The Cinder Empire.
In Hector City, known as the City of Cast Iron, situated in the southeastern reaches of the Great Anzetta Wasteland.
At four in the morning, the assembly lines clattered with rhythmic clicks. The colossal machines stood like monstrous beasts gnawing on steel, grinding the factory women's breathing into a uniform cadence.
"Two hundred twenty-seven, two hundred twenty-eight..."
Irene counted as the two hundred thirtieth shell casing slipped past her palm, tiny specks of brass shavings embedded beneath her fingernails glinting under the gas lamps.
When she tucked her cracked thumb into her mouth, she tasted the metallic tang of blood mingled with bullet lubricant. She knew her skin had worn away until it bled, yet she could not pause even for a second.
*Clang! Clang! Clang!*
Amidst the thunderous roar of steam hammers, the factory director yelled at the top of his lungs, "We must hit the quota from above before dawn! Remember, we are serving the empire!
"The more bullets we produce, the more territory our frontline soldiers can seize, and the closer the Cinder Empire draws to His Majesty's grand design!"
"For the empire!"
Several young workers raised their hands and cheered hoarsely, an unmistakable frenzy gleaming through their exhausted eyes.
The director nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent! Keep up that spirit! The factory is a battlefield, and every one of you is fighting for the empire!"
Irene wanted to prove herself like those younger workers and earn the director's praise.
Yet she was simply too exhausted. The relentless rhythm of the assembly line consumed every shred of her attention, leaving her deaf to everything else, able only to repeat the mechanical motions in a daze—much like the majority of the laborers around her.
Steam pipes overhead wove an iron cage like a spiderweb. Condensation mingled with cutting fluid dripped onto the napes of their necks, staining their work collars with mold-like blotches of blue-black.
Every five seconds, a 7.92mm rifle cartridge slid into a pine crate at the end of the conveyor belt, its lid stenciled in bold black paint with the words *Southlands Special Issue*.
The so-called Southlands referred to the vast territory south of the Great Anzetta Wasteland. Nearly every imperial citizen knew it as a bountiful land flowing with milk and honey, brimming with boundless opportunity.
Merchants could dump goods there to their hearts' content, flipping inventory to amass mountains of gold coins, while soldiers could fight with all their might to earn military merits and rise into the exalted dragonblood nobility...
Unfortunately, Irene was only a woman of modest means, lacking both the wealth to trade and the strength to set foot on a battlefield.
Several years ago, her husband had died in the Abyssal War. Though he had left no military exploits behind, his death had yielded a generous pension, allowing her to raise their two children without holding a job.
Yet those good days were short-lived. As fighting intensified in North Aethel, vast numbers of personnel, grain rations, and equipment were requisitioned for the south. Prices across the empire soared, and Irene's life grew increasingly strained and difficult to sustain.
To keep providing for her two children, Irene answered the empire's call and stepped into the factory, becoming an honorable working woman earning a monthly wage of five silver coins.
"Three hundred and seven, three hundred and eight..." Irene counted silently, watching the cartridges roll past along the conveyor belt.
She knew the empire was preparing to launch another war.
Working in a munitions factory made her keenly aware of it, for a sudden surge in rush orders was always the harbinger of war.
Living in Hector City, Irene constantly heard triumphant news from newspapers and broadcasts about how the frontline forces had successively occupied North Aethel, the Shield Dwarf Plateau, and the Ugo Steppe.
As an imperial subject, she often held her chest high with genuine pride and joy, yet at times she could not help wondering: when would the wars ever end?
Ever since His Majesty Cassius led his generals south in search of "a place in the sun," the string of campaigns had blown ceaselessly like the northern winds over Anzeta, showing no sign of ever coming to a halt.
"Irene, what in the world are you doing?! Letting deformed bullets slip right into the crate?!"
The supervisor's harsh voice barked from behind, snapping Irene out of her reverie. A cold sweat broke across her back, and she hastily replied,
"Forgive me, sir."
The supervisor retrieved the deformed cartridge from the crate and said coldly, "Don't apologize to me—apologize to the entire factory! Don't you know the brass is conducting a military munitions inspection?
"If I hadn't caught this in time, the entire Thirteenth Factory would have been penalized, and everyone's face would be dragged through the mud!"
