If Skyreach was a precision-engineered industrial heart, rhythmic and exhaling clean white steam, then Rust-Water Port was a colossal, slowly liquefying corpse. The inhabitants were merely the maggots feasting upon the rot.
The massive military-grade run-flat tires of the Skyreach convoy ground through the muck of the streets, emitting a sickening, squelching sound of compressed filth. The obsidian armored plating of the vehicles looked like a series of alien monoliths amidst the low, dilapidated wooden shacks—steel beasts blundering into a termite mound.
Jasta sat in the climate-controlled cabin, appraising the city through the one-way ballistic glass. “Filthy,” he muttered, pressing a pristine white handkerchief to his nose. His brow furrowed in genuine aesthetic disgust. “There is zero logic to the drainage. Domestic sewage is mixed with the surface runoff. The street layout is a tangle, and the structural density is approaching a suffocation threshold.”
“And the smell is hitting harder than I expected,” Brad added, sitting opposite him and flipping a silver aluminum Sky Credit between his calloused fingers. Even with the Aether-conditioning filtering the intake, the pervasive stench of rotting fish, metallic oxidation, and raw excrement managed to seep into the cabin like a chemical ghost.
Outside the window lay a dystopian ukiyo-e.
Tattered beggars huddled beside oil-slicked puddles, watching the convoy’s steel wheels with gazes composed of equal parts hunger and envy. Skeletal half-beast prostitutes leaned against leaning timber tenements, hawking their survival for copper to passing mercenaries. Just meters away, goblin merchants in silk vests directed slaves hauling crates of luxury goods into the opulent, gold-trimmed Guild halls.
Extreme poverty and gaudy extravagance were separated only by a viscous trench of black wastewater.
“Look there,” Jasta said, pointing his ivory cane at a roadside smithy.
The shop was shuttered, its doors bearing a heavy wax seal stamped with the red sigil of the Golden Gear Guild. A destitute elderly smith knelt in the mud, weeping, while several Guild enforcers in yellow surcoats kicked him aside like a stray dog.
“Why the shutdown?” Brad asked, leaning forward. “The forge chimney is still smoking. That’s wasted fuel.”
“Monopoly,” Jasta’s gaze turned cold—the look of a predator observing an inefficient competitor. “The Golden Gear Guild controls the Supply Chain for all Eternal Iron imports. They don't sell the raw ore; they inflate the price until independent smiths face a Liquidity Collapse. Then, they buy the shops and tools at scrap-metal rates, converting the owners into debt-slaves.”
“That is their ‘Business Model,’” Jasta let out a cold, sharp laugh, swirling the red wine in his glass. “Hoarding, artificial scarcity, and siphoning the last drop of blood from the producers. That isn't commerce. It’s parasitism.”
The convoy hissed to a halt in front of the Bureau of Taxation. To conduct 'legal' business in Rust-Water Port, one needed a permit—yet another gate controlled by the Golden Gear Guild. Jasta straightened his collar and stepped out. Brad followed, his two-meter frame casting a shadow that silenced the immediate area.
The Bureau's interior was a grotesque irony of the streets outside: golden gilding, expensive red carpets, and a mana-array maintaining a constant temperature. A bloated Pig-kin tax official sat behind a high mahogany counter, gnawing on a greasy turkey leg.
“Well, look at the high-roller who was tossing coins at the gate,” the official grunted, his small eyes squeezed into slits by folds of fat as he eyed Jasta’s expensive suit. “Want to sell in Rust-Water? Fine. Entry tax. Occupancy fee. And... the Respiration Levy.”
“Respiration levy?” Brad’s eyebrow twitched, his hand resting on the hilt of his modified Kinetic Breaker.
“Air is a resource, outsider,” the pig-kin chuckled, revealing yellowed teeth. “In Rust-Water, every breath is a courtesy of the Guild.”
Jasta raised a hand to restrain Brad. He stepped to the counter, his face displaying a flawless, surgically precise professional smile.
“Reasonable fees are the foundation of order,” Jasta said, sliding a prepared gift list onto the greasy counter. It was a credit note from the Skyreach Bank. Knowing it was useless here, he placed a heavy pouch on top of it. The neck of the bag loosened, revealing a crimson radiance from within: five high-purity Flame Cores. In a city starved for stable fuel, these were worth more than their weight in gold.
The official’s eyes nearly bulged. He dropped the turkey leg and snatched the bag, a visceral gulp echoing from his throat. “This... this is for me?”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Merely a ‘Processing Fee,’” Jasta whispered, his voice laced with a demonic, persuasive warmth. “Provided we receive a general trade permit immediately and... you maintain a blind spot regarding our operational nuances. Every month, a similar pouch will find its way to your residence.”
Greed overrode the official’s risk assessment. “Deal! Absolutely! In Rust-Water, gold is the only law!” He slammed a stamp onto a piece of parchment and tossed it at Jasta. “Take it. Hawk your wares wherever you like, just stay away from the Golden Gear flagship stores, or I can't protect you!”
Jasta picked up the permit with two fingers as if it were soiled. “Your generosity is noted.”
