Orc Tyrant

The air in the wasteland turned into flames, and Viken could not see the horizon.

A storm of fire rolled up and surrounded him, and he could feel the heat spreading across his body.

He was breathing the smoke, but couldn't smell them, even though he was shivering in the flames, he knew what it meant.

The air—in his lungs, in his nose, in his throat, was burning him from the inside.

Part of the armor of his waist and knees has melted, flames are infiltrating, he is being cooked in his armor, and he is dying.

"Let's go..."

He spoke coarsely, feeling blisters starting to appear on his lips and tongue.

He continued to trudge forward, his armor hissing and screaming as the armor was damaged, the ground pulled his legs, and he forced himself towards one... He was not sure what it was once, maybe a kid, but he The eyes were almost completely dark, and the wreckage was just a twisted shell.

He tried to find cover from the wreckage, the wind murmured in his ears, and the fire of **** laughed at his resistance.

He is here alone, in a swamp of his kind and the burning blood they shed.

"Let's go..."

Failed.

This fact was so clear that it was defeated and dispelled, and defeated by the enemy.

But they can still take a bite back. This place called Aswan should not be his burial place.

Although he should have died from a salvo of artillery hits in the first round, it was a reward for his weakness, and if he did so, it was the result of his weakness once again.

He arrived at the wreckage, and its shattered edges glowed like metal that had just been taken out of a furnace.

"I..."

He exhaled a burning breath, the steam scorched his eyeballs, and his vision blurred.

"I..."

He slipped to the ground, flames covered him, burning...

When the dawn came to light up the fog, he returned from the battlefield, and he survived, becoming the only survivor of the battle gang, in the monstrous flames of Aswan.

The boys later called him "Wicken who is not afraid of being hot." Since then, his skin does not seem to be so sensitive to high temperatures. He has become a guard, a culmination that the Okboy can reach, normal.

"Boss."

This word brought him a buzz of pain throughout his body, and Aswan's dream faded in his awakening.

But the phantom in the cave struck again, and for a moment he thought he was drowning, as if cold, dark water was covering him.

That was the worst moment.

In the silence, he could not imagine what he was, only a cloud of blurred thoughts and ghost-like feelings in the box, the flashing fire and claws in the dark, and those indescribable things, twisting and entangled By your side...

To make matters worse, at that time he thought he would be angry, but instead of it, he felt empty.

At the end, he remembered the face in the dark, white, always with anger.

His memory grew and faded like an out of control mushroom. He only remembered that deep underground, in a maze of caves, many hands began to disassemble his body.

It didn't take long for the ghosts that belonged to his former limbs to return-there was a feeling that his left arm was bending and his fingers were itching, even though they were no longer there.

Then they took away sight and hearing, and the silent darkness enveloped him.

Now, Meng is his home.

Sometimes he would return to Aswan and start burning again.

Sometimes he would go back to the maze-like underground and feel pain, sometimes he forgot that it was a dream and thought he was going to die again.

When it is over, he will try to recall those feelings—movement, breathing, and being alive.

He dreamed of the past and how he became a soldier. He tasted the blood in his mouth and felt the blade separate the skin and muscles from his bones.

In a clear moment, he once looked up at Jiba's metal mask, and saw his reflection in the circular lens, his heart beating in the open chest.

"What are your wishes?"

The face behind the mask once asked, and the ridiculous words resounded in the sound of the bone saw's work.

"Become...steel."

He once gasped in his own blood.

They let him get what he wanted.

He dreamed of the scene of the past thousand battles, the ground was chewed by artillery fire, and the body of the dead was crushed into mud.

He saw some faces that he never realized he would remember. He saw his life, mixed with all kinds of colors, sounds and smells, and they were so vivid in his dreams.

He has died in battle, his flesh and blood are solidified in his armor, and they fixed his dying flesh in a body composed of pistons, steel and engines.

They gave him a new nickname, intercepted from his past name-Scrap Wiken

He remembered all of this, experienced it all over again, screaming silently when the turbulent sleepiness surged.

He struggled for a moment, then fell...

Keep falling...

The real world returns suddenly, sharply and ruthlessly.

He felt his mind merge with the machine again, and felt the silent figure around him. He was waking up again, and the process of falling into oblivion had stopped.

Along with the sound of static electricity, a voice came from the darkness.

"You are awake, Viken, the overlord has summoned you."

Painful memories still flashed in his stump. For a moment, his broken body wanted to scream, but his throat began to cough uncontrollably, as if something was stuck in it.

"Scrap Wiken."

The voice rang again.

Awakening is a worse thing than death.

Slowly he lifted the square metal skull, the sound came first, and the sound of the wind whistled around him.

Then he began to feel his limbs, the pistons and gears waiting for his commands, and the weapons that had become part of his body.

Finally, he activated the sensor device installed like a helmet in an armor, and he looked out through the eyes of his machine, through his eyes.

From the outside, there are two dazzling red lights.

"Can you hear me?"

That voice broke the screaming wind.

"I heard it."

He said that he felt the machine take the words away from his bare throat and broadcast them into the loudspeaker.

He took a step and knocked down the many brackets around him. A fart happened to land on his shoulder. It was screaming, and the sound was particularly harsh.

Click!

Viken stretched out his robotic arm and smashed it into pieces in one hand, and at the same time he turned his palm to move his head, and the pieces were minced into froth.

With every activity, heavy fumes and steam ejected from the joints and the exhaust pipes of the back. He walked out of the darkness step by step, looking down at the mechanic who was much shorter than him, and roared hoarsely:

"lead the way."