Chapter Seventeen

  Integration

  The turret belched thick smoke into the night sky, black and choking. It clung to the air, a dark shroud that refused to disperse. Garik coughed, wiping his soot-smeared face. His fingers came away black, smudging his rugged features even more. He glanced at Selene, her once-pristine robes now streaked with ash. Her silver hair, usually immaculate, hung in tangled, dusty strands. Not even she could maintain her elegance in this chaos.

  Lyra crouched nearby, sharp eyes narrowed as she examined the shattered turret. Soot covered her vibrant clothing, black smudges marking her cheek. Nearby, the Fell-Hounds stood motionless, their fiery tails flickering weakly, barely alive after the explosion.

  With a mechanical whir, the porcelain Automaton butlers—Bob and Crispin—sprang to life. Their limbs unfolded into massive wind turbines that spun with a powerful gust. The smoke twisted and spiraled upwards, vanishing into the night sky, leaving behind a blanket of ash.

  Cindy and Genevieve, the porcelain maids, moved with mechanical grace, unfurling delicate brooms and mops. Their serene faces never wavered as they swept and scrubbed, erasing every trace of the explosion. Their delicate frames belied their relentless efficiency.

  Garik crossed his arms, jaw clenched as he watched the Automaton cleanup crew. “Not exactly what I envisioned for our war machines,” he muttered, wiping his brow. His voice carried a mix of irritation and disbelief.

  A metallic clink echoed behind them. The Automaton Spider-Bot lurched forward, its joints creaking in protest. Without warning, it unleashed a jet of water, drenching the Fell-Hounds. Their flames sputtered and died, leaving them soaked and bewildered.

  Lyra’s eyes widened. “What in the—?”

  The Spider-Bot ignored her, its limbs twisting into flamethrowers that hissed and ignited. A burst of fire reignited the hounds' tails, their flames flickering back to life. They shook off the water, tails wagging, completely unfazed.

  Garik’s shoulders slumped. “Right... definitely not what I meant by ‘efficient.’” He rubbed his temples, fighting the urge to scream.

  A sharp chime sliced through the air. Bob’s pocket watch vibrated, its face glowing ominously. The Keep's Defense Interface awakened, casting an eerie light over the battlefield. The turret groaned, gears grinding as it shuddered back to life, its fractured frame struggling to hold together.

  A piercing shriek cut through the night. Against the moonlit sky, the silhouette of an undead Wyvern loomed. Its skeletal wings beat rhythmically, each flap echoing with a haunting wail.

  Selene’s fingers trembled as she channeled energy into a mana stone, her face pale and strained. “That’s... Lyra! How much longer?”

  Lyra’s hands moved swiftly as she traced the final rune. “I’d be done by now if someone hadn’t bribed our Automaton workforce with ‘creative liberties.’” Her voice was sharp, dripping with accusation.

  Garik threw his hands up. “We’re about to be attacked, and you’re lecturing me on art?”

  Four more Automaton butlers glided forward, their movements precise, almost too graceful. Two of them stacked sandbags and crates, arranging them in an intricate, almost artistic pattern that somehow formed a sturdy barricade. The other two shifted their arms into Aether Gatling cannons, humming with power.

  The air vibrated as the Gatling cannons roared to life, magic bolts firing in rapid succession. The wyvern screeched, twisting through the air with unnatural agility, its hollow eyes glowing with malevolence.

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  Garik’s face twisted in frustration. “For the love of the hammer—LYRA!”

  Her hands blurred as she completed the final rune. The mana stone pulsed with energy, feeding into the turret. It shuddered, gears grinding as raw power surged through its damaged frame. It held—barely.

  A deafening roar tore through the chaos. A Wyvern swooped into view, wings beating violently as it charged. Magic spiraled from the turret, erratic but potent. The blast slammed into the wyvern, engulfing it in flames. It howled, spiraling out of control before crashing into the forest beyond.

  Lyra exhaled, a satisfied grin spreading across her face. “Success. And... you’re welcome.”

