The Profane Mechanism Fortress (Second Stage)

The echo of the killer elevator still reverberated in the tower. Dust fell in cascades of soot and rusted metal.

The gears creaked as if the fortress itself lamented the death of its guardian.

Ayato crawled out of the hole he had wedged himself in, coughing and brushing soot from his clothes.

“Great… half an hour in this castle and I’m already nearly skewered. What’s next? A rain of saws?”

Madelis slid down the wall, dusting her hands with theatrical elegance.

“At least we’ve learned something important: Dakim can be deadlier than the enemy.”

From above, Dakim raised his voice with solemn pride.

“It was God’s will.”

“…A little rushed, perhaps,” Ayato muttered.

Isolde shot him a glare sharp enough to pierce armor.

“Next time, pray for yourself.”

The group stumbled toward the end of the flight as the elevator rose again with a mechanical groan.

***

The corridor ahead was long and suffocating, lined with burning pipes that hissed like serpents. At its end lay an unexpected room.

Spacious, dimly lit by gas lanterns, it held iron benches and a central fountain spewing warm water.

Symbols of interlocking gears and iron crosses were etched into the walls, as though it were a chapel built for steel-hearted devotees.

And there they were: half-human machines, kneeling in silence before a mechanical altar where a golden piston rose and fell like a false heart.

“…What is this?” Vera whispered, pale.

Isolde narrowed her eyes.

“A shrine. The twisted faith of the Unholy Artificer. Worship of steel, not flesh.”

Sylphidia staggered forward, hair in disarray, eyes heavy from her hangover. She groaned, waving a hand dismissively.

“Ugly décor. Like a cheap tavern… but with more gears.”

The room seemed “safe,” for the moment.

There were tool chests half-broken, rusty potions, and suspicious food that Madelis inspected with greedy eyes.

“Free merchandise! Well… free for me,” she sang, stuffing bottles into her bag.

Ayato slumped onto a bench, exhaustion sinking into his bones.

“Right. Holy theft from a junkyard chapel. Very pious.”

Isolde didn’t relax. She kept her rapier close, staring at the kneeling automatons, convinced they would rise at any second.

Dakim knelt before the fountain, his brow furrowed in rare hesitation.

“This is not faith,” he muttered. “This is a blasphemous parody.”

The fountain gurgled in reply. For an instant, the water turned red as blood before clearing again.

In that strange pause, they quickly began to plan.

Isolde traced the stolen map on a cracked bench, her finger marking the tallest spire.

“There. The core. The heart of the mechanism. And Thélemor will be waiting.”

Madelis, feigning innocence, revealed far too much knowledge: the hidden workshops where mechanical beasts were forged, the shortest paths, even rumors of an engine powered by souls.

Ayato frowned at her.

“And since when do you know all that, oh walking encyclopedia?”

“Field research!” she replied, flashing a too-bright smile.

Vera pleaded for rest, Sylphidia already drooling on her shoulder.

But Ayato and Dakim urged haste, wary of more horrors like the Dullahan lurking nearby.

At last, they all agreed: the final confrontation was near.

***

The ground trembled.

One by one, the kneeling automatons lifted their heads in unison, as if listening to an unspoken command.

From their iron mouths poured a distorted chorus:

“The Unholy Artificer awaits you on his throne.”
“The sacred engine burns with a thousand sacrifices.”
“Iron does not forget.”

The metallic echo climbed the tower until it faded into the distance.

Ayato snorted bitterly.

“Great. A personal invitation. Hopefully they’ll serve wine when they kill us.”

Isolde’s grip tightened on her rapier.

“Enough delay. What we’ve seen so far was only the antechamber.”

The gears around them reawakened, the platforms grinding into motion, dragging them higher and higher.

The ascent to the chamber of Arkan Thélemor had begun.

The upper doors screamed open with a sound like metal being flayed alive.

A suffocating gust rushed out: rancid heat, the stench of burnt oil and coagulated blood.

Chains rattled above, cages swaying like pendulums. Inside writhed half-living forms, twitching in silence.

Enormous glass tubes lined the walls, filled with failed experiments—some wept red tears, others pressed their broken faces against the glass in mute desperation.

Surgical tables stood abandoned, slick with fluids, their restraints still wet.

And at the center, enthroned upon iron veins pumping with blood and steam, sat Arkan Thélemor.

His body was a grotesque web of steel and scar tissue, with tubes grafted into his flesh, wearing a dirty, blood-spattered lab coat, crooked glasses, and stitches running through his skin.

His skull was sawn and bolted, and with childlike glee he twisted a screw embedded in his temple, as though tuning his own deranged thoughts.

At last he looked up, his gaze sweeping the intruders.

“Ah… visitors. Fortunate indeed. I was running short of fresh subjects.”

His eyes lingered on Ayato.

“…And you. The Lone-Demon.”

A grin split his broken jaw, teeth like shards of glass.

“You are an asymmetry. An anomaly neither man, nor beast, nor blessed. Your very existence contradicts the balance of flesh and steel. Do you feel it? The fracture in your bones, the curse in your soul?”

He rose, the throne hissing as pipes tore free from his back, spilling steam.

“To the blind, you are blasphemy. To me, you are opportunity. Proof that the advance of science stands above gods and faith alike. Flesh is weak. Spirit is fickle. But iron—iron remembers. Iron never betrays.”

The gears around the chamber turned like grinding teeth. Shadows of crucifixes twisted with each rotation, black candles flickering against the mad spectacle.

Thélemor spread his arms wide, as if embracing them all.

“Come. Let me carve your truths from your bones. Let me make you eternal.”

Thélemor’s laughter rattled through the pipes in his skull, echoing like iron bells.

“Do you not see? This tower, this body, this very chamber… they are not desecration. They are transcendence. The proof that gods are obsolete.”

Dakim stepped forward, voice like thunder.

“You have reduced faith to rust and blood. Your soul is nothing but ashes.”

The Artificer tilted his head, twisting the screw in his temple until it clicked.

“My soul? Hah. A quaint term for weaklings. What I hold is stronger than any faith: continuity. Iron will outlast prayer.”

Ayato straightened, exhausted yet burning with defiance.

“And yet here you are, rotting on a chair, trying to convince yourself you’re more than a lunatic tinkerer.”

Thélemor’s gaze sharpened.

“Lone-Demon… you are different. You should not be. A mistake that walks, breathes, and mocks balance. But mistakes are the raw matter of discovery. If I can unmake you, I can perfect everything.”

He raised a hand, and the chamber obeyed. Chains groaned as cages dropped violently, spilling mangled experiments onto the floor. The half-living creatures crawled forward on limbs of iron and bone, screaming without mouths.

The pipes above hissed, and a rain of surgical tools fell like knives.

Isolde leapt into guard, rapier gleaming.

“Enough of this madness. Everyone—ready yourselves!”

Madelis laughed nervously, already pulling a vial from her bag.

“Finally, some real entertainment!”

Vera clutched her book, trembling as Sylphidia staggered beside her, trying to sober up at the worst possible moment.

Ayato’s hand tightened on his weapon. His eyes met Thélemor’s, and for a heartbeat, the Lone-Demon’s grin reflected the Artificer’s twisted smile.

“Then let’s see which is stronger, Thélemor… your perfect machine, or my broken mistake.”

The gears roared. The black candles guttered out.

And the battle began.