The forge makes more than weapons. It makes warriors — not born but built.
In the sanctum beneath the Anvil Spires, the air is dense with incense and the scent of cooling alloys. Hymns are chanted not to soothe the wounded, but to bless the union of machine and flesh.
The patient kneels or is made to kneel. Fleshy sinew is peeled back in measured precision, replaced by pistons, servos, and sanctified wiring. Each incision is matched with a verse, each bolt with a response from the choir.
This is no act of mercy. It is an improvement. Weakness is an affront to the forge, and the flesh is the weakest element in the machine of war.
When the rite is complete, the body stands taller, heavier, steadier. The man that was is gone, and in his place is a weapon that bleeds oil before blood. The priest intones the closing verse: May the flesh break, so the war endures.
And the forges above thunder their approval.
[End of record]