20 – Fire Vs Water

━━━━━━━━ Vault Growler ━━━━━━━━

[Vault Growler — Mk. IV Excavation Automaton] x1 — Lv. 80

Weapons: Iron Picks

━━━━━━━━━━ Other ━━━━━━━━━

Gnome Remote Control: Unreliable

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The Growler was exactly what Ashley had expected: loud, ugly, and extremely reluctant to die.

Its pick slammed down a few inches from her face, only to stop against a shimmering shield she summoned from thin air with a careless yawn.

She was beginning to find the whole thing annoying.

Actually, no.

She had passed annoying several minutes ago.

Simon leapt to the left while Aury swept to the right, both of them converging on the machine from the flanks, just above its tracks.

The Growler jerked and spun in place, its metal treads shrieking against the stone floor as the pick scraped across Ashley’s shield in a shower of sparks.

Aury flexed his wings and sprang clear of the swing.

Simon did not have that luxury.

Ashley raised her arm to cut the Growler’s limb apart, then stopped when she saw the priest lift his sword.

He doesn’t need me.

She drew her hand back.

The edge of [God’s Bane] carved through the iron arm in a single clean stroke, severing the pointed pick from its handle. The broken metal crashed to the ground with a deep, ringing clang that echoed through the tunnel.

The Growler reeled, one arm suddenly lighter and far less threatening.

Aury did not give it time to recover.

The familiar’s halo flashed across the tunnel in a streak of gold and white, wings folding tight against his body as he cut under the machine’s remaining guard.

Flames gathered along his sword, bright and sharp, and he struck the Growler at the opposite shoulder.

The cut went clean through.

The entire arm tore free from the shoulder joint and crashed to the floor, still twitching as sparks spat from the severed socket.

The Growler twisted toward Aury with a grinding shriek.

Only one arm remained.

The one Simon had already maimed.

The pick was gone, but the thick metal handle was still clamped in its arm. The machine swung it like a club, dragging the broken haft through the air in a brutal arc aimed straight at Aury.

Aury snapped his wings open and shot upward, but the tunnel gave him little room to climb. The club smashed into the wall beneath him, exploding stone chips across the passage and forcing him to veer hard to avoid the follow-up swing.

Let’s see if they can use that opening.

The priest slipped behind the Growler while its whole frame was turned toward Aury. He kept low, [God’s Bane] close to his side, using the machine’s own noise to cover his approach.

I don’t think that thing can hear you, Ashley thought, pressing a hand to her forehead.

He drove the blade into a bulging tank bolted to the Growler’s back, and the blade punched through metal with a wet, ugly hiss.

Simon froze for half a heartbeat as pressure screamed from the wound.

“Oh,” he said.

Ashley’s eyes widened.

“Simon, move!”

He ripped [God’s Bane] free and threw himself backward just as a dense black liquid burst from the punctured tank, coating him in a thick, oily sludge.

Then the fuel tank exploded.

Fire burst out of the Growler’s back and tore through its armored shell from within. The machine lurched forward, its tracks spinning uselessly against the stone as flames poured from every seam.

The ruined club-arm flew wide, struck the ceiling, and snapped loose in a shower of bolts.

Ashley threw up a shield as the shockwave rolled across the tunnel.

Fragments of iron and burning oil hammered against the light, ringing like hail on glass.

When the blast faded, the Growler remained upright for one stubborn second, a blackened shape with fire glowing through its ribs.

Then its frame folded inward.

It collapsed into a heap of smoking metal, its tracks twitching once before falling still.

“That was easy enough,” Aury said, bringing his armored foot down on a copper gear rolling across the stone.

[Simon Tieton – Level +1]

[Simon Tieton – Level 29]

“That was terrifying,” Simon grunted. The oily black substance leaked from his blade, dripping onto the ground.

He wiped a palm across his face, only managing to smear the soot farther across his cheeks and nose. For a moment he scanned the cavern, clearly searching for anything that might serve as a cloth.

Then his eyes drifted to Paco.

To Paco’s wings, specifically.

The purple dragon stared back, scales bristling with an immediate, entirely too human suspicion.

“I think I can make you some armor from the mech loot,” Ashley said.

She reached out, her hand brushing his shoulder before he could make a choice he would undoubtedly regret.

“[Master Craftsman: Forge].”

A slab of torn metal lifted from the wreckage and folded in on itself with a groan. Rust and soot flaked away as the shape compressed, softened, and reformed under the pressure of the skill.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

What had been an ugly chunk of machine plating stretched into two curved bracers, their edges smoothing into place while faint lines of light ran through the metal like seams being stitched shut.

Ashley caught them as they dropped and tossed them to Simon.

He looked at the bracers, then at her, gratitude and confusion fighting for space on his face.

He slid them over his forearms and tightened the straps.

“Not bad,” he admitted, flexing one arm. “Very fashionable, in a desperate-survival kind of way.”

Ashley nodded and channeled her mana, directing the intent into her fingers. A soft, warm prickle of light radiated from her palm. Simon’s form shimmered as the oily sludge and soot vanished, evaporating into the stale air.

Ashley laughed inwardly.

“Uh. Double thanks?” Simon smiled at her. Or tried to. His face was caught between relief and confusion, though the relief didn’t last.

Ashley turned back toward the darker tunnels ahead. “We have to see what’s up with those gnomes.”

She pointed toward the distant tunnel. A heavy rumble of engines grinding inside the walls filled the space, vibrating through the dirt. Ten concealed doors on the right wall slid open in unison.

A small army emerged. They were black dreadnoughts, shaped like the one they had just destroyed, but much smaller and walking on articulated legs. Each was the size of a gnome, their metal hulls gleaming under the light filtering through the doors.

The armored gnomes marched out in lockstep formation, footsteps striking in perfect time to an unheard drum. They deployed quickly, taking position in two orderly files across the passage.