Chapter 1153 – (Un)Broken
With the immediate choice before him, John decided to investigate a way to restore their bodies first. If they were too crazed to be saved, that was something he could deem after trying to talk to them. Immediate contenders for new physical forms were the ‘corpses’ of the Ironborn. Practically all of them had been killed by Siena with a direct strike to the core. Bodily integrity meant fairly little to Artificial Spirit’s lease on life. Knowing that these cores were universally located behind the sternum, and slightly off to the left of the body’s centre indicated that there was something important about that position.
Obviously, that was where the heart was in a living person. With the often mystic and ritualistic ways magic worked, perhaps having a suitable vessel and then placing the crystallized soul there was enough to allow the person to take over. Alternatively, the person who had made these bodies just preferred that position and there was another factor to them that allowed them to be controlled. Alternatively, alternatively, the Ironborn were, core difference put aside, created just like Artificial Spirits and this was just a fashion choice. In that case, John would have no choice but to destroy them all. Gaia gave him the choice here, so he was willing to bet that this was not the case or at least not the only way to get them new bodies.
Three Ironborn bodies had been brought to the Mettle Plant. The area remained sealed off, the darkness that came along with that was entirely eliminated by the floodlight John had brought with him. ‘Always useful to have Scarlett around,’ John thought while turning the magically powered light-source away from what he was doing. It was too powerful to work directly in front of it.
John grabbed one of the bodies and carefully inspected it. Like all of the Lords, the body was primarily made from dark cast iron and shaped like a stylized skeleton that retained the dimensions of a body covered with muscle and skin. They reminded John of Necrons somewhat, but had none of the tech bits that may have invoked the sci-fi feeling.
There were traces of rarer metals scattered around the Ironborn’s body. This particular one had a golden trim up the spine and the finger joints were made from silver. There were no magical materials to be seen. Either they were particularly rare in this world or the Ironborn kept them somewhere else. Had it not been for the intact body in front of him, the Gamer could have also assumed that they just didn’t wear their most valuable components openly.
Typically, when an Artificial Spirit died, the excess materials were pushed out over the span of several days. The process turned the usually humanoid bodies into a lump of various metals, easily misunderstood as a modern art piece. None of the Ironborn showed any signs of bloating out in that fashion. None of the cuts Siena had made on their bodies indicated anything hidden under the surface either.
John inspected the shoulder. Taking a firm grab, he tried to turn the joint. Now that the animating magic was gone, it was a solid piece of metal, immovable in its position without bending it. ‘Should I cut these off? Don’t want a crazed soul flailing around,’ the Gamer considered. Then he decided against it. He still wasn’t sure if they operated under the exact same rules as Artificial Spirits, and on the chance that they were in a mental state that could be salvaged, the Gamer didn’t want to go through any complicated reattachment procedures. Any struggles on their side would be annoying, but they could harm him just as little as a duck could harm a fully grown man in plate armour.
What he did have to do, though, was open the chest further than Siena’s stab hole. Bending a couple of metal ribs outwards, the Gamer was relieved to find no runes scribbled onto them. All that made the body usable for an Ironborn appeared to be compacted in a knot of copper wires where the heart was. Siena’s stab had expertly hit the crystal sitting in that knot, while leaving the rest unharmed.
‘That should make things easier,’ John thought and carefully picked out the dead crystal. Whatever colour it once possessed had drained out through a crack in its surface. Turning it around between his fingers and casting Observe, John gave the core as much of an inspection as he could. The description had it pinned as nothing more than a piece of junk at this point – irreparable and made from clear quartz. It looked interesting and that such cores became quartz in the absence of magic, much like many elemental metals returned to mundane iron if they were somehow drained, was intriguing. Artificial Spirit cores were created from emotional essences, Shards of Potential, Pure Drops, and magic. The Gamer had looked into all three of these and never heard about quartz getting used. Was this a by-product of the difference in method?
John tossed the empty core away. Material implications aside, it was completely useless and devoid of magic. Had there been a trace of an aura still sticking to that thing, he would have had it analysed by Medelnick. Convincing the Apothecary to come over and research a different world’s technology would be incredibly easy and spare John the sacrifice of an Item Slot. He only had so much he could bring with him, after all.