As they exited, Brad spat on the pavement. “That pig was disgusting. Why give him the cores? I could have broken him.”
“Because we need a Time Window, Brad,” Jasta said, handing the permit to an adjutant and meticulously wiping his fingers with his handkerchief. “That gold is his ‘Funeral Payment.’ Once our supply lines are established and the Golden Gear Guild is dismantled, that pig will be the first entry on our liquidation ledger.”
The convoy pushed deeper into the chaotic sprawl of the Lower District. Brad sat in the navigator’s seat, guiding them through memory. “Left here. Straight. The shop with the gear sign is just ahead.” He remembered Old Gobbu, the greedy but strangely charismatic goblin merchant from their first scouting run. “Hope I can trade for some new scrap,” Brad grinned.
The grin died when the convoy reached the coordinates.
‘Old Gobbu’s Miracle Emporium’ was a ruin. The door had been splintered by axes, shelves were overturned, and the floor was a graveyard of shattered ceramics and trampled herbs. The sign Gobbu had been so proud of was snapped in two, face down in the mud. A massive, jarring seal was plastered across the wreckage:
[CONTRABAND OUTLET - SEIZED BY ORDER OF THE GOLDEN GEAR GUILD]
“Dammit...” Brad vaulted out before the vehicle fully stopped. He picked up the broken sign. “Who did this?!”
“It seems our old friend has been designated as collateral damage,” Jasta said, stepping out and eyeing the seal. A cold spark glinted in his eyes. “Find an informant.”
Brad grabbed a passing goblin beggar by the rags. The beggar nearly soiled himself at the sight of the armored giant. “Where is Gobbu? Where is the owner?!”
“In... in The Sump...” the beggar stammered, pointing toward a foul-smelling drainage trench in the distance. “The Guild said he sold illegal goods... they broke his legs, took his stock, and threw him there to rot...”
The Sump. The absolute zero of Rust-Water Port’s social hierarchy. It was the basin located directly beneath the city’s primary industrial runoff pipes. Only the most broken creatures dwelled there.
Amidst piles of fermenting trash and viscous sludge, Brad found the former merchant. Gobbu was curled in a rotting wooden crate, covered in moldy burlap sacks. His silk vest was gone, replaced by rags. His left leg was twisted at an unnatural angle—a clear Compound Fracture caused by a blunt instrument. His monocle was shattered, leaving only a wire frame hanging over a bruised eye.
Hearing the heavy footsteps, Gobbu shriveled into a ball, shielding his head. “Stop! I have nothing left! You took it all! Mercy!”
“Gobbu!” Brad dropped to one knee, the weight of his armor squelching in the mud. He ripped away the burlap. “It’s us! Alex sent us!”
The goblin shuddered. He looked up, his clouded eyes slowly focusing on Brad’s broad, human face. Recognition hit him like a physical blow, and tears carved tracks through the soot on his cheeks. “B-Big Guy? Are you really here? The... the hairless human isn't dead?”
“We’re very much alive. And we’re back.” Brad gritted his teeth, his eyes reddening. He looked at the wreckage of his friend and turned to Jasta. “Jasta. Save him. He’s our asset.”
Jasta had been standing back, observing the scene. This goblin had suffered for selling Skyreach’s goods. This was a Strategic Liability that needed to be converted into an investment.
“Of course.” Jasta stepped forward, ignoring the sludge ruining his white leather boots. He bent down, extending a white-gloved hand to the broken goblin.
“Mr. Gobbu,” Jasta’s voice was warm, solemn, as if addressing a high-ranking trade partner. “I am Jasta, Special Envoy of the United Council and Plenipotentiary of Skyreach. Lord Alex sends his regards.”
“And he asked me to deliver a message to you.” Jasta looked into Gobbu’s disbelieving eyes. “We are going to provide you with Structural Support. Tell me... would you like to reopen your shop?”
Gobbu looked at the blindingly clean hand, then at the furious, god-like figure of Brad. He let out a raw, guttural sob—years of suppressed humiliation and hatred pouring out at once. He reached out with a filth-caked hand and gripped Jasta’s glove. The white silk was stained black instantly. The contract was sealed.
“Reopen! I’ll reopen!” Gobbu hissed through gritted teeth, a vengeful fire igniting in his eyes. “I want them to pay! I want them bankrupt! I want them to spit out every coin they took, including the marrow of their bones!”
Question of the Day: What should be Jasta’s first move in the counter-strike against the Golden Gear Guild?
?? A) The Market Flash-Crash: Start selling Skyhaven lighters for 1 copper.
Result: Chaos. The Guild’s high-priced inventory becomes worthless instantly. The masses love you, but the Guild will send assassins by sundown.
?? B) The Supply-Chain Cut: Use Mykra to sabotage the Guild’s iron shipments.
Result: Crippling. The Guild can't fulfill their existing contracts. Their reputation tanks, and Jasta steps in to "graciously" offer Sky-City steel as a replacement.
?? C) The Show of Force: Have Brad "accidentally" destroy a Guild warehouse.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Direct and loud. Show everyone that the Guild's protection is a joke. High chance of starting a full-scale street war.
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!