Volume 7 Chapter 1 The Steel Chamber*
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Clang. Clang. Clang.
A dry, metallic sound, like needles piercing my thin eardrums, resonates through the core of my skull.
Followed by a low-frequency rumble that hammers at the pit of my stomach.
Gong… Gong….
The stone barracks itself feels like a sounding box. The vibrations transmitted through the hard mattress beneath my back make my empty stomach churn with discomfort. Six times.
Six in the morning. Ah, this gray morning has come again.
”…Mm.”
I kick off the thin, government-issued blanket and force my torso upright.
As I inhale, the back of my throat is raspy with dust. The sharp, winter cold slips through the gaps in my sleepwear, biting into my warmed skin.
I unconsciously rub the burn scar on my left arm. The hard, puckered texture of the skin. Outside the window, the sky is stagnant with heavy leaden color, and the glass is coated in white, opaque frost—like the skin of a corpse.
”Morning, Erika.”
On the adjacent cot, Gretel Weber suppresses a huge yawn, running a hand roughly through her messy blonde hair.
”…Morning.”
The same, stamped-out morning as always.
Gretel’s bright voice provides a small share of warmth to this room, which feels like a frozen stone prison.
The work clothes I pull on are a size too big for my small frame, weighing heavily on my shoulders. The stiff, thick fabric swallows the swell of my chest with insulting ease.
As I cinch the excess leather belt around my waist to the very last hole, the smell of mineral oil embedded in my sinuses wafts back to life. Yesterday’s grime has already become a part of my own body odor.
”Morning, Erika. You don’t look so good. Are you sleeping okay? ” Elza asked, peering at my face while we washed up in the communal basin.
”…I haven’t been able to sleep much lately.”
”That’s no good, girl. You’re at that age, y’know. It’s a waste, especially when you’re lookin’ so pretty,” Elza replied with a shrug.
I let the flattery slide by with a vague, pleasant smile.
Reflected in the mirror before me is the face of a woman devoid of life. My golden hair is dull with oil smoke.
Deep, dark circles under my eyes. And deep within them, only my blue pupils remain, terribly cold and translucent.
Twenty-three years old. Still, single.
”Erika, hurry up! The bread’s gonna turn into stone!” Gretel shouted.
”Yeah, Gretel. I’m comin’,” I replied.
When I reach the cafeteria, the air is stagnant with the feverish heat of many soldiers and the fermented, male-heavy odor of their sweat.
The cacophony of metal utensils colliding. The sound of military boots scraping against the stone floor.
What is placed before me is black bread and a mud-water imitation of soup.
The bread is hard. When I bite down, my jaw joints scream, and it changes to a sand-like texture that crumbles in my mouth. It has the sour, fermented smell peculiar to old wheat.
The soup contains only a few discolored beans, floating there as a token gesture. When I sip it, the taste of thin saltwater spreads over my tongue. At least it’s warm. I tell myself that, and force it down my throat.
”Hey, Erika,” Gretel whispered, breadcrumbs clinging to her lips. “Things have been busy up top lately, right?”
”…Yeah, I guess.”
I have seen bloodshot-eyed officers running through the corridors clutching stacks of documents time and again.
The air is tighter than usual—different. But to us, the parts at the bottom of the machine, nothing is ever explained.
Breakfast finished, I head down to the underground maintenance workshop.
With every step down the stone stairs, the temperature drops. Simultaneously, the smell of oil and soot increases in density, staining my lungs black. Through the soles of my boots, the underground chill seems to soak into my very bones.
A heavy wooden door. I grasp the frozen iron handle and lean my weight into it.
Creak…. A sound like a rusted scream that won’t go away, even with oiling.
”Morning, Erika,” Karl Schultz grunted from his workbench.
”…Good morning.”
I head to my own workbench and put on my leather apron. I tie the straps at my back tightly. The sensation of my lungs being slightly compressed—this is the switch that shifts me into work mode.
Lined up on the workbench are twenty Magic Guns, resting like cold corpses. Yesterday, and the day before. An endless march.
I pick one up. It’s heavy, with a solid weight. About five kilograms. A blunt instrument made of iron and wood. It’s a weight that gets tiring to hold for long with my slender arms.
