in the dark had dried.
Noah stood by the open window. Outside, Elyria zipped around, running laps above the square. A flock of local children chased after her, pointing at the flowers that bloomed directly on the ancient stones wherever she flew past.
Inside the room, it was dead silent.
Walter leaned grimly against the table, arms crossed over his chest. Darwin mechanically spun a defective gear between his filthy fingers. Count Wayland sat at the head of the table—in a proper, sturdy chair someone had managed to build for him—quietly sipping a hot herbal brew.
All four of them stared at Iron in silence.
"You look like you've been beaten half the night," Noah broke the silence.
"Fell off the cot," Iron cut him off dryly.
"Right. And broke your nose against your own pride," Walter snorted.
Iron ran his sleeve over his chin, wiping away a rusty smudge. Beneath his trousers, his calves were still twitching with a faint, miserable tremor.
"What's the plan?" Iron looked at the mechanic. "Darwin, are the castings ready?"
Darwin stopped spinning the piece of iron and shoved it into his pocket. "Ready. Crated up. Only... they're just sitting there as dead weight."
Wayland carefully set his clay mug down on the wooden tabletop.
"Let them sit," the Count said calmly. "As long as the highway is clear, we simply build up our reserves. Fortify the walls, mount the gates. And, Iron..." Wayland looked him in the eye. "If you wreck yourself trying to stand before you're ready, we're going to be in a very tight spot."
Iron remained silent. He shifted his gaze to his motionless legs.
"I won't," he finally muttered. "Noah, draw that curtain all the way. The light hurts my eyes."
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