Alex stood atop one of the tallest buildings in the Lower City, his sharp gaze fixed on the west. From this vantage point, he could see his next target—the Steel Watch Foundry.
The Steel Watch Foundry loomed over the lower district of Baldur’s Gate, a monolithic testament to industrial ambition and ingenuity. A towering colossus of stone and reinforced brass, it stood as both a fortress and a shrine to the relentless march of progress. Perched at the edge of the city’s docks, its hulking form dominated the skyline, a metallic behemoth wrapped in a network of pipes, gears, and smokestacks that exhaled great plumes of steam into the air.
The foundry’s exterior was a marvel of meticulous craftsmanship, its metallic framework adorned with gilded embellishments that glinted beneath the hazy sun. Enormous arched windows, lined with reinforced glass, peered outward like the watchful eyes of an unfeeling sentinel. Thick pipes, twisting like metal veins, ran along the foundry’s walls and roof, their ceaseless exhalations filling the streets with an ever-present mechanical hum. The air around the structure carried the scent of oil, scorched metal, and alchemical compounds, a constant reminder of the steel titans forged within.
At the main entrance, broad stone steps led to an immense set of reinforced doors, their surfaces etched with arcane runes and mechanical schematics. Above them, a sculpted relief of a mechanical eagle with outstretched wings loomed, its piercing gaze seeming to judge all who approached. This emblem, wrought from gleaming brass, served as both a warning and a declaration—within these walls, the Steel Watch reigned supreme.
Flanking the doorway, statues of armored sentinels stood at rigid attention, their impassive visages carved from dark stone. Their blank eyes, worn smooth by time, still conveyed an eerie vigilance, as if ready to spring to life at a moment’s notice.
Alex shifted his gaze to the left.
Withers stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his skeletal face set in an unreadable expression. His gaze was distant, yet Alex knew exactly why he was here.
Without a word, Alex raised his hand. A small wisp of crimson flickered into existence, writhing like a dying ember in his palm. Bhaal's divinity, stripped from its former vessel, now lay in his grasp.
Withers extended a hand, and with a simple wave, the wisp disappeared, claimed by whatever force he served.
"What about Noctis' divinity?" Alex asked, his voice steady. "Do you want it too?"
Withers turned his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "Noctis?" he echoed, his voice laced with the cadence of ages long past. "Nay, such a name dost not stir echoes in mine ancient mind. Perhaps, once in the twilight of forgotten eons, it held weight—but alas, memory is a fickle mistress, and mine own is not what it once was."
Alex studied him carefully. Withers was playing the fool. Whether by design or by necessity, he was allowing Alex to keep Noctis' divinity, shielding its existence from prying eyes. Perhaps, in his mysterious ways, Withers even had a method to deceive Ao himself.
The silence between them was thick, unspoken understanding passing like a current between them. Alex exhaled lightly, preparing himself for his next move.
Then he felt it.
Thanks to the Netherstone, which held dominion over space, he could perceive it—subtle, but undeniably present. A shift in the fabric of reality itself. Spatial distortions rippling across the city, as if unseen hands were twisting and bending space to their will. The telltale signature of a massive teleportation spell.
Alex immediately realized what was happening. From Mizora’s stolen memories, he knew.
She had overheard a conversation where Gortash had proposed a deal to Zariel—a staggering number of souls in exchange for the forces she could grant him. Mizora hadn't known the precise reasoning behind the bargain, but Alex suspected the truth: it was a contingency, a safeguard in case Gortash lost control of the Netherbrain.
Mizora hadn’t known if Zariel had accepted. But now, the spatial distortions spoke volumes. The answer was clear.
Gortash had prepared a spell—one that would teleport either an immense number of people or a vast portion of the city itself.
Alex didn’t intend to find out which.
He shot into the sky, his body propelled by an unseen force. The distortions intensified, reality bending as the spell neared completion.
His chest split open, revealing the Chromatic Orb embedded within him. At its center, two stones fused together pulsed with raw power. One glowed with an eerie violet-pink hue, the other shone crimson, like coagulated blood.
He focused on the violet stone.
It brightened, and from the orb, immense ethereal tendrils of energy erupted. They slithered across the sky like celestial anchors, sinking into the fabric of reality itself.
Below, the citizens of Baldur’s Gate stirred. Those still awake gazed upward in awe and fear at the brilliant light that danced above the city. Some clutched their loved ones, murmuring prayers. Others, struck silent by the spectacle, could do nothing but watch.
Then, the teleportation spell triggered.
But it faltered.
The tendrils held fast, anchoring the very essence of space in place, refusing to allow it to shift. The spell, meant to displace thousands—perhaps the entire district—ground to a halt, its arcane weave unraveling under the immense force Alex exerted.