Supporting the stock with my left hand, I begin the disassembly with practiced movements. First, I put strength into my fingertips and loosen the stiff screws of the Magic Stone socket.
Click.
The socket opens. A disc-shaped crystal, two centimeters in diameter and one centimeter thick. This is the heart, the power source of the Magic Gun.
I take out the Magic Stone and hold it up to the oil lamp at hand. Beyond the flickering flame, the innocent crystal dulls and swallows the light.
No cracks, no chips, no internal clouding… none. No abnormalities.
Next, I open the gun’s mechanism to expose the Magic elements phase conversion chamber.
This is the place that gets the dirtiest.
When I wipe the inner wall with my fingertip, black, viscous soot……Magic elements residue comes away in a thick smear. If this accumulates, heat has nowhere to escape, inviting an accidental discharge.
I insert a brush and carefully scrape out the caked-on filth. A burnt, acrid smell pricks my nose.
I wipe it with a cloth. The engraving of the Mana circuits is… without distortion. No abnormalities.
I pull the hammer. Click. The feel of the spring transmitting through my finger. Not too stiff, not too loose.
The trigger. No issues. The safety device. Moves smoothly.
I peer into the muzzle, which opens like a black mouth. No abnormalities.
From the end of this barrel, a lump of lead will be fired, driven by explosive pressure. …From this gun, which I maintained.
In the corner of the workbench, apprentice Franz Hoffmann is silently polishing a Magic Stone. His profile still retains a childlike innocence. Occasionally, I feel his gaze on me.
It’s not an interest in the opposite s*x, but a gaze that clings, like one relying on a mother or an older sister. It’s annoying to have that directed at me.
All morning, I face nothing but lumps of iron. Disassemble, scrape soot, apply oil, assemble.
The feeling in my fingertips goes numb, and the spaces under my nails are stained pitch black.
But my hands don’t stop. If they stop, then tomorrow, someone’s gun might fire and blow off its owner’s hand. In this windowless underground workshop. My sense of time is going haywire.
……Noon. A bell tolls from far away.
”Lunch break,” Karl announced.
With Karl’s low voice, the spell is broken.
When I stand up, my stiff lower back pops with a sharp sound.
Lunch in the cafeteria. The menu is the same as the morning. Bean soup and bread that feels like a brick.
”Erika, let’s eat together!” Gretel chirped.
I sit next to her with heavy steps.
”Hey hey, was it busy today too?”
”…Yeah.”
”Me too. Maintenance on the cannons is rough. Every single part is stupidly heavy, and I’m covered in grease,” Gretel complained.
I listened to Gretel’s complaints in silence. I sip the soup. It tastes like thin salt water. The beans are hard, as always.
”Erika, are you eatin’ enough? Your cheeks are sunken,” Gretel noted with a frown.
”…I’m fine.”
(I’m not fine. But there’s nothing I can say.)
”Don’t push yourself,” Gretel added softly.
Gretel’s worried voice soaks into my weakened heart, causing pain. I nod vaguely.
I spend the afternoon in the smell of iron and oil as well.
No two guns are the same. Some have loose hammers, some heavy triggers, some chambers distorted by heat.
I fix them all. This is my job. This is the only thing I have value for.
I tuck my bangs, which had been getting in the way, behind my ear with the back of my pinky.
”Um, Erika……” Sergeant Johann hesitated.
When I suddenly look up, my eyes meet those of Sergeant Johann.
He freezes for a moment, as if at a loss for words.
”…This gun, it’s actin’ up a bit. Could you take a look?”
He stares intently into my eyes, then hurriedly shifts his gaze to the gun as if escaping. For some reason, even his ears are bright red.
Again. It seems these pale, cold eyes of mine make people feel uncomfortable.
”…Understood. Let me take a look.”
I accept the gun from him. The lingering body heat of another person remains in my palm, and my fingertips stiffen slightly.
I carefully remove the Magic Stone, which has a crack running through it, and hold it up to the flame. There is no internal clouding. However, there is a fine, spider-web-like line along the edge.
”…I’m gonna shave it down. Please wait just a moment.”
”Oh, ah. Thanks,” Johann replied.
