Training the Anoxe Clan

A few weeks had passed since Yorlee surrendered Noxeer to Diyu, and the capital no longer resembled the city it had been.

What had once been the heart of the Anoxe Clan had become the heart of the War Machine.

The streets that had once carried merchants, families, and officials now carried marching formations. Open squares had become training yards. Storehouses had become armories. The old barracks, once abandoned and left to rot after the Great Moot, now shook beneath the weight of soldiers learning to move as one. The sound of feet, weapons, shouted commands, and hammer strikes filled the city from dawn until deep into the night.

By the time training was complete, Diyu expected nearly three hundred thousand soldiers under his command.

Turning hunters, gatherers, laborers, and starving citizens into a true military force was slow work, but not impossible. Emo proved invaluable. His instincts were practical, and his loyalty gave shape to Diyu’s will. He suggested a temporary restructuring of the army, placing Diyu’s trusted Guardsmen into leadership roles so they could help train the newer recruits. Once the soldiers grasped the basics, Emo wanted additional instruction based on each unit’s purpose: melee fighters, archers, shield carriers, scouts, labor crews, and field guards.

The changes strengthened the army quickly.

Diyu saw it and approved.

He also continued reshaping the city itself. Those unable to fight were assigned work that served the War Machine. They hauled coal, cut timber, maintained furnace lines, transported ore, repaired tools, prepared food, cleaned armor, and fed the forges. The forge fires were difficult to establish at first. Few in Noxeer had real talent for smithing, and even fewer understood the advanced metallurgy Diyu had learned from the Anunnaki.

That knowledge filled him with rage every time he used it.

The Anunnaki had given him information that could save his people, then betrayed him and left him cursed. Diyu would use every lesson they had given him. He would turn their knowledge into weapons. He would forge their teachings into the instruments of their own destruction.

Varok was the first to offer a solution that impressed him.

The young Kreegan suggested using steam as a power source for pneumatic hammers, allowing the forges to shape metal faster than hand labor alone. The improvement nearly doubled the War Machine’s output. Varok had been disappointed at first when Diyu placed him in charge of forge operations rather than giving him a more glorious battlefield role, but he adapted quickly. The work suited his mind. He saw patterns in machines that others missed, and where most saw heat, pressure, and noise, Varok saw possibility.

Under his oversight, the forges stayed lit day and night.

Armor and weapons poured from the foundries in increasing numbers. Their quality improved with each passing week as Diyu’s stolen knowledge spread from himself to Varok, from Varok to the smiths, and from the smiths down through the labor crews. Crude tools became reliable weapons. Thin armor became layered protection. Simple spearheads became hardened killing points capable of surviving repeated battle.

Still, Diyu knew iron and discipline would not be enough.

The next resource he needed was oil.

Oil would allow them to build more complex machines, speed production, and begin the first steps toward advanced soldiers and engines of war. That meant the Ophidian lands had to be taken. Their swamps held what Diyu needed. Their people would be assimilated into the War Machine, just as the Anoxe had been.

But first, the Anoxe had to become a true army.

Yorlee often paused during his work to look over the capital he had once governed. Noxeer had been loud before, but alive in a different way. It had held markets, disputes, laughter, music, hunger, corruption, ceremony, and ambition. Now it breathed iron. Smoke blackened the sky. The clang of hammers replaced the buzz of trade. Food was no longer currency. Food was faith.

“The city breathes iron now,” Yorlee murmured one morning as he stood beside Emo, watching recruits drill in perfect unison. “It has forgotten what it means to be hungry.”

Emo watched the soldiers move through their forms.

“But it now knows discipline,” he said. “And a united purpose.”

Yorlee gave him a sideways glance, but said nothing.

Emo turned away from the training yard. “Come. There is work to do. I will handle melee weapons training. You will use your knowledge of the forges to teach the men how to keep them running. Diyu wants the fires burning day and night until marching orders come.”

Yorlee’s lips tightened.

“I can do a better job than Varok,” he muttered. “The little twerp is always clinging to Diyu’s shadow.”

Emo looked at him.

Yorlee straightened, recovering his pride.