Finally, the tendrils retracted, slithering back into the orb as Alex’s chest closed. The luminous energy dissipated, and silence settled over the city once more.
He drifted downward, his movements sluggish with exertion. His feet touched down on the rooftop of a nearby building, but he didn’t bother to stand. Instead, he let himself fall onto his back, staring up at the dark sky above.
“That... took more out of me than I expected,” he murmured to himself, exhaling heavily.
The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him. He needed a few minutes—just a few—to recover.
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Gortash stood at the highest balcony of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, his hands clenched into fists as he stared at the sky, his teeth grinding audibly. His blood boiled with frustration, his breath coming in slow, controlled inhales—an attempt to stifle the rising fury within him.
The spell—the grand contingency that would have secured his final victory, the ultimate failsafe against the impending apocalypse, the last measure to retain control over the Netherbrain—had failed.
His plan had been flawless. A strategic maneuver backed by infernal power, one he had painstakingly brokered with Zariel herself. A trade of monumental significance: thousands of souls for the assurance of an army, the guarantee that, if the Netherbrain ever slipped from his grasp, he would have the means to reclaim dominion over it. But now, before his very eyes, that security had unraveled.
Gortash’s gaze flickered toward the Lower City, where remnants of Alex’s spell still lingered in the air like fading embers. The eerie glow of otherworldly energy, the spectral tendrils that had anchored reality itself in place, still sent shivers through the sky like cracks in glass, preventing the very land from shifting to the Hells. It was an impossibility—no mortal, no being bound by the laws of this plane, should have been able to resist such a massive teleportation ritual.
And yet Alex had done it.
Gortash exhaled through his nose, the rage subsiding into something colder. Sharper. He pressed a gloved hand against the railing, his grip tightening until the reinforced steel began to groan under the pressure.
"So," he murmured, his voice low, measured, "You meddle, again and again, disrupting what should be inevitable." A humorless chuckle escaped him, though his eyes gleamed with something between admiration and hate. "I underestimated you."
A shadow moved behind him. One of his enforcers, a loyal agent of his grand vision, hesitated before speaking. "My Lord… what are your orders? The—"
"Silence," Gortash snapped, the command edged with barely restrained fury. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, reigning in the volcanic anger threatening to consume him. "This changes things. But it does not undo them."
His mind worked furiously, recalculating, reshaping the remnants of his plan. The game was not yet lost—far from it. Alex had interfered, had thrown his weight against the tide Gortash had sought to direct, but tides could be redirected. Power could be reclaimed. He had not clawed his way to dominion only to be undone at the final hour.
"Prepare the Steel Watchers," he said finally, his voice regaining its usual commanding poise. "Send a message to the remaining allies. We move to the next phase."
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Gortash turned around and remained where he stood, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. The city, his city, still lay within his grasp. And if Alex thought he could wrench it from him so easily, he was sorely mistaken.
His hands clenched into fists as he glared at the sky, the flickering embers of his plan smothered before they could ignite. His mind churned with possibilities, contingencies, any means left to turn the tide. But as the thoughts came and went, as rapidly as a flame struggling against the wind, something gnawed at him—a slow, creeping realization.
He turned sharply, as he faced his trusted agent. The man stood at rigid attention, but there was something off about him. A slight tremble in his fingers, a hesitation in his stance.
Gortash narrowed his eyes. "Why haven't you left? You have your orders."
The agent shifted uncomfortably, his voice controlled but edged with unease. "My Lord... something is happening in the city. Our forces are disappearing. Entire squads—gone without a trace. No bodies. No screams. No signs of struggle. It’s as if the very shadows have devoured them."
A flicker of irritation flashed in Gortash’s eyes, but beneath it, something colder coiled in his chest. He had spent years orchestrating his rule over Baldur’s Gate, building his web of control, ensuring that nothing—nothing—could topple his dominion. And yet, here it was. The creeping specter of inevitability. The sensation of a noose tightening.
"What do you mean, 'gone'?" he demanded, his voice sharper than steel. "Are they fleeing? Are they defecting?"
The agent swallowed. "No, my Lord. There is no scent, no blood, no signs of retreat or betrayal. They are simply... vanishing. One moment they report in, the next—silence. It's not natural. It's not even war. It's... something else."
Gortash inhaled deeply, forcing his pulse to steady. His rage cooled, tempered into something sharper than blind fury. He had underestimated his enemy. Thought them another obstacle to be maneuvered around. Another piece on the board to be played against one another.
But no.
This was something else.
The enemy wasn’t playing the game—
They were dismantling the board.