Without a good reason like that, the Gamer wouldn’t even tell the semi-crazy eunuch about this whole Adventure. There would be a whole host of problems if he started taking the man along for these trips. The Gamer trusted the doctor to not do anything stupid to his women, but trusting him to behave reasonably while exploring a new world? Having to protect the eccentric would doubtlessly distract John from his own mission here.
Carefully, John grabbed one of the seven cores he had taken out of the Mettle plant. Pushing it into the ‘heart’ required a bit of force. Once it slotted in, the effect was immediate. The eyes in the metal skull flickered to light and the surprised expression twisted into one of pure horror.
“First... come here,” Gnome said and wrapped her arms around him. The strong yet gentle embrace straightened out his soul. He was dealing with the situation well enough as it was, but this helped. He reciprocated the hug. “Nothing of note to report,” she whispered. “Everything is going smoothly. Mettle craving seems to be more of a habit thing and people have trouble digesting the food, but they’ll get used to it... probably.”
“Good news then,” John hummed. “That’s nice. It’ll be incredibly difficult to raise something that functions out of this.” He finally let go and started his walk through the groove they had created. “Resetting this entire world to the stone age would still be better for the people than the current system. 99% of the people in this generation would die, but at least their descendants would have functioning lungs.”
“That’s still a bit harsh...” Gnome posited.
The Gamer couldn’t help but drily laugh at her words. “That’s putting it mildly. We’ll be trying to avoid that anyway.” ‘Any luck finding somebody who can read?’ John reached out to Momo.
‘Some,’ the fairy support responded. Her job had been to take the smart elements of the society, made up of those with enough will remaining to question the sudden change in leadership, and identify any sort of future leader. There were some people that could read, primarily those that had been useful to the Ironborn on some level.
Momo was trying her best to explain to them some philosophical concepts of good governance. Obviously, that couldn’t be done in an afternoon. Elsewhere in the city, other members of the harem were working on putting together a basic printing press. Beatrice was translating fundamental texts of western governance.
Unlike Claryles, where he could strongarm a previously existing government into a more liberal state of affairs, this Iron Domain had to be remade from the ground up. Setting up that entire government would be incredibly difficult, if not impossible, in the time he would spend here. What he could do, however, was introduce all of the right ideas into the first generation of intellectuals. There was no way the road to stable self-governance would be a smooth one. As long as good ideas were in circulation, the pressure should eventually cause a system to arise that was at least serviceable.
‘The biggest mark I should leave on this world is freedom of speech, the rest will sort itself out over a couple hundred years. Unless another person with dominating magical power comes along and topples it all over,’ John thought and walked down into the city.
Besides all the preparations they made for educating the miniscule part of the population that could comprehend even basic philosophy, they also had to do a headcount, finish up the healing, patrol the streets, scout the surrounding area, and generally gather more information. Worse, besides the last point, they would have to do this in every city they came across. If the maps John had found were anything to go by, there were at least twelve cities larger than this one, serving as the base of operations for the various Archdukes. The Dukes and Kings apparently lived in fortresses that had a comparatively low population.
The way they currently went about this business was unsustainable. Toppling the regime of the world with their cadre of people was definitely possible. Having any sort of control over more than one city was not. They required more eyes and ears and they couldn’t hire them from the dim-witted population, not in any numbers and at a speed that mattered. As much as John wanted to move on to the next target, he couldn’t just massacre his way through the Ironborn and leave a trail of anarchy.
‘Well, I could, that would probably still be an improvement. No, wait, they would all starve because they only have Mettle. I have to stop everywhere for at least as long as it takes to set up a basic food supply. Jesus Christ, this world is fucked, what terrible person made this?’ John would have loved to believe that he was dealing with just a plain lunatic. Looking at the hierarchy in place, the Emperor must have had at least some logical thinking, however. ‘Also, I hate that name. I should probably start writing a history book that replaces the name of Mettle with something less positive. Sludge or something similar. That’s a whole different issue though... how do I deal with the lack of numbers? I guess the answer to that is pretty obvious.’
He’d bring in the Fusion army.