  Garik stared at the sputtering turret, its gears sparking and smoking. “Statistical anomaly. That’s all that was.”

  Selene straightened, brushing ash from her robes. She perched gracefully on Genevieve’s back, her gaze shifting to the next turret, barely visible against the dark horizon. “We’ve got work to do.” Her eyes narrowed at Garik. “And I’m not doing it alone.”

  Garik sighed, shoulders slumping. He looked at the Automaton workforce, still diligently cleaning and defending, their porcelain faces blank and serene. How had things gotten so complicated?

  Another shriek echoed through the sky, closer this time.

  He gritted his teeth, determination hardening his gaze. “Let’s move.”

  Garik’s fingers tremble as he adjusts the Aether

  Emitter, a compact cylinder etched with glowing runes. The metal is cold, its

  surface gleaming faintly in the dim light of the turret’s interior. He can feel

  the hum of unstable mana beneath his fingertips—a reminder of how close they’ve

  come to disaster before.

  Beside him, Bob’s porcelain hands move with

  delicate precision, his mechanical fingers weaving wires effortlessly. The

  Automaton butler hums softly, his movements fluid, almost graceful. Garik feels

  a flicker of envy at the machine’s steady hands. If only his were as reliable.

  “This should keep the bloody thing from

  overloading again,” Garik mutters under his breath. It’s more for himself than

  Bob, but the Automaton nods, his blank face angled in what almost looks like

  curiosity. Garik snorts at the thought. Curious? That would be the day.

  His hands move quickly, locking the emitter into

  the turret’s mana-conductive framework. The metal clicks into place, and a

  burst of sparks crackles across the arcane wires like distant lightning. Garik

  holds his breath, waiting for the explosion that never comes.

  Instead, the turret hums—a warm, steady

  vibration. The mana stones inside pulse rhythmically, their glow even and calm.

  The core flickers, then stabilizes.

  Garik releases a breath he didn’t realize he was

  holding, tension draining from his shoulders. “Mobility secured,” he announces,

  his voice steadier now. He casts a glance at the other turrets, their dark

  silhouettes looming against the night sky. “Now, let’s make sure the rest of

  these bastards can actually fire.”

  Not far away, Lyra’s hands shake as she slots the

  final elemental crystal into place. It clicks with a satisfying snap, and

  energy surges through the turret’s frame. The pulse vibrates deep in her bones,

  familiar but different. Like the hum of engines back home, yet wilder—untamed

  magic, raw and potent.

  The turret groans, metal plates shifting as

  elemental power courses through it. Lyra’s eyes widen as the arcane barrel

  pivots slowly, locking onto the advancing enemy. Radiant glyphs bloom across

  the turret’s surface, weaving together in intricate patterns, flowing like

  veins beneath skin.

  A spark of power ignites within the turret,

  growing rapidly. Lyra’s heart races, her fingers twitching in anticipation. The

  air ripples with heat from the blazing sphere of arcane fire, crackling with

  energy.

  The turret fires. A bolt of electrified flame

  streaks across the sky, searing toward the undead horde. It detonates with a

  deafening explosion, scattering brittle bones and charred remains. The

  shockwave reverberates through the ground, sending a shiver up her spine.

  Lyra lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d

  been holding, her lips curving into a grin. “That’ll teach them.”

  All around, the other turrets awaken, one by one.

  Their cores ignite, launching a coordinated barrage of magical artillery. The

  night sky lights up as destruction rains down on the undead. What had been a

  desperate defense now turns into an unrelenting counteroffensive. The skeletal

  warriors falter, crumbling under the relentless assault.

  Garik watches the chaos unfold, his shoulders

  easing for the first time in hours. He glances at Lyra, her face illuminated by

  the pulsing glow of the turrets. There’s a fierce light in her eyes—a spark he

  hasn’t seen in a long time.

  “Good work,” he says, his voice rough but warmer

  than usual. “We might just survive this after all.”