Höllvania had become a city trapped between the remnants of the past and the horrors of the future. The once-bustling streets were now abandoned corridors of broken glass, flickering neon signs, and rusted vehicles left to decay beneath the weight of the ongoing conflict. Rain fell steadily through the polluted air, collecting in the cracks of the pavement and reflecting the distorted glow of advertisements that still struggled to function. The distant sounds of war echoed through the empty streets—the heavy movement of Scaldra patrols, the distant roar of machinery, and the unnatural noises of something far less human moving through the shadows. Every corner of the city carried evidence of the Techrot's influence, a terrifying infection that had consumed technology and twisted it into something alive, spreading through buildings, machines, and anything unfortunate enough to become exposed. The Techrot had transformed entire districts of Höllvania into hostile, corrupted zones. Walls that once protected families had become covered in organic growths, cables and machinery fused together into grotesque forms that pulsed with unnatural energy. Abandoned vehicles had become nests for the infestation, their metal frames warped into something almost biological. The streets were no longer empty—they were hunting grounds. Techrot creatures crawled through the ruins, their movements unpredictable and violent, searching for any remaining signs of life. Survivors had learned that silence was often the most dangerous warning, because the infestation could be waiting anywhere, hidden among the wreckage. Within one of those forgotten districts, Lythia had become another survivor struggling against impossible odds. The only signs of life came from faint movement behind ruined walls and the desperate attempts of someone refusing to disappear into the chaos surrounding them. The city had taken everything from those still trapped within it, leaving only determination and instinct behind. Then the sound of combat shattered the silence. A figure moved through the ruined streets with purpose, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Arthur Nightingale, known among The Hex by the callsign Broadsword, moved through the Techrot-infested district with his weapon drawn and his senses heightened. His battered armour carried the marks of countless battles, and the scars across his face served as a reminder of everything he had survived. Dark hair fell across his features, partially hiding his damaged, milky eye, but his remaining eye remained focused and alert. The Techrot swarm surged toward him, screeching and twisting through the debris. Arthur did not hesitate. With controlled precision, he stepped forward, his blade igniting with the power of his Protoframe abilities. Every movement was deliberate—every strike calculated. He fought not with anger or cruelty, but with the determination of a soldier who refused to let another person become a casualty of this war. The corrupted creatures fell one after another as Arthur pushed deeper into the ruins, refusing to retreat despite the danger surrounding him. When the last traces of movement faded, Arthur found Guest.