"I am sorry..."
Irene's fingers trembled as she sorted through the bullets, flustered and at a loss.
The supervisor glanced at her, his tone softening slightly. "Enough. Mind your work and stop letting your thoughts wander. I'm docking one silver dinar from your pay this time... Don't let it happen again."
"Yes, sir."
Irene lowered her head, answering with numb dullness.
A fine of one silver dinar seemed trivial, yet it cost her several days of backbreaking labor to earn.
Next month... they would have to tighten their belts once more.
"The goddamn belt is jammed again!" Martha shrieked from Station Thirty-Seven. Irene watched half-finished bullet heads pile into a small mound at the conveyor's seam, a brass avalanche burying Martha's rubber boots in the blink of an eye.
When the thud of the supervisor's leather boots echoed down the iron stairs, every woman's neck snapped taut again, beaded with cold sweat.
"Useless idiot!"
Amidst the supervisor's furious berating, Sophia, a newcomer, took a seat beside Irene. Half of a banned pamphlet poked out from her overalls pocket as she whispered, "Because machines can't tell a dud apart, but starving women can."
Irene stared at the bruise on the girl's wrist and held her tongue.
*Clang—*
Just then, the resonant chime of a bell echoed from afar, jolting the workers on the line as if waking them from a slumber. Murmurs broke out across the workshop floor.
"What happened?"
"It's the great bronze bell in the plaza! It only rings on momentous occasions, like Coronation Day or Christmas!"
"There's no holiday today, though?"
"Then something huge must have happened! Could it be—"
Listening to her fellow workers' chatter, Irene had already guessed what was coming, and memories of sorrow inevitably surfaced in her mind.
The last time that bell had rung outside a holiday was two years ago, when His Majesty Cassius delivered a speech in person, manifesting as a colossal magical projection above the city to declare war on the Abyssal demons.
Not long after that speech, word of her husband vanished entirely—until Irene learned he had been swallowed into a demon's jaws.
His death brought her deep sorrow, yet she also felt profound pride; after all, her husband had fallen battling demons, an honorable hero who had laid down his life to shield the people of the empire.
Crisp footfalls of leather boots broke through the noise. The factory director strode into the workshop and clapped his hands loudly. "Alright, shut it down!
"The higher-ups have a major announcement today. Everyone gets a half-day off. Assemble at the city plaza!"
"Fantastic!"
"Eleven straight days of work, and we finally get a breather!"
Overjoyed shouts rippled through the workforce, and Irene was no exception. Ever since the recent rush orders came in, she had not caught a single break.
Stepping out of the factory into the sun veiled by thick smoke, Irene still felt somewhat disoriented, as though she had emerged from an entirely different realm.
She boarded the train bound for downtown Hector City. Over a year ago, she had used her husband's pension to purchase a modest home there, where she lived with her two children.
Buried under grueling shifts, Irene had gone a long time without taking her children out, and this sudden leave offered the perfect chance.
***
Hector City.
Beside the fountain in the Civic Plaza, Irene touched the silver cross medal her late husband had left behind and held tight to the hand of her elder son, Little Daniel.
Little Daniel gazed at the surging crowd before them and asked curiously, "Mama, why is everyone here?"
"Because the empire has a great announcement to make."
"What announcement?"
Irene offered a gentle smile. "Mama doesn't know either, but I'd guess... war is about to begin."
Little Daniel hung his head, murmuring softly, "If that's true... does it mean Papa can't come back again? You said he's a great hero, always fighting all over the place for the empire."
Irene sighed softly and stroked the boy's head. "Yes. Your father must still be preparing for battle right now. We shouldn't distract him."
Little Daniel's voice grew slightly choked. "Then... then when can we see him?"
"Perhaps when the war ends. When Papa becomes a world-renowned general, he'll come back to see you."
"When will the war end?"
Irene shook her head, unable to bear the boy's expectant gaze. Her eyes drifted into the distance, lost in thought. "I don't know, child..."
Perhaps the empire's wars would never truly end—she only knew that her husband would never return.
"Look!"
"It's steam tanks!"
"Make way, clear the road! Don't block the path!"