I place the Magic Stone in my palm and close my eyes. I take a deep breath, replacing the air in my lungs.
The breathing that gets disrupted when dealing with people becomes unnaturally quiet when dealing with uncomplaining tools.
”O magical memory slumbering within the crystal, reveal your true nature before my eyes, and distinguish truth from falsehood… ‘Identify Stone’”
Through the skin of my fingertips, a faint vibration is transmitted. The density of the magic elements rises in my senses. The purity is good.
But here it is. In the cracked part, there is a stagnation of magic elements like a blood clot.
I exhale a small breath and set the Magic Stone in the fixture.
”O magical core residing within the crystal, do not be deceived by the wounds on the outer shell, and seal away your inner power… ‘Seal Core’”
I pick up a fine file and apply the blade to the crack.
Crunch, crunch… A fine sound that gnaws at my nerves vibrates in my eardrums. If I shave too deeply, it will crack under the pressure of loading.
Dust falls, patter by patter. Carefully. As if responding to the movement of my fingertips, the distorted edge is shaped into a smooth curve.
I return the Magic Stone to the socket and close the conversion chamber. Finally, a function check.
”O stagnant logic of mana, poured from my palms, refill the stalled circuits once more… ‘Mana Flow’”
The engravings of the circuits glow faint red from within, pulsing like blood vessels. The rise in heat is smooth. It is accepting my Mana without rejection.
I pull the hammer lightly and feel the end of the flow. There is no clogging.
”Don’t shoot too much; bring it back after ten shots,” I warned.
”You saved me…! Without you, we’d be in real trouble. I’ll count on you again, Erika,” Johann grinned like a child.
He looks back and forth between my face and the gun he was handed, grinning like a child.
That pure goodwill is so blinding that I feel a sharp pinch in the pit of my chest, and I nod vaguely while turning my back to him.
……The sunset bell.
When I take off my apron, my hands are stained with black oil-mud. No matter how many times I scrub them with soap, the black color that has bitten into the fine grooves of my fingerprints won’t come off completely. It is as if my own skin has been overwritten by the filth.
After dinner, I return to the room with Gretel.
”I’m so tired…”
She collapses onto her bed without even changing. Within a few minutes, I hear her peaceful, rhythmic breathing.
I head to the desk and take out my mother’s letter from the back of the drawer.
’Erika, are you doin’ well? Isn’t there anyone nice for you yet?’
…I’m sorry, Mother.
Even when I try to write a reply, my pen tip trembles and no words form.
’Isn’t there anyone nice for you yet?’
That innocent question gouges at the rusted shrapnel still lodged in my chest.
When I was twenty, I had expectations when that man touched me. But, right before our bodies intertwined, he said this with eyes that were busy appraising me.
’You, do you have a dowry?’
In that instant, my body was reduced to nothing more than money. Since that day, I have rejected being touched by anyone.
I crawl into bed as if running away, pulling the blanket over my head. Next to me, Gretel’s unguarded breathing. …She is already in a beautiful dream.
In the darkness, I softly touch my own skin. The chilled fingertips of a mechanic trace the soft skin under my sleepwear. I put my fingers to the drawstring of my drawers and untie the tightly knotted knot with frustration.
Rustle, the fabric loosens.
When I slip my hand into my underwear, the slightly damp, frizzy texture of my hair transmits to my fingertips.
Even though my head warns me that I should be sleeping, my body, vulgarly, begins to heat up in pursuit of my nightly habit.
I crawl my fingertips over the slit, moist with heat.
Slickly.
My own honey has already overflowed, welcoming my finger with a sticky persistence.
Every time my cold fingertips trace the sensitive mucous membrane, my heart jumps with a heavy thud, and the depths of my lower abdomen ache as if being squeezed sweetly.
I rub my middle finger insistently against the most sensitive protrusion, drawing circles. A hard, crunchy bump hits my finger.
”Nn….”
I hurriedly cover my mouth at the sound of my own voice that escaped unexpectedly. I peek at the next cot, but Gretel doesn’t move.
(…Thank god.)
The relief further loosens my tense body into a lewd state. Once the restraint of reason is loosened, it does not return.
A thick, hot lump begins to pool in my lower abdomen.
I speed up the movement of my fingers.
