Chapter 6: The Line Holds

Roen Kast stood on the trembling platform, the bent sword in his hand feeling more like a liability than a lifeline. The mist churned around him, thick and gray, swallowing the edges of Gray Mist Island like it was trying to hide the mess he'd landed in. The Crack Void Hub loomed at his back, its walls creaking and glowing blue—eleven hours and forty-two minutes until it finished evolving, if it didn't collapse first. The system's warning still hung in his head: twelve Kast enforcers and a mech-unit, whatever the hell that was, closing in at 450 meters. His side ached where the last fight had cut him, blood crusting under his rags, but the adrenaline kept him sharp—or at least awake.

Liya paced beside him, her longsword dragging a faint line in the dust, her wild grin replaced by a tight-lipped frown. "Mech-unit," she muttered, squinting into the fog. "Sounds like some rich asshole's toy. You Kast folks got money to burn, huh, kid?" She nudged him with an elbow, hard enough to make him wince, but her eyes stayed on the mist, tracking those thudding footsteps growing louder.

"Money they didn't share," Roen said, voice dry as the cracked stone under his boots. "All I got was this rock and a death warrant." The Kast family memories—fuzzy, borrowed—painted a picture of excess: gilded halls, silk robes, enough gold to choke a dragon. None of it trickled down to their waste lord, just a quick shove out the door with a trumped-up rebellion charge. Now they were spending coin to make sure he stayed gone, and that mech-unit was the cherry on top.

The tower jolted again, a sharp quake that sent pebbles skittering off the edge. Roen grabbed the dais, steadying himself, while Liya cursed and planted her feet. The blue glow pulsed brighter, cracks spitting dust, and the system chimed in his skull:

System Notification: Evolution surge stabilized. Stage 1 completion revised: 11 hours, 41 minutes, 52 seconds. Detection Aura range: 50 meters—hostiles at 430 meters, closing at accelerated pace.

"Four-thirty," Roen said, gripping his sword tighter. "They're hauling ass." His architect brain ticked over—430 meters was a couple minutes at a dead run, less if that mech thing was faster than it sounded. The platform was still their best bet: twenty feet wide, high ground, one slope up from the rubble below. The stairwell was toast, thanks to his wolf trap, but the slope was wide enough for three abreast—tight, defensible, if they could hold it.

Liya stopped pacing, her blade coming up. "How's that fancy aura thing work, kid? Tell us where to swing?" She tapped the air like she could poke the system panel, her grin sneaking back despite the odds.

"Sort of," Roen said, squinting as the Detection Aura flickered—still no red dots, just a vague buzz in his head. "Fifty meters—close enough to see 'em, not much else yet. Says they're speeding up, so we've got maybe a minute before they hit." He glanced at the slope, then the tower. The walls were shifting, growing, but too slow—nothing to lean on but what they'd already rigged. "We hold the slope—push 'em back like last time. Bottle 'em up."

"Simple," she said, cracking her knuckles. "I like simple—slice 'em 'til they stop moving." She stepped toward the edge, peering down, then froze, swatting her leg. "Wait—something tickled! Kid, check it!" Her voice jumped an octave, sword dipping as she hopped, all that tough mercenary grit melting into a bug-fueled panic.

Roen groaned, rubbing his face. "It's dirt, Liya. You're covered in it—look at yourself!" She was a mess—blood, dust, sweat, her armor scratched to hell—but no bugs. She squinted down, huffed, and straightened up, brushing her hair back like she hadn't just lost it.

"Dirt's sneaky too," she grumbled, glaring at him. "Could've been a beetle—you don't know." He snorted, a tired laugh slipping out, and she shot him a look that promised payback later. "Laugh all you want, kid. I'm still saving your ass."

"Yeah, 'til a moth flies by," he said, turning back to the mist. The thudding was clearer now—boots, heavy and fast, mixed with that mechanical stomp that made his gut twist. Four hundred meters, maybe less. The system wasn't lying—they were coming hard, and that mech-unit was no wolf pack. He'd seen heavy machinery on sites—cranes, bulldozers, things that could crush a man without slowing down. This felt like that, only angrier.