A slow, controlled breath escaped his lips. He had paid the price for his arrogance, and now the weight of inevitability pressed against him. It was only a matter of time before the last of his power crumbled beneath him. His empire, once a monolith of steel and will, was fracturing like brittle glass.
He turned back to the skyline of Baldur’s Gate, his hands loosening at his sides. His mind no longer sought victory—it sought survival.
"Prepare the last defenses," he murmured, his voice devoid of its usual bravado.
The agent hesitated for only a moment before bowing and retreating into the fortress. Gortash remained, standing against the wind, watching as the shadows of his once-great dominion closed in from all sides.
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Alex perched within the shadows of the ceiling, his keen eyes sweeping over the vast interior of the Steel Watch Foundry.
The Steel Watch Foundry was a fortress of metal and industry, a labyrinth of steel corridors and mechanical monstrosities. The air within was thick with the acrid scent of scorched iron and oil, a perpetual haze of smoke clinging to every surface. The rhythmic clang of metal striking metal echoed endlessly through the cavernous halls, an eerie symphony of industry.
Massive gears and towering pistons lined the walls, their ceaseless movements fueled by the foundry’s infernal machinery. Pipes wound like metallic veins overhead, spewing steam in erratic bursts, filling the space with an oppressive heat that clung to the skin. The floor, a mesh of iron grating, trembled with the echoes of unseen mechanisms rumbling far below.
At the entrance, a grand staircase descended into the heart of the foundry, leading to a vast assembly hall where steel sentinels were forged. Suspended from chains, half-formed constructs hung in eerie stillness. Rows of incomplete automata stood at attention, their metallic limbs twitching as if yearning for purpose, their golden frames glinting under the dim, flickering light of overhead sconces.
Further ahead, catwalks spanned the foundry’s central forge, where molten metal bubbled within titanic vats, casting an ominous crimson glow upon the chamber walls. The relentless hum of magic-infused machinery pulsed through the room, fueling the steel colossi that patrolled the foundry’s halls. Overhead, cranes moved like giant iron claws, lowering mechanical parts into place with precise, methodical efficiency.
Beyond the forge, a control room loomed above the chaos, its glass panels overlooking the entire facility. Within, an array of arcane terminals blinked with eerie blue light, their screens flashing streams of incomprehensible data.
His gaze moved to the center of the hall, where a blonde gnome woman was engaged in a heated argument with a human woman clad in unmistakable armor—the black gauntlet of Bane.
The woman stood tall, clad in armor that was as imposing as it was ornate. Her form was enveloped in a blackened cuirass reinforced with intricate golden filigree, the darkened metal giving her a regal yet menacing presence. Overlapping plates of gilded trim accentuated the curves of her armor, each piece etched with delicate yet sinister engravings that spoke of both status and brutality.
Her pauldrons bore the snarling visages of demonic figures, their twisted expressions frozen in eternal rage, sculpted from brass and polished to an eerie gleam. The weight of her presence alone was enough to command attention, but it was her helmet that truly set her apart.
The helm, an intimidating piece of craftsmanship, was shaped like a grotesque war mask, covering most of her face save for her mouth and chin. A golden sheen covered its surface, marred only by the dark imprint of a handprint—the mark of Bane. The visor bore no eye slits, yet she moved with the confidence of someone who saw all. Two wickedly curved horns jutted out from either side of the helmet, giving her the appearance of a war deity sculpted from the essence of battle itself. A crimson cloth draped beneath the helm, lining her neck and shoulders, a splash of deep red against the darkened steel.
Beneath her plate, chainmail protected her arms, interwoven rings glinting faintly under the flickering light. Her gauntlets were reinforced with layered plates, designed for both elegance and devastation. A leather belt, adorned with rivets and golden studs, cinched her waist, securing a flowing black tabard trimmed with more gilded embroidery.
But Alex’s gaze fixated on the gnome woman’s collar. It was a band of thin golden metal, purple stones were inlaid along it, that pulsed with an unsettling light.
“You are asking the impossible! Gyronectis requires a steady hand and a sharp mind—I can barely keep my eyes open. I need to rest.” The gnome woman’s voice was almost breaking, desperation thick in her tone.
The human woman standing before her, took a slow step forward. Her presence was oppressive, each movement precise, controlled, dripping with condescension and cruelty.
“You have a son, do you not?” Her voice was deceptively soft, taunting. “Is he as lazy and pathetic as his spineless mother?”
She reached into her belt and withdrew a crystal—an eerie, pulsating purple stone encased in golden metal. The moment it emerged, the gems embedded in the woman’s collar and those worn by the other Gondians flared to life with a sickly glow.
