Rongo groaned, helping to push the heavy cart filled to the brim with heavy tungsten slugs and shells. Ever since the Gilded Horde flattened his homelands, his existence was limited to a simple routine. Wake up in the morning, gulp down water and rations, storm out of the barrack, let overseers check you for injuries, and rush to the working place inside the gigantic moving factory serving as a private armory for the horde’s dread leader.

The place was a noisy hell of tens of thousands of gears and parts working, turning railroad bridges so the slaves could bring in material and retrieve their cargo, industrial presses pounding the superheated molten metal flowing from the smelters into proper shape, and assembly lines churning out ammunition and weapons by the hour. The process never stopped; this factory was but one of many, tracing after the main force, swallowing up ruins, dismantling the wrecked vehicles of allies and enemies alike, and rebuilding them for the warriors to use. Tanks, power armors too large for normal humans, ammunition, guns, missiles, and rockets were its gifts to the ever-growing army.

Golden letters stared down at the workers, visible from every corner of the factory. Obedience leads to survival. Such was the promise the Merchants gave to their purchased slaves, and up to this point, they upheld it, treating wounded laborers and replacing faulty organs. Older slaves warned newcomers never to resist or disobey. They now belonged to the Incarnation of the one true God. Even if they escape from these halls, Slavetaker will hunt them down personally and add their skins to his hideous clothing.

Not a single Pureblood, the core warriors of the horde, was in sight. There was no need for their assistance. Every level of the factory had hidden compartments housing automatic turrets, and, in case of an emergency, their masters could seal off entire levels and use sleeping gas to quell an uprising. The Merchants, the craftsmen of the horde, rarely attended the process, and only to teach promising slaves how to operate the complicated machinery. They valued these laborers and provided them with better conditions. In a show of unity, these people offered free lessons to the lower ranks, uplifting their companions in misfortune.

Sweat rolled down Rongo’s body, and the lenses of his protective mask fogged up, but he didn’t dare take it off to clean it. Overseers, chosen from the ranks of the slaves for their loyalty and physique, walked past the workers, hands on stun batons. He had already earned himself several burn marks close to his spine and didn’t intend to experience another.

Massive gates smoothly opened on the side of the factory, and a rush of fresh air poured in. Metallic appendages raked in rusted concrete bastions dotted with the wreckage of high-speed bikes and cannons. The gates closed and cranes came down from above, dropping vast slabs of concrete onto the trains to be transported into the processing plant for filtration.

It could be worse, Rongo supposed. His homeland was an unruly one, and its arrogant noble scions hunted in the countryside, undeterred by cries for mercy. Their own cries went unheard as the screaming hoverbikes raced on the streets, culling rich harvests. Rongo was drafted into the military, but a heavy slap ended his career on the third day of the war. Initially, the population cheered, thinking themselves liberated, but the Khan of Khans had no intention of expanding on their rocky planes. She installed a moderate family of locals to collect and send her people and resources in tribute. Rongo was one of these individuals, and it’s worth noting that he managed to survive and retain his natural body parts. That’s got to count for something.

The cart came to an abrupt stop, and Rongo cursed, banging his chest against its rough edge.

“What’s going on?” he whispered, using this moment to raise his mask and wipe the sweat off his eyes.

“The fresh blood.” A low-ranking overseer, Mairearad, spat on the railing and the spittle evaporated. She oversaw this section and preferred to work out, assisting her laborers in their menial tasks rather than beating them up. She unzipped her overalls and leaned against the cart. “He did it again.”

Rongo cursed. Master of Mountains, he tried! He tried to reason with this idiot!

The laborers moved aside from the cart, making space in the center of the hall, and overseers on the levels above muttered orders, commanding slaves to come closer and see. Chief Shakir dragged a struggling man behind him. Shakir claimed to be a Pureblood, but no one believed him, not because of his dark skin. The man wasn’t normal; he once casually jerked Rongo into the air by the neck. But he didn’t have the same stature as the conquerors, he lacked their fat, and his skin was dark compared to their pale one. A bastard who embodied the cruelty of his parents.