"Alright, bug lady," he said, hefting his sword—bent as it was, it'd have to do. "Slope's our line. They climb, we shove. Mech thing's the wildcard—keep it off me if it gets up here." His architect instincts screamed for a better plan—barricades, traps, anything—but all he had was loose stone and a half-dead tower. He'd built skyscrapers with less, he told himself, though that was a lie and he knew it.

Liya nodded, stepping to the slope's edge, her blade gleaming faintly in the blue glow. "Got it, kid. Mech's mine—old lady's fought worse." She paused, then squinted at the ground. "Unless it's got legs like a spider—then you're on your own." She grinned, and Roen rolled his eyes, fighting a smirk. Crazy as she was, she was growing on him—like a loud, annoying sister he'd never asked for.

The mist parted, just a crack, and shapes emerged—soldiers in Kast armor, swords drawn, moving in a tight line. Twelve, like the system said, their hawk crests glinting as they hit the base of the slope. Behind them loomed the mech-unit—tall as two men, broad as a truck, a hulking mass of metal and gears stomping forward. Its arms ended in blunt hammers, glowing faintly red, and its head—if you could call it that—was a faceless slab studded with rivets. Roen's stomach dropped. "That's no toy," he muttered. "That's a damn wrecking ball."

"Big bastard, huh?" Liya said, whistling low. "Bet I can take it—five swings, tops." She sounded half-serious, which was the scary part. The soldiers started up the slope, three abreast like he'd figured, their boots crunching on loose rock. The mech-unit hung back, thudding slow, like it was waiting for something.

Roen tightened his grip, stepping beside her. "Focus on the grunts—let it come to us." His voice was steady, but his mind raced—400 meters to fifty in a blink, Detection Aura kicking in any second. The tower shook again, dust raining down, and he prayed it'd hold. Eleven hours was a lifetime with that thing bearing down.

The first soldier hit the top, sword slashing at Liya. She parried with a clang, laughing as she shoved him back. "Too slow, tin-man!" He stumbled, and she kicked him off, his yell fading into the mist. Roen swung at the second, his bent blade scraping armor, barely denting it. The guy thrust back, forcing Roen to dodge, boots slipping on the edge. He grabbed a rock, chucked it at the soldier's face—crack, right in the helmet—and shoved while he reeled. Another scream, another body down.

"Two!" Liya crowed, slashing at the third. Her blade bit into his shoulder, and a quick elbow sent him sliding. The next wave climbed fast, undeterred, and Roen's gut sank—they weren't stopping, weren't even slowing. The mech-unit's thuds grew louder, red glow cutting through the mist—300 meters now, maybe less.

"System," Roen snapped, parrying a thrust that nearly took his arm. "Aura—where's that mech?" The panel flickered:

System Notification: Detection Aura active—mech-unit at 280 meters, accelerating. Enforcers at slope base: 9 remaining.

"Nine," he muttered, ducking a swing. "And that thing's speeding up—great." He swung back, catching a soldier's leg, and Liya finished him with a stab. Four down, eight to go, but the slope was clogging—too many climbing, too fast. The tower jolted hard, a crack splitting the dais, and Roen stumbled, cursing. "Hold together, you piece of junk!"

"Kid, we've got a problem!" Liya yelled, shoving another soldier off. "They're piling up—can't keep 'em all down!" She was right—five were on the slope now, swords flashing, pushing her back step by step. Roen swung at one, missed, and took a hilt to the chest, staggering. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, kicking the guy's knee—crunch, down he went.

The mech-unit roared, a deep, grinding sound that shook the platform—200 meters, closing fast. Roen's heart pounded, architect brain scrambling. The slope was their choke point, but it wouldn't stop that thing. He needed time, needed the tower to pull through. "Liya, keep 'em busy!" he shouted, diving for a pile of loose stones. If he could rig something—anything—he might buy a minute.

"Busy's my middle name!" she roared, slashing wild, holding the line. Roen grabbed a rock, hefting it, his mind racing. Two hundred meters—seconds away. He had to make this count.