“I will make sure they know not only how to run the forges, but how to repair the crude engines that keep the hammers pounding. I will also find intelligent workers and encourage new weapon designs.”

“Good,” Emo said. “Then do that.”

Days bled into nights, and the drills continued without pause. Diyu demanded progress without excuses. Soldiers rose before dawn, trained until dusk, then many were sent to labor alongside machinists and forge crews. Flesh learned to obey metal. Minds learned to submit to rhythm. Fires were constantly stocked, and black smoke mixed with steam above the city in a sight Diyu found glorious.

He stood above the foundry yard one evening, watching sparks rise into the dark.

“Progress is the process of perfection,” he said to himself.

Below, a recruit collapsed from exhaustion.

Emo moved at once.

“He needs rest,” he said.

Diyu’s voice cut through the yard.

“He needs purpose.”

The workers and recruits fell silent.

Diyu descended from the balcony, each step ringing against the metal stairs. He crossed the yard and knelt beside the fallen Kreegan. The recruit’s breathing was shallow, his body trembling from overwork, heat, and hunger. Diyu placed one cold hand upon his chest and whispered words in a language none of them knew.

The recruit convulsed.

His back arched. A scream tore from his mouth. Black veins spread beneath his skin, threaded with molten light that pulsed like fire trapped in blood. The soldiers around him stepped back in terror. Then, just as suddenly, the recruit gasped and rolled onto his side.

He rose.

He stood trembling, alive, and unbroken.

Diyu turned to the watching ranks.

“The machine mends what is weak,” he said. “Let this be your lesson.”

No one spoke.

Fear hung over the yard as thick as oil.

Emo looked toward Yorlee. The former chief only lowered his head.

“He feeds them,” Yorlee murmured. “If it costs him his soul, so be it.”

More weeks passed, and the forges grew louder.

New weapons rolled from the smoke. Reinforced armor. Heavier spearheads. Broad blades. Shield frames. Metal chariots powered by crude oil engines. The first walking machines also began to take shape, though they were not yet ready for war. They moved poorly, their piston-driven limbs awkward and unstable, their furnace hearts too hungry and too unreliable.

Diyu named them Harbingers.

They were crude, incomplete, and not yet useful in battle, but Diyu saw what they could become. With better oil, better control, and more refinement, machines like these would one day march where flesh could not.

A council was called in the grand hall.

Diyu stood before his generals, assistants, and forge masters, the orange light of molten crucibles framing him like a dark halo. Emo stood near the front. Varok watched from beside the forge planners, face bright with ambition. Yorlee lingered near the edge of the chamber, quiet and observant, his eyes always moving.

“The Kreegan will no longer beg the stars for mercy,” Diyu said, his voice echoing over the gathered leaders. “Flesh is frail. Faith burns out. But the machine endures.”

He raised one hand and clenched it into a fist.

Outside, the city’s forges ignited in sequence, a sea of orange fire answering him.

“From this day forward, we are not merely a tribe. We are not merely a clan. We are the War Machine. The Kreegan who falters will be reforged. The Kreegan who resists will become fuel.”

The hall roared.

A thousand voices chanted his name, their echoes swallowed by the sound of engines awakening.

Diyu stood above them, and the forge light burned in his veins.

Deep beneath the city, in a chamber that had once served as part of the treasury, the air was quieter.

There, away from the smoke and constant thunder of industry, Diyu’s mother remained hidden from the world. She was not chained, but neither was she free. Her quarters were simple: a cot, a basin, a small table, and one candle that burned low beside the wall. The distant hum of generators trembled through the stone like a second heartbeat.

Emo descended the iron steps alone.

His boots echoed down the corridor. When he reached the final chamber, he found her seated beside the small table. She looked older than she had when she arrived in Noxeer. The dry heat of the city had cracked her voice and drawn tired lines into her face, but her eyes remained sharp.

“General Emo,” she said softly. She did not rise. “Has my son sent for me?”

Emo shook his head.

“He is at the foundry towers,” he said. “Inspecting the new Harbinger frames.”

Her eyes lowered.

“Then you did not come to bring me to him.”

