Dawn flared sharp, its light gilding the field as workers marched, a grim throng bound by silent will. Elias gripped his chisel, knuckles pale, heart a wild beat, yet doubt found no hold—only the task burned clear. They were warriors now, set to wrest back what steel had torn.

  The machines loomed, their iron husks cold in the frail glare—vast, unyielding, yet empty of the fire that drove these men. The first strike rang—a clash of metal on metal, a stark toll over the plain. Elias swung, chisel biting deep, sparks leaping like fleeting stars. A machine lurched, frame split—a breath of triumph, hard-won.

  Their foe woke, arms slashing swift and cruel. Workers darted, evading ruin, shouts drowned in the din. Elias moved, blood hot in his veins—war was new, yet retreat was ash to him. Thomas flanked him, hammer crashing, a storm of rage and grit—together, they carved a mark no steel could mend.

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  A roar split the air—one beast broke free, crushing a man beneath its tread, blood dark on the earth. Elias’s gut twisted, the scream echoing in his skull, but he surged on, chisel high. Metal shrieked ‘neath his blow, sparks a flare of defiance—each strike a cry for the fallen, a vow for the living.

  No pause held. Victory gleamed, a thread within grasp, though its price loomed stark. The field shook with their fury, machines buckling ‘neath unbent will. Elias glimpsed Thomas, sweat and blood on his brow, still striking—a bond forged in this chaos, stronger than iron.

  The first blow was theirs, a scar on the foe, yet the war stretched wide. Elias pressed forth, each hit a pulse of the men at his side—their hands, their rage, a force no machine could still. The din roared, but he fought, not for echoes of craft, but for the life beside him, till the field claimed them or fell silent.