The reaction was instant. The gnome woman’s eyes widened with sheer terror, as did those of her kin. Her breath hitched as she instinctively raised a trembling hand toward the crystal. “Wait—stay your hand! I beg you!”
The crystal pulsed ominously, and from it, a smooth, feminine voice echoed without mercy: “Prinsky’s Motivation Sequence activated.”
The overseer, Holzt, smirked, her satisfaction evident. “Tell me, Gondian,” she drawled, tilting her head slightly. “Tell me about your son.”
The gnome woman swallowed hard. “He’s not—” She hesitated, knowing the futility of resistance. Her shoulders slumped in resignation. “Yes, Overseer Holzt. He is frail in body and mind—like me, like all of us. Yet by your grace, he lives.”
“And your wife?” Holzt’s smirk deepened, savoring the moment.
The gnome woman’s voice barely escaped her lips, hollow and broken. “She is—was—useless, and interfered with the production quotas. You were wise to remove her from this world.” Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. “Forgive my outburst—I will work through the night. This Watcher will be operational by dawn.”
Holzt appeared pleased, tucking the crystal away with an air of finality. “I will allow it,” she said coolly. “But if your work is anything short of impeccable, your son will die screaming. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Overseer Holzt,” the gnome woman whispered, defeated.
It was then that Alex made his move.
From the shadows beneath the Black Gauntlets of Bane, dark spikes erupted like the grasping fingers of the void, impaling their bodies with a sickening finality. The overseers had no time to scream, their expressions frozen in shock and agony as they were dragged, limbs twitching, into the consuming abyss. The darkness swallowed them whole, leaving no trace of their existence.
The Gondians stood motionless, paralyzed by fear and disbelief.
Then, from the falling silence, Alex landed deftly before them. His arrival was no less than an apparition, his presence sending an unnatural stillness through the foundry. The weight of his gaze fell upon them, sharp and unrelenting.
"I'm dead. We're so dead," one of the workers murmured, his voice trembling as he took a cautious step back.
The blonde gnome woman, the one who had pleaded moments before, stepped forward hesitantly. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, her hands trembling .She blinked as if struggling to accept the sudden, brutal liberation.
"Blessed be..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "They're dead. They're really dead."
Her gaze lifted to meet Alex’s, and for a moment, she hesitated. Desperation flickered in her weary eyes, a raw mix of disbelief and fragile hope.
"The overseers hold more than our lives hostage. They have our families. If they find out what happened here... killing us would only be the beginning. Gond help us."
Alex could feel the exhaustion in her mind, the jagged edges of trauma and resilience. She had been broken down, yet something in her refused to shatter completely. A gentle pulse of psionic energy flowed from him, soothing the frayed strands of her consciousness.
"I will teleport you away to a safe place," he said, his voice calm, unwavering. "My friends, the Harpers, will protect you."
Her lips parted slightly, the ghost of uncertainty crossing her face. Alex extended his hand toward her collar.
"But first, let me get rid of this."
The woman flinched instinctively, recoiling half a step before stopping herself. Her fingers rose unconsciously to the golden band constricting her throat, the embedded crystal gleaming with suppressed malice.
"I just want to help," Alex reassured her, his voice softer this time.
She hesitated, glancing at her fellow Gondians. She had no other choice. If the collar remained, her life—and theirs—would remain forfeit.
Swallowing hard, she nodded and allowed Alex to touch the metal ring. He quickly consumed the enchantment woven into the collar’s core. The thin golden band snapped apart, falling lifelessly to the floor with a dull clang.
The Gondians stared, their wide eyes flicking between the broken collar and Alex as if witnessing an impossible miracle. Then, slowly, cautiously, they stepped forward. Alex moved efficiently, removing each restraint in turn, the suppressed tension in the room shifting with every collar that fell away.
And then, with a wave of his hand, he sent them away.
The foundry floor was empty now. Yet Alex was not done.
From the shadows, Holzt’s lifeless body reappeared before him, her contorted expression frozen in a grimace of cruelty. Dark tendrils slithered from Alex’s form, hungrily devouring the corpse. Her memories flooded into him, unraveling like frayed parchment.
The sensation was sickening. The last echoes of her mind were drenched in pleasure—twisted satisfaction derived from the suffering of the Gondians. She had relished their torment, taken joy in their despair. It was not just the pain she inflicted that pleased her; it was hearing them thank her afterward, forced gratitude laced with terror, knowing that the slightest misstep would activate the collars and turn their skulls to pulp.
But even this sadism was eclipsed by something darker.
In the heart of the foundry, buried within its control center, there lay something far worse. Something that made death a mercy.
Alex exhaled slowly, the weight of what he had just learned settling deep in his bones.