The overseer held a recent addition in his hand: a traveler from a distant nation. Rongo and Mairearad caught him praying to his god at night, and they sat the fool down, explaining to him that this was one of the few offenses here for which Shakir would maim or kill someone. The fool was weak-willed, and they tried to shield the weak blood, giving him tasks away from Shakir’s prying eyes, for camaraderie was a way to survive here. But clearly, the idiot uttered a prayer in the wrong place this time.

“How many times?” Shakir asked cheerfully, jabbing the tip of his stun baton under the man’s ribs. Rongo heard a cracking discharge that burned a hole in the man’s overalls. The slave howled in pain, suffering a surge of electricity that violently shook his organs. On his skin, a black hole appeared. “There are no gods in the world, save for the Sky!”

Another stab in the stomach, and the slave vomited in the overseer’s face. Shakir cursed and released the slave, wiping the filth off his mask. A heavy kick brought the crawling man back to his feet.

“There is no salvation, no escape, no mercy!” The overseer’s hand closed around the slave’s neck, and two more stabs left burn marks on his knees. “Get it into your dumb skulls! You belong to us now! The Gilded Horde owns you, and the Sky reigns over your souls! Your feeble rulers couldn’t protect you; your pathetic demons are crushed underfoot of the one true God, and this is your existence!” Shakir stabbed the weeping man once in each arm, smiling at his agonizing thrashing. “Now and forever!”

“Planet, please, watch over my soul and deliver salvation to my friends…” The baton’s end choked the rest of the man’s words as it rammed into his mouth, breaking the jaw and shattering the teeth.

“You dare?” Shakir fumed in anger. “You dare disobey me? Just how much do you intend to piss me off, flea?” His smile widened as he glanced at the slave’s limp arms. “If you can’t work, if you are unable to learn, then you will serve as an example!”

He will kill him. Rongo understood and licked his lips, preparing to lunge. He wasn’t brave, and Master be his witness, Shakir could probably backhand him into a smear. Be it as it may, Rongo always has trouble standing aside when people are dying. Maybe he wasn’t cut off for a slave’s or any other life after all.

“Why has the production of today’s quota stopped?”

It wasn’t a voice that stopped Rongo. He saw a group of people approaching them from the doors leading to the Merchants quarters. The one who asked a question was a bald man, whose eyes were replaced by crimson lenses. A khan in yellow segmented armor, his cloak of steel feathers scraping the floor, marched next to him, a long bow of unknown alloys behind his back. The third person was a woman, clearly not a Merchant. Dressed in a green trench coat, she held both hands behind her back, darting her eyes back and forth to ensure everyone was within her sight. Where the Merchant used a rag to wipe the sweat, she breathed easily; her pale skin and long black hair showing no signs of discomfort. Her presence surprised him; she wasn’t a Merchant, Pureblood or Dirtyblood. So why is she not enslaved and stands equal?

The fourth member of this group wasn’t a Pureblood like the khan, but he was a high-ranking member of the Horde, nonetheless. The man had avian features; his nose protruded forward, creating a beak over the lips, and his fingers ended in talons. The Abnormal turned his head to the side slightly, observing the situation with a purple eye. A religious leader. Rongo had heard of them—a caste of shamans and priests who led ceremonies to honor their deity, often involving human sacrifice.

But it wasn’t them who had Rongo chained in fear. There was another. A figure well-known to them all. The Khan of Khans towered over the wounded slave, holding him steady by the shoulders and examining Shakir like a curious insect. The woman was burly, like all Purebloods, even if the golden khan’s armor hid his body. But the perception that she was slow or fat was a dangerous misconception.

“I…” The overseer gulped, pulling his baton free. “I… I was making an example, khan! The slave mentioned his demonic lord!”

“Unfortunate,” the golden khan said.

“Burn the heretic,” screeched the priest. His voice sounded close to a crow’s imitation of human speech. “Let me open his belly and use his entrails for divination, Incarnate.”

“Why?” the deity asked. Her voice, so strong and commanding, dropped Rongo to his knees. He remembered! Impossible, unconquerable, unstoppable. It was hard to even look at her, so he concentrated on the hem of the fur coat and elegant wellies. “My father cares not for competition.” A drop of blood dripped from under her leather half-mask, landing on the slave’s scalp, and he shuddered. “Sky is all-powerful.”