“No,” Emo admitted. “I came to see if you were well. Lord Diyu placed your care in my hands.”

A bitter smile touched her mouth.

“I am well enough for a ghost kept in hollow walls.”

For a while, neither spoke. The generators hummed above them, steady and suffocating.

Finally, she looked at him.

“You have seen it, haven’t you?” she asked. “The change in him.”

Emo’s posture stiffened.

“He has become something more,” Emo said. “He is saving our people.”

“Saving?” Her voice sharpened, though she kept it low. “He does not eat. He does not sleep. His eyes glow when he thinks no one watches. There is something inside him, General. Something that whispers through him.”

Emo frowned.

“You think he is possessed?”

“I think my son made a bargain he does not understand.”

She leaned forward, the candlelight catching the grief in her face.

“When he was a boy, he dreamed of the hunt. He wanted to become the best hunter in the village, so no one would go hungry. Then the world changed, and that dream changed with it. At first, he still wanted to feed our people. Now he dreams only of fire.”

Emo did not answer.

“Do you understand what that means?” she asked.

“He is driven,” Emo said. “He carries the weight of the Kreegan on his shoulders.”

“No,” she whispered. “He carries someone else’s will.”

She rose slowly and placed a trembling hand on Emo’s arm.

“You are one of the few he still listens to. Speak with him before the fire consumes what remains. Before he forgets who he was.”

Emo swallowed.

“And if he no longer listens?”

“Then pray,” she said, “that he remembers what it means to love something other than the machine.”

She turned away and returned to her cot. The candle sputtered, its flame nearly dying in the hot, heavy air.

When Emo climbed back toward the upper levels, the hum of the forges grew louder with each step. The heartbeat of the War Machine pulsed through the city above him. Somewhere beyond the walls, Diyu’s voice echoed faintly through metal halls, issuing commands with a force no mortal throat should bear.

Emo paused on the stairs.

For the first time, fear settled deep into his bones.

He continued upward, but the climb felt longer than it should have. Heat thickened around him. The rhythmic hiss of steam and pounding of forge hammers filled the air. Diyu’s mother’s words repeated inside his mind like stones dropped again and again into still water.

He carries someone else’s will.

When Emo reached the grand hall of the foundry palace, molten light bled through the iron lattice. The War Machine was never silent now. Even in the dead of night, the city roared like a living creature.

Diyu stood on the balcony above the training grounds, inspecting the Harbingers below. From that height, the machines looked small, moving in imperfect but disciplined order. Each heavy step sounded like thunder on a distant horizon.

Emo hesitated at the threshold of Diyu’s private chamber. The door stood open, giving a clear view of Diyu on the balcony. The air shimmered around him, either from heat or power. Emo could not tell which. The scent of oil and ammonia stung his nose.

Diyu spoke without turning.

“You are troubled, General.”

Emo straightened and stepped forward.

“I am, my lord. I fear we are losing them.”

Diyu turned and walked inside. He sat in a heavy chair near the center of the chamber.

“Losing whom, exactly?”

Emo followed him in, and the door closed behind him with a hiss of steam.

“The soldiers,” Emo said. “The smiths. The workers. The ones who once fought for their homes, their families, and their clans.”

He stepped closer, keeping his voice steady despite the worry behind it.

“They no longer speak only of victory or survival, Diyu. They speak of you. They chant your name as if it is a prayer, not a command.”

His gaze flicked toward the faint glow beneath Diyu’s armor.

“I have seen faith before, but this is something beyond worship. You asked for loyalty, and they gave you their souls. How long before they have nothing left to be loyal with?”

Annoyance entered Diyu’s voice.

“Have you forgotten our goal? Have you forgotten that the cursed ground beneath your feet is doomed to be consumed by our sun? I give them purpose. I give them hope. I give them life. Without me, we are all doomed.”

Emo’s shoulders tightened, but he did not raise his voice.

He never shouted when saying something that needed to be heard.

“You speak of doom and purpose as if they are the same thing,” Emo said. “You speak of life while hollowing them out and filling their bellies with obedience. Purpose given by fear is not hope, Diyu. It is a leash.”

Diyu’s eyes narrowed.

Emo stepped closer.

