Rain streaked down Calder's face, carving lines through grime and blood like cold, deliberate fingers. Each droplet traced the path of unspoken rage, settling into the hard lines etched deep beneath his eyes.

"Bloody hell…" he muttered, voice barely audible above the storm. But it wasn't fear that made his hand tremble.

It was resolve.

He looked down at his right hand. A battered glove of scorched leather clung to it, fingers creased and blackened from years of use. It wasn't worn for warmth or comfort—it was a disguise. A barrier between the world and what lay beneath.

His jaw tightened.

Then, with a harsh pull, he ripped the glove free.

Ffft-chkk.

The leather dropped into the mud with a wet slap.

What remained was a weapon.

A military-grade prosthetic, raw and scarred, built for war. Matte steel plates caught the dull shimmer of stormlight, scorched edges framing alchemical welds that pulsed like living veins. Runes flickered faintly along the joints—glowing, humming, alive. And across the bracer, etched deep and permanent, read:

C.R.A.D.L.E. Delta 06 – "Rho." 

Crusaders for Rift Annihilation, Dimensional Liberation, and Eradication

The logo itself is stylized—a rising sun burning through the black edge of a dimensional rift, wreathed in radiant flame.

Neon's voice came soft, shocked.
"You've been hidin' that?"

Calder didn't answer right away. The arm hissed as metal plates shifted—rotating, sliding apart with seamless precision. A low click. A pulse of heat. Then: a brutal cannon-barrel slid out over his forearm, ringed with molten-red etchings that pulsed like a heartbeat.

"Aye," Calder said, eyes hard beneath the rain. "Ye have yer secret, boy."
He raised the arm, letting the barrel glow. "I have mine."

---

He stepped forward, just beside Neon. S.A.B.R.E.'s optics brightened, the spider-bot clicking softly in quiet solidarity. Around them, the slumfolk gathered, rain-soaked and trembling—but not from the cold. There was fire behind their eyes now. They saw something. They saw hope.

Calder's voice was low, cold.

"Guess I was wrang."

Neon straightened beside him, lightning still crackling faintly between his fingers.
His voice came sharp, commanding—iron beneath the calm.

"You heard the man."

He met the stunned gazes of the knights ahead.

"Gate opens… or we go through it."

The Knight-Captain stood frozen, rain trailing in rivulets down his steel visor. The gleam of Calder's arm cannon reflected in the polished metal—inches from his face.

The cannon hummed, deep and rising, a sound like the storm itself gathering breath. Alchemical sigils pulsed, growing hotter, brighter, steam hissing from vents like the growl of something ancient and barely restrained.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the Knight-Captain's gaze dropped—just for a moment—to the etched brand along Calder's forearm:
C.R.A.D.L.E. Delta 06 – "Rho."

His breath caught.

"You're a… Crusader," he said, the words heavy, uncertain.
Like he wasn't sure if it was accusation or revelation.

Calder's voice came low and ironclad.
"Aye."

He stepped forward, cannon unwavering, his eyes locked through the Captain's visor.
"Choose yer next bloody actions carefully."

---

The words struck harder than any shot. Around them, the air felt thinner. Charged. Unforgiving.

A flicker of doubt cracked across the Knight-Captain's stance. His shoulders, once squared in practiced defiance, sagged by a single inch.

Then—

"Let them through!" he barked, voice cracking under the pressure. "Stand down—now!"

Weapons lowered. Gates creaked open.

The storm didn't ease, but the battlefield shifted—tension replaced by the uneasy quiet of survival.

Neon and Calder stepped forward together, S.A.B.R.E. clicking softly at their side.

They didn't look back.

The barricade groaned as it unlocked, gears clanking and metal hinges whining against rust. Slowly, the gate began to part.

Behind Neon, the slum crowd surged forward with a collective breath of disbelief and relief. Voices rang out, soaked in rain and emotion:

"We're through!"
"Bless ya, lad!"
"We're gonna make it!"

For the first time all day, Neon allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Hope surged through the soaked street like lightning in a wire.

But the sky had other plans.