Otwin left the Ley-Rail at one of the outer spurs and felt the difference almost immediately.

  The stone beneath the tracks gave way to packed earth and patchwork paving, old blocks salvaged from somewhere else and laid without ceremony. The steady pressure along his spine softened as the Rail fell behind, power tapering down to something more ordinary. The STV’s engine note roughened slightly, like an animal leaving a warm road for cold ground.

  Ahead, the slums rose to meet him.

  From a distance, they had looked like a thin ring of clutter pressed up against the city wall. Up close, they were anything but small. The buildings crowded inward and upward, stacked and reinforced over decades, sometimes centuries. Lower levels were stone or heavy timber. Upper levels leaned out over narrow streets on beams and braces, adding floors where there should not have been room for them.

  Otwin drove slowly, letting the STV idle forward at a controlled pace. The streets were busy but not chaotic. People moved with purpose. Carts rolled by. Porters hauled loads on their backs or on crude wheeled frames. The air smelled of smoke, oil, cooking grain, and something metallic he could not quite place.

  This was not a ruin. It was a place that worked.

  He saw people of every kind. Laborers with thick hands and tired eyes. Traders hawking tools, scrap, dried food, and secondhand clothing. Children darting through gaps too small for carts, barefoot and sharp-eyed. There were tougher faces, too. Men and women who stood too straight, who watched instead of working. Gangers with mismatched armor pieces and visible tattoos. Enforcers wearing simple insignia that marked territory rather than allegiance to the city proper.

  No one stopped him.

  A few heads turned as he passed, eyes tracking the STV and the two towed behind it. Interest flickered, then faded. Whatever rules governed this place, they did not include harassing someone who looked like he belonged there.

  Otwin kept his posture loose but alert. Hands easy on the controls. Eyes moving. The vibro sword rested where he could reach it, though he doubted he would need to.

  No immediate hostile intent detected.

  The streets narrowed further as he went deeper. Overhead, laundry lines crisscrossed between buildings. Pipes ran along walls, carrying steam, water, or worse. Somewhere above, a generator thumped steadily, its rhythm bleeding through the wood and stone.

  The slums pressed close to the city wall here, the massive stone rising above everything else like a cliff face. Smaller structures leaned against it shamelessly, using it as a foundation. No one seemed concerned that the wall was not meant for that.

  Otwin turned down a wider street, one reinforced enough to handle heavier traffic. The warehouse came into view gradually, revealed as the street straightened. It was large by slum standards, a long rectangular structure of stone and timber, its roof patched with newer panels where the old had failed. Iron bands reinforced its corners. The walls bore old markings, half-scraped away, and newer ones painted over them.

  A place that had changed hands more than once.

  The area around it was crowded but orderly. Smaller buildings clustered nearby, workshops and storage sheds feeding into the larger structure. People moved goods in and out through side doors and loading bays. This was not a dead building. It was a working one.

  Otwin guided the STV toward the main gate and brought it to a stop. The gate itself was heavy iron mesh reinforced with bars, tall enough to admit a Steam Power if needed. It was closed.

  He cut the engine and let the noise fade. For a moment, the street’s sounds filled the space. Voices. Footsteps. The hiss of steam venting somewhere nearby.

  Otwin stayed seated, waiting.

  He did not announce himself. In places like this, that was often the wrong move.

  The warehouse loomed in front of him, worn but solid. Whatever business was done here, it was done openly enough to need space and quietly enough to survive.

  Otwin rested one hand on the controls and glanced around, committing faces and exits to memory. He had brought valuable machines into a place that understood value very well.

  ***

  A door set into the warehouse wall opened with a metallic groan, hinges complaining under the weight. A man stepped out and leaned his bulk against the gate. He was big in the way that came from years of lifting rather than training, shoulders wide, arms thick, belly hanging over a belt that had given up the fight. He held an oversized wrench in one hand, its jaws nicked and worn smooth from long use.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Wot?” the man asked, squinting at Otwin.

  Otwin stayed seated on the STV. He did not raise his voice. “Tell Grump that Hagermann is here.”

  The guard snorted. “An’ why should I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t,” Otwin said, “Grump will probably sack you.”

  The guard’s expression shifted, irritation giving way to something closer to caution. He opened his mouth to argue anyway.

  A voice cut across the yard from inside the warehouse. Loud. Dry. Amused.

  “What’s going on out there? Let that man in. He clearly has something to sell.”

  The big guard winced and turned his head toward the sound. “Oi!” he yelled back, then shuffled to the gate controls. It took him a moment. The mechanism was old and stubborn, a heavy sliding assembly reinforced with bars and counterweights. He hauled on a lever, braced a boot, and swore under his breath as the gate began to rise.

  Otwin waited until it was fully clear, then eased the STV forward. The tracks rattled over the threshold, towing the other two vehicles behind him. The gate creaked closed once more, sealing the yard off from the street.

  The warehouse lot opened up around him.