“You feed them, and they bow. You save them, and they forget how to choose. You say you are carrying them off a dying world, but I fear you are carrying them into a new grave of your making.”

The words hung heavily between them.

“You measure victory in numbers and iron,” Emo continued. “But have you counted what it costs to win them? Their names. Their songs. The small things that made them Kreegan. You trade all of it for uniforms and a chant.”

Diyu sat very still.

“You wanted followers,” Emo said. “You asked for loyalty. But listen to me now, as if I still bear the right to speak. They do not follow a leader anymore. They worship a god of smoke and iron.”

Diyu rose.

His eyes glowed faintly in the dim room.

“Then let them worship,” he said. “Gods build empires where kings only dream of them.”

Emo’s jaw tightened.

“And when the god demands sacrifice?”

Diyu stepped closer, and the faint hum inside him filled the silence.

“Then the faithful will burn willingly.”

He turned away and went back to the balcony.

Emo did not follow.

He stood in the chamber, remembering the Diyu he had known. The hunter who had wanted to live. The Kreegan, whose pride demanded that he protect his village. The friend who once spoke with passion for his people, not hunger for worship.

That Diyu had been Kreegan.

This one was metal and fire.

Emo wiped his brow, smearing soot across his skin.

“He believes he is saving them,” Emo muttered. “He truly does.”

His voice lowered.

"Gods help us all. He believes it.”

Later, Diyu made his way through the city toward the forges.

As he walked, Kreegans lowered their heads and dropped to one knee. The fires painted the streets in molten red, like veins of blood running through stone. Hammers struck steel in rhythmic waves. Sparks burst upward with every impact. The sight pleased him.

Soft footsteps approached from behind.

Yorlee.

Once, he had been a Kreegan of importance and power. Now he was keeper of Diyu’s forges, though he wore humility like a cloak that could be removed whenever useful.

“Your presence honors us, Lord Diyu,” Yorlee said, taking one knee. “To what do we owe such honor?”

Diyu did not look at him.

“Rise, Yorlee. I can see you have honored me already with these fine forges and their fires.”

Yorlee rose and stepped closer.

“Not all wish to honor you as I do, my lord. Yet you deserve the honor of a god. You are our living god. The one supreme being. None can rival you.”

Diyu remained silent.

Yorlee lowered his voice.

“General Emo disapproves.”

Diyu’s head turned slightly.

“He forgets that greatness demands pain,” Yorlee said.

Diyu looked back at the forges.

“He forgets nothing. He simply fears what he cannot understand.”

Yorlee approached, his eyes glinting in the forge light.

“Then perhaps you should remind him what happens to those who doubt destiny.”

Diyu’s head tilted.

Not in anger.

Not yet.

Curiosity.

“You would have me punish him?”

“I would have you define yourself,” Yorlee said. “A god untested is no god at all. You are becoming what our world has begged for. A savior forged in steel. But saviors cannot afford softness, not while the weak still question their will.”

He gestured toward the forge floor, where molten streams fed the foundries.

“Do you know what I see when I look at them?” Yorlee asked.

Diyu said nothing.

“I see devotion given form. Every hammer strike, every spark, every breath of steam is worship. Worship for you, my lord. They do not fear you because you rule them. They fear what they were before you: starving, divided, forgotten.”

Yorlee’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper.

“Do not let Emo’s doubt poison your resolve. The machine must keep moving, even if a few cogs must break.”

Then Zurrotan’s voice crept into Diyu’s mind.

“He speaks truth. Search your feelings, Diyu. You know this is true. Emo must prove himself worthy to sit beside his god. A test of faith. Let Emo weed out the true source of doubt within your War Machine. You know who it is. I have shown you who will betray you.”

Diyu’s mouth moved before he meant it to.

“Mother.”

Yorlee glanced at him, confused.

“My lord?”

Diyu turned from the forge.

“It is time we test faith. Bring Emo to my chambers at once.”

Yorlee bowed.

“Yes, my lord. The weak break. The strong burn. But only the chosen endure.”

Then he left to fetch Emo.