Squish, squish….
Every time I rub, my fingertips froth white with Love fluids, making an obscene wet sound. In the silent room, only that sound echoes strangely loud. My inner thighs twitch, and my toes curl as if clutching the sheets.
”…Nn… ah….”
I don’t care about my mother’s letter anymore, nor that man’s inorganic words.
I only want this heat. I want to sink all the mud-like fatigue and the fear of tomorrow into this sweet numbness that melts my brain, and make it all disappear.
I shove my middle finger deep into my own wetness.
A place so narrow and hot, having never allowed anyone’s intrusion.
A place that has never been opened, it clutches my finger tightly, painfully, like the unused circuit of a Magic Gun.
That immature, cramped tightness and pain only fuels my sense of immorality, converting it into a maddening pleasure.
Squish, squish.
Every time I push in and pull out, the sound of my own bodily fluids echoes in the dark room, squish, squish.
I stack another finger, forcibly pushing open that sanctuary.
”Aah….”
The feeling of being stretched. The inside repeats a contraction as if trying to swallow the foreign object, clinging to my fingers.
Pleasure paints every thought white.
My breathing becomes ragged. There is not enough oxygen. Under the blanket, it is filled with my own sweet, female scent.
I press the protrusion with my thumb and thrust my middle finger in with frantic force.
Gouging, like a beast. There, that feels good. Gouging the deepest folds of the core.
My heart beats hard enough to shake my brain. My vision flickers.
”Haa… ah… nn…! It’s comin’!”
My brain explodes into pure white; the climax.
My body arches, and small spasms wash over me, time and time again, pulling back.
The depths of my Uterus pulse violently, vomiting out hot honey in a thick stream.
Haa… haa….
As I steady my ragged breathing, I slowly pull out my fingers.
From fingertips to wrists, I am soaked in the liquid I produced myself. When I bring them to my nose, there is a raw scent like chestnut blossoms.
This body, which no one has violated, which I have guarded all by myself, and which I continue to soil all by myself.
My stiffened muscles slacken like mud, and a pleasant sense of collapse envelops my whole body.
(…If I don’t have this, I can’t face tomorrow.)
With the sticky, unpleasant sensation in my lower half remaining, and without the strength to retie the waist string, I fall into a deep sleep.
—
Summary:
Erika wakes up in the oppressive, industrial environment of the military barracks to start her daily routine of maintaining Magic Guns in an underground workshop. After a degrading day of repetitive labor and social interaction, she returns to her room to perform a private, desperate ritual of self-stimulation to cope with her trauma and objectification. She falls into a fitful, exhausted sleep, haunted by her mother’s letters and the memory of her own commodification.
—
Trivia:
Erika is twenty-three and unmarried, a status linked to the heavy social pressure of providing a dowry.
The Magic Guns utilize disk-shaped Magic Stones as power sources, which are prone to cracking under high pressure.
The maintenance work is not just tedious; it is a critical safety task that prevents accidental discharges during combat.
Erika’s self-stimulation is a psychological mechanism to regain a sense of bodily ownership in a setting that views her as a disposable tool.
—
Translation Notes:
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Notes:
• Erika – A twenty-three-year-old female mechanic with golden hair dulled by oil, blue eyes, and dark circles under her eyes. She carries a burn scar on her left arm and struggles with dissociation.
• Gretel – A blonde-haired female soldier who acts as Erika’s roommate. She is energetic and attempts to maintain a sense of normalcy in the barracks.
• Elza – A blunt vanguard archer and precision construction director who coordinates teams with absolute teamwork. Operating out of the barracks, she uses light-based arrows to bypass heavy armor and strike structural cores directly, blending architectural precision with lethal battlefield coordination. Despite her sharp military focus, she shows blunt concern for Erika’s appearance and health.
• Karl – A mechanic with a hunched back who works in the underground workshop alongside Erika.
• Man – A roughneck wearing a hat who participated in a group assault. He suffers the loss of his right arm and later his left arm during an experiment by the protagonist before being stored.
• Franz – A young apprentice mechanic who looks up to Erika as a maternal or sisterly figure.
• Johann – A sergeant with pale eyes who relies on Erika for the maintenance of his equipment.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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