“To tolerate the heresy…”

“Is a sign of strength,” The Khan of Khans finished for him. “Dalantai, I do not care what others believe, as long as they obey. It pleases Sky to see an unbeliever toil in His honor, and it amuses me. To kill or maim a slave is a waste fit of Brood Lord.” Rongo heard the overseer’s gulp. “And you have cost me a servant.”

“Khan, I…” Rongo imagined Shakir must’ve gone pale.

“Take his place if you fail to understand your responsibilities.” Rongo dared to lift his head. The Khan of Khans pushed Shakir to the ranks of the workers, her finger almost as large as the man’s torso. Then she turned her attention back to the wounded slave and purred. “As for you. You can’t work anymore? Are you unable to serve?” Her all-encompassing eyes shrank and widened, burrowing hungrily into the smaller man.

“He can be healed.” The small woman waved her hand, looking around. “It’s just nerve damage, nothing serious.”

“Good,” the Khan of Khans said. “Trace, you do it.”

“It’ll cost you,” Trace stated.

“It won’t, my dear,” the Khan laughed, and Rongo’s heart beat faster. This voice danced with the promise of a great night, a call to war and boundless happiness. Inhuman. She can’t be an Abnormal or a Normie. Such might, such gravitational pull of a character couldn’t come from the womb of a woman. “You alone have yet to prove your usefulness to me.” She let the slave slump to the floor and moved quietly, without a sound, casting a shadow over the terrified slaves. “Brood Lord may insist on your usefulness, but you want not one but two prizes. Such an arrogant toy. Don’t get too greedy…”

“Watch out! Behind you!” Trace shouted.

Her mouth opened, the lower jaw simply sliding down, not exactly tearing the flesh but treating the skin as if it were a water surface for it to travel. A booming scream left Trace’s mouth, causing several slaves to fall, shielding their bleeding ears. The golden-armored khan and the priest turned toward the woman, one raising a fist and another his talons, while the Merchant hid behind their backs. But the Khan of Khans showed no aggression, and the hem of her fur coat swirled around her legs as she faced the opposite direction, slowly and arrogantly.

Blurry shapes leapt from the ruins brought in from the battle. Each had a human shape, just translucent enough for a person to see the wall behind them. Rongo was still marveling at this miracle when they raised their hands and knelt down, and he realized they were holding something in their hands. Mass reactive rounds flashed into existence, slipping free from the camouflage fields, and roared, flying to the group.

Several shots hit the golden khan, destroying his gorgeous faceplate and ripping a wing off his helmet. Craters gouged his armor, but he calmly reached for his bow and slashed, using it to send a shot back at the attackers. One phantom’s head exploded, and the cartwheeling projectile struck the wall, ricocheting off of it and cleaving another at his shoulders.

Dalantai merely stood; the very air changed around him, shifting as if he were surrounded by a gas cloud. Stains of rust on the floor began to disappear, and the surface gleamed anew. The heavy, fist-sized rounds stopped dead upon reaching this field. The exhaust ports sucked in the flames spewing from their rear, while the projectile itself trembled, breaking down into ammunition pieces and transforming into small bars of metal.

“Free of charge,” the priest threw to the Merchant.

A shot hit Trace in the chest, bulging the flesh on her back. The woman’s face regained a serene expression. She fixed her jaw without a crack. Instead of tearing, both cloth and bones swallowed the shot with a slurping sound. The hump on her back turned into a smooth surface again, and she straightened out her coat and morphed a hand into a blade.

She stopped at the rising fist. The Khan of Khans advanced, sending tremors through the floor and treating the fact that she was the target of this attack like an afterthought. She knocked the shots from the air and chuckled.

“Relying on toys. How childish.” The surviving assassins tried to retreat into the ruins, but they found themselves leaning against the legs of the Khan of Khans. They freaked out; Rongo paled at the display of speed and the shockwave of displaced air that slammed into everyone in the hall. The Khan of Khans leaned forward, using her fingers to redirect the bursts of incoming fire. “Let me tell you a story,” she said, her voice clear even in this chaos. “In the past, humans believed they transcended age itself. Their spaceships flew past the sky, seeking to escape the God who enveloped this world like a caring father pulling a blanket over his sleeping daughter on a rainy night. But in the end, their fabled technology had failed to overcome death. Because they didn’t pierce Sky. It swallowed them.”