The crowd before her grew clamorous, parting like waves before the barking shouts of the city garrison.
Steam whistles wailed as a column of twelve steam tanks rolled slowly past the plaza, their tracks grinding against the hard stone road with a heavy rumbling roar.
These iron behemoths were immense, standing over four meters tall and stretching nearly ten meters long, like roving hills projecting overwhelming intimidation. Their polished alloy armor gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight.
"Those are the heavy tanks built right here in Hector City!"
"Haha, only our City of Cast Iron could forge war engines so grand!"
The onlookers buzzed with awe, spellbound by the overwhelming might before them and swelling with pride.
Two kilometers away, in the slums behind a window bearing an icon of Misha, an eight-year-old boy named Thomas peered through a monocular his late father had left him, marveling at the mechanical monster.
"It's so magnificent... I'm going to be a tank crewman when I grow up!"
"Let me see, hurry up!"
"Hmph, a little bean sprout like you wants to be a soldier? I'm going to be a wyvern knight!"
The slum children squabbled noisily over the monocular, each eager for an eyeful of the distant military parade.
"Look up!"
"What is that?!"
"The imperial wyvern knights! No, wait, look at the big ones behind them!"
A tearing sound ripped across the sky. The crowds looked up in unison to see armored wyverns beating their wings overhead.
Immediately after, an even more stunning sight unfurled: colossal hulks glided through the clouds like a pod of whales swimming in a sea of mist, casting vast shadows over the gathered masses.
These behemoths featured sharply angled underbellies bristling with thick cannon barrels, while the massive gas envelopes above bore stenciled imperial crests of slitted pupils and flames.
"By Cassius above, those massive things can actually fly!"
"Airships! That's an imperial airship fleet! I saw them in the military propaganda pamphlets!"
Watching the herd of sky whales, even Irene gasped at the spectacle. Thoughts churned uncontrollably in her mind: what sort of devastation would rain down upon the earth when these flying leviathans unleashed their bombs and poured their artillery fire below?
Little Daniel clung tightly to Irene, shivering under the sheer terror of the killing machines.
Sensing her son's fright, Irene gently soothed him, "Don't be afraid, child. Those are the weapons of our Cinder Empire, built to protect us. They are your father's comrades-in-arms."
Little Daniel pointed toward the airships in the sky and asked timidly, "Mama, you told me you work in a munitions factory. Did you make those things too?"
Irene smiled and shook her head. "Of course not. Everyone has their own role to play. Mama is responsible for making bullets."
"Oh, I see..." Little Daniel pondered for a moment, then looked up at the sky once more. "When I grow up, I want to be an honorable soldier just like Papa, a great hero written about in the papers!"
The smile froze on Irene's face. The memory of her fallen husband surged forward, and she could not help cautioning him, "Child, that is far too dangerous. Joining the military requires passing strict tests, and not everyone can become a soldier."
"Is that so..." Little Daniel bowed his head in thought, then clapped his hands together. "Then I'll be like Mama! I'll build lots of powerful weapons and equipment so Papa can fight better on the front lines!"
"..."
Staring at the boy's innocent, bright face, Irene froze in place, her heart tangled with conflicting emotions.
She knew all too well that she was manufacturing instruments of slaughter, capable of blowing a person's skull to pieces in an instant and churning the contents into pulp.
Nor was her livelihood a dignified one. She spent endless days and nights performing monotonous, grueling labor inside a sunless workshop until completely spent, granted fewer than ten hours of rest a day.
Must her child walk that same path as well?
*Clang—*
In the center of the distant plaza, five hundred trainee officers drew their sabers in unison. General Hohenzollern, a half-dragon, tapped his cane firmly against the reviewing stand.
"Soldiers! Citizens of Hector City! Today, we stand on the threshold of a sacred and glorious hour—His Supreme Majesty Cassius is about to address us in person!"
"Long live the empire!"
"Long live His Majesty Cassius!"
Fervent cheers tore into the heavens. In such an atmosphere, anyone who failed to show fervor became an outcast, so Irene joined the tide, shouting along with the crowd.
Even Little Daniel was swept up by the intoxicating fervor, pumping his little fist and shouting in his high, piping voice:
"Long live His Majesty Cassius—!"
Chapter 692