Diyu’s chamber was lit from below by molten fire rising through the window. He stood behind his desk, still as an idol, while Yorlee waited at his side like a shadow carved from iron.

When Emo entered, he looked first at Diyu, then at Yorlee.

Concern flickered in his eyes.

“You wished to see me, my lord?” Emo asked.

“Sit,” Diyu said.

Emo took the chair before the desk and forced himself to sit straight despite the weariness in his body.

“I summoned you to ask about my mother,” Diyu said. “You have spoken with her.”

“Yes, my lord. You placed her in my care.”

“What does she say these days?” Diyu interrupted.

Emo hesitated.

“She worries for her son. For all of us.”

Diyu sighed.

“She feeds doubt into the gears of my creation. I know what must be done. If I am to lead us beyond this dying world, there can be no weakness. No hesitation.”

He turned toward Yorlee.

“Fetch a blade.”

Emo’s stomach tightened.

“What are you saying, my lord?”

Diyu stepped around the desk, his voice cold as tempered steel.

“Prove your faith to me. Execute my mother. Show me you are loyal not to blood, not to memory, but to destiny.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Emo stared at him.

Was this truly Diyu’s will? Was this the same friend he had once sworn to stand beside? The same hunter who wanted to save his people?

“You want me to kill your mother?” Emo asked.

Yorlee stepped forward, anger flashing.

“How dare you question our lord’s—”

Diyu raised one hand.

Yorlee fell silent.

“Yes,” Diyu said. “Long ago, on a hill beneath the stars, I made a promise with you. We would unite the clans. We both knew sacrifice would be required. How can I lead if I will not lead by example? Her execution will prove my ascent beyond mortal ties. I will be free to do what must be done.”

Yorlee handed the blade to Emo, handle first.

Diyu held Emo’s gaze.

“Will you do this?”

Emo looked down at the weapon.

“If I refuse?”

“Then you stand beside her when the blade falls.”

Diyu’s voice was calm.

Too calm.

Emo slowly took the blade.

He bowed his head, then rose and left the chamber.

The corridors seemed longer than he remembered. The sword felt heavier with each step. He reached the door leading down to the lower chambers and paused with one hand against the frame, struggling to justify what lay ahead. Then he opened it and descended.

Several guards watched him pass.

None spoke.

At the final door, Emo stopped again.

The blade hung at his side.

Behind the door was the mother of his friend.

Behind him was the will of his lord.

Emo entered.

In the early hours before sunrise, the guards saw him leave alone.

His armor was spattered with soot and blood that was not his.

Diyu waited in his chamber, firelight gleaming across his metallic skin. When Emo knocked, Diyu answered from within.

“Enter.”

The door opened with a hiss, and Emo stepped inside. It sealed behind him.

“Is it done?” Diyu asked at once.

“Yes,” Emo said.

His voice held no emotion.

Diyu studied him.

“Did she beg?”

“No.”

Emo lifted his eyes.

“She forgave you.”

For one brief moment, Diyu’s expression flickered.

Confusion.

Pain.

Then nothing.

“Good,” Diyu said. “She is free of doubt now.”

Emo excused himself and left the chamber.

From the shadows near the lower forge levels, Yorlee watched him go. The faintest smile touched his lips. It was not a triumph. Not joy.

Inevitability.

When dawn came, Diyu stood before his army.

Three hundred thousand strong.

Trained. Armed. Fed. Hardened. Hungry for purpose.

The banner of the Anoxe Clan had been changed. Where the old symbol once flew, a new mark now hung in smoke-stained cloth: an eight-pointed star enclosed by a circle, each point cresting just beyond the border.

The drums thundered.

The ground trembled beneath the army’s weight.

Diyu raised his arm, and the sun broke through the smoke long enough to glint against his armor.

“The stars have abandoned us!” he called. “The Anunnaki turned their backs on us. But we endure. The blood of this world will fuel our ascension. The War Machine does not stop. It does not weep. It does not die.”

A deafening roar answered him.

Then the War Machine began to march west.

Into the mists of the Ophidian swamps, their boots struck in perfect rhythm.

It was the sound of an empire being born.

And above the roar, unseen by any mortal eye, a shadow laughed.