The Khan of Khans bit the three killers, devouring them to the waist. Her teeth crushed bodies covered by power suits. The hissing of their generators disappeared inside her throat. She feasted on the remains, the waists and legs covered by brown carapace armor, no longer invisible.

“Trace. You have passed the test. Heal my wounded cattle, and I will adorn you in pearls and rubies.”

“I prefer rare samples,” Trace said.

“Suit yourself. By my name, you shall have any man, woman, or child you desire from the next raid,” the Khan of Khans promised, picking up a stuck foot from her tooth. “Sky Lord Khan, the conquest is soon to begin. Are you willing to hunt alone, nevertheless? Is my company such a bore?”

“I am a free bird, my khan.” The golden khan knelt. “prefer solitary raids, unencumbered by politics.”

“But you do understand that both are using you to divert their attention to the north?” the Khan of Khans asked. “By refusing to join either, you have painted a target on your back. They are looking for a moment of weakness to ravage your lands, hoping that our future prey will bleed you enough so they can finish you off.”

“Then I offer my lands to you, oh great khan,” answered Sky Lord. “Absorb my khaganate and treat them as you treat your own. Schemes were never my forte; I seek the thrill of battle, and there is little of that to be found in the slaughter to come. As for bleeding me,” he chuckled, “unless they sprout wings, it won’t be I who’ll suffer.”

“I graciously accept,” the Incarnate grinned. “Brood Lord’s troops will be your arrows. If he wishes to test the defenses, he may as well pay for it. Water, airag and meat for all!” she laughed, raising her arms to the ceiling. “Slave, trader or warrior, celebrate the privilege of witnessing me kill! Bask in my divine power and drink to the Gilded Horde’s dominion over this world!”

“Thank you for the great mercy, great khan,” the Merchant said nervously. “Who were these fatherless runts? We need to find the one responsible…”

“Why bother? We’ll run into them eventually, and since they are too cowardly to show in person, they clearly are too weak to face us at a moment.” The Incarnate approached a fiery smelter, unbuttoning her richly ornamented cloak of jewels and exquisite gold trimmings, creating lines that flashed like the morning sun. “But a moment is all it takes for a situation to change in combat. Ask Trace how she made them visible. I suspect a certain sound frequency overloaded her generators. If so, I want you to replicate the feat mechanically.” The Merchant rubbed his hands eagerly.

“We still haven’t decided…”

“Must you pester me about every little thing?” The Khan of Khans interrupted her priest. “Make an impossible demand, and when he refuses, order his most influential general to kill her and end her bloodline. Afterward, no one will willingly follow the moron; even if they value their lives, they have a reputation to uphold. This should kick the stability down and keep them servile. Don’t kill the hostage the ruler sent to us; we’ll use her in the future to repeat the process and keep them from getting fat.” She took off her coat, and the floor shook as the belt with golden scimitars landed. “Focus your efforts on finding the devil’s whereabouts and spare me the trivialities. It is why I created the Council; if you cannot decide on governance in my absence, I will behead you and replace you.”

The priest nodded, and the Khan of Khans stepped closer to the smelter’s edge, admiring the bubbles and streaks of flame rising on its surface. She took off her hat and the rest of her clothes, standing naked in front of everyone.

“What are you planning to do?” Trace asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? A bath since I dirtied myself.” The Khan of Khans stepped into the molten substance, ignoring the heat that could heat the tungsten enough for the industrial presses to beat it into a new form. Rongo heard a hiss and gasped, drawing the Incarnate’s attention. “Like what you see, boy?” She beckoned to him, standing waist-deep in flaming hell. Red streaks ran down her cheeks from her bloodshot eyes. “Come, join me. You’ll be reduced to ashes, but what a death it’ll be! A divine kiss on your lips! Is this not a tale worth dying for?”

“No…” Rongo retreated. “Please, no, mistress.”

“Weak. Then live as a slave,” the woman lowered herself to the neck. “Oh, and Trace, about that skin for you.”

“You plan to renege on the deal?” Trace asked.

“Never. A khan’s word is set in stone. It’s just a matter of whether or not you can cut me down in a day to get it. I have a world to devour.” The Khan of Khans’ face disappeared underneath the molten waters, and only her loose hair remained on the surface.