  It was a scrap yard, plain and simple, though an organized one. Rows of stacked salvage filled the space, sorted by size and type. Hull plates leaned against reinforced frames. Crates of components sat under tarps marked with faded symbols. Power cores in various states of depletion were stored behind heavy fencing. Racks of tools, parts, and mechanisms lined the walls.

  There was a lot of salvage. A lot.

  Some of it was clearly ancient. Other pieces looked like they had come off wrecks less than a month old. Nothing here was decorative. Everything had weight, purpose, and value.

  Otwin brought the STV to a stop near an open stretch of hard-packed ground and shut it down. The sudden quiet made the place feel even larger. Workers moved at the edges of the yard, watching without staring. Nobody rushed forward. Nobody panicked.

  A man stepped out of the warehouse proper, door slamming shut behind him.

  He wore an overcoat that had seen better years, patched and re-patched, its lining peeking out at the cuffs. A clipboard rested in one hand, stylus tucked behind an ear. He was about Otwin’s size, about his build, about his age. Grey hair cut short. Beard trimmed close. Eyes sharp without being eager.

  “Hagermann,” the man said.

  “Grump,” Otwin replied.

  They nodded to each other, the gesture carrying more history than warmth.

  Grump’s eyes flicked past Otwin to the STVs, then to the two being towed. He did not comment. “What do you have for me?”

  Otwin swung a leg over and dismounted, boots crunching on grit. “Well,” he said, “I guess I should show you.”

  Grump’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to Otwin’s hip.

  The vibro sword rested there without ceremony. Black blade. Clean lines. Runes catch the light even in the open air. The pommel stone glowed faintly, steady and contained.

  Grump took a long look. A very long look.

  “Now,” he said finally, voice low, “that is a beauty.”

  Otwin said nothing. He let the moment sit, the yard quiet except for distant work sounds and the soft ticking of cooling engines.

  Grump’s eyes lifted back to his face, calculation settling in. “You’d better start talking, Hagermann.”

  Otwin rested a hand on the STV’s frame. “Let’s take it one thing at a time.”

  ***

  "Sword isn't for sale," Otwin said.

  Then he walked Grump to the rear of the STV first, unhooking the tow rig with practiced movements. The chains clinked softly as they came free, and he guided the two smaller vehicles into better light. They were rough. Scarred plates, mismatched repairs, tracks that had seen too many miles without proper care. Functional, though. Honest machines, for what they were.

  “Iron-rated,” Grump said after a brief look, crouching to inspect a track assembly. He tapped a plate with his knuckle. “Both of them.”

  “That’s right,” Otwin replied.

  Grump rose, dusting his hands on his coat. “They’ll move. They’ll haul. They’ll break if pushed too hard.”

  “They got here, didn't they?” Otwin said.

  Grump snorted. “That doesn’t mean much.” He circled one STV, then the other, eyes sharp. “I’ll give you a hundred each.”

  Otwin shook his head once. “Two hundred.”

  Grump grimaced, as if physically pained. “You’re dreaming.”

  “They’re intact. No cracked housings. No core bleed.”

  “One-fifty,” Grump countered. “And I’m being generous.”

  Otwin considered it, then nodded. “One-fifty each.”

  Grump smiled thinly and made a note on his slate. “See? Easy.”

  Otwin did not respond. He reached into his pack instead and laid a small bundle out on the ground between them. A few tools. Components stripped from dead systems. Nothing refined. Nothing rare.

  “Tower Drome salvage,” Otwin said.

  Grump knelt again, sifting through it with efficient disinterest. “Bits and pieces. Old manufacture. Useful, but only just.”

  “Out where I was,” Otwin said, “this would buy supplies for weeks.”

  Grump grunted. “Here it buys lunch.” He paused, then shrugged. “I’ll throw in another fifty for the lot.”

  “That’s fine,” Otwin said.

  Grump raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even going to argue?”

  Otwin zipped his pack closed. “Not about that.”

  Grump watched him for a second longer, then straightened. “Alright. So that’s STVs, scrap, odds and ends. Respectable haul.” He gestured vaguely toward the yard. “You did alright.”

  Otwin reached back into the pack and withdrew the stasis tube.

  It was larger than the other items, its surface smooth and unmarred despite its age. Seals intact. Indicator glyphs are dormant but visible. Even in the open air of the yard, it looked out of place, too clean for everything around it.

  Grump’s eyes widened.

  He took a slow step closer, then stopped himself, as if remembering where he was. “Now that,” he said quietly, “is valuable.”

  Otwin said nothing.

  “I’ll give you five hundred credits for it,” Grump continued, already reaching for his slate.

  “Make it seven-fifty,” Otwin replied.

  Grump hesitated. Just for a breath. Then he nodded. “Done.”

  Otwin handed the tube over.

  Grump took it with both hands, reverent despite himself. “Where did you find this?”

  “Out there,” Otwin said. “Same place as the rest.”

  Grump did not press. He tucked the tube under one arm and turned toward the warehouse door. “I’ve got a terminal inside. We’ll do the transfer there.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Then we talk more business.”

  Otwin followed. “More business?”

  Grump smiled, the expression sharp and knowing. “Yeah. You came in at the perfect time.”