A shriek split the air—deep, shrill, unnatural. It cut through joy like a knife through canvas.
SKREEEEEE!!
High above, a monstrous shape plunged from the clouds—wings like torn war banners, its body wrapped in rotting chitin. Glowing pits where eyes should be burned with furious decay. A flying Netherling.

Panic snapped through the crowd. Screams erupted. Children cried. People scattered. Knights scrambled for formation.

Calder’s head jerked upward.
“Bloody shitehawk! Above the foundry!” he bellowed.

Neon was already turning, dagger drawn, body lowering into a ready stance.

Calder didn’t wait. His cannon arm locked with a thunderous clank, sigils flaring like fresh brands.
A blast of compressed arcana and steam fired from his forearm—
THRMMM-WHOOM!!

The shot slammed into the descending Netherling, tearing off a wing in a burst of molten ichor and shattered armor.
It howled, spiraled, and crashed through a third-story window.
KRRASSHHH!!
Debris rained down.

S.A.B.R.E.’s optics flared, scanning. Neon was already moving—vaulting the rubble, boots hitting wet stone near the wreckage.
The beast twitched. But it wasn’t alone.

From gutters, sewers, and crumbling walls, smaller spawn poured out—pale, twitching things with too many limbs and snapping mandibles. Insectoid. Fast.

One skittered for Neon.
Too fast for the eye.
Not for him.
SHHKKT.
His dagger split it down the middle in a spray of ichor.

Another lunged from a window—Neon pivoted mid-air, blade flashing up.
FSSSSK.
The spawn spasmed and died.

---

Across the canal, Calder crouched atop the barricade, cannon arm glowing. The Netherling clawed at the wreckage, wings twitching, trying to rise.

Behind Calder, civilians rallied. Makeshift courage lit their eyes.

“We can fight! Keep ‘em back!” a man shouted.

A girl hurled a molotov—
FOOMP!
Flames swallowed a crawler in screaming fire.

An old man with a crutch cracked another spawn in the skull.
THWAK.

The slumfolk held.

The Netherling shrieked again, wings flaring for one last desperate lift.
Calder didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to one knee, cannon steady.
Exhaled.
Fired.

BOOOM—SHHRRKKK.

The blast ripped the creature’s head apart in a spray of molten gore. Its body hit the street like a meteor.

THUUUUM.

Its armored husk slammed into the cobblestones. Steam hissed. Black ichor curled into rain-soaked air.

Silence.

Neon stood still, dagger lowered but ready. Spawn bodies twitched around him. His breath fogged faintly.
“...That all o’ em?”

No more came.

Then—
KREEEEEAAAK.
The checkpoint gate groaned open.

---

Knights surged out. Blades drawn. No threats. Just precision.
They fell into formation, cutting down stragglers.

The Knight-Captain barked through the chaos.
“Purge formation! Push them back!”

Neon watched warily.
But the swords weren’t pointed at civilians now.

One knight offered a gauntleted shoulder to a limping man. The man hesitated. Took it.
“…Didn’t think they’d ever help,” he muttered.

Not gratitude. Just disbelief.

Smoke hung low. The slum crowd moved forward, crossing the defended checkpoint.
Children lifted. Wounded carried.
Hope moved slowly—but it moved.

Calder stood by the gate. Cannon arm steaming. Watching.

Neon cleaned his blade, gaze distant.

The last family crossed.

KACHUNK—CLANGG.
The gate sealed behind them.

Silence.
Canal behind.
City ahead. Broken—but safe. For now.

Neon turned to Calder. Both soaked, bruised, alive.

“Thanks, Calder.”

Calder grunted, voice gravel-thick.
“Dinna thank me yet. The night’s nae over.”

A soft metallic clink.

S.A.B.R.E. limped forward, one leg sparking, optics dimmed but steady. It tapped Neon's shin.

Neon knelt beside it, resting a hand on the dented chassis.
His eyes never stopped scanning the skyline—black with smoke, the city's edge flickering with distant light.