Chapter 443: Scrap Iron Wicken

The wasteland air turned into flames, and Wicken could not see the horizon.
A flame storm rolled up and surrounded him, and he could feel the heat spread on his own.
He was breathing smoke, but he couldn't smell them. Although he was shrouded in flames, he felt as though he was shaking, 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 on his waist and knees has melted, the flame is seeping in, he is being cooked in his armor, he is dying.
"Let's go..."
He said roughly, feeling that blisters started to appear on his lips and tongue.
He continued to walk forward, the armor hissing and screaming while hurting, the ground was pulling his legs, and he forced himself towards one... he was not sure what it used to be, maybe a kid, but he His eyes were almost completely dark, and the debris was just a twisted shell.
He tried to seek cover from the wreckage, the wind murmured in his ears, and the fire of laughed at his stubborn resistance.
He was alone here, in a swamp where his fellows and their burning blood merged.
"Let's go..."
Failed.
This fact is very clear, defeated and dispelled, defeated by the enemy.
But they were still able to take a bite back. This place called Aswan should not be his burial place.
Although he was supposed to die from the first round of artillery volley, it was the reward that his weakness earned. If he whined about it, then he also proved his weakness again.
He reached the wreckage, and its broken edge glowed like a metal just removed from the furnace.
"I..."
He breathed out a burning breath, steam scorched his eyes, and his vision was blurred.
"I..."
He slipped on the ground, the flame covered him, burning...
When dawn came to light the mist, he returned from the battlefield, and he survived, becoming the only survivor of the gang, in the blazing flames of Aswan.
The boys later called him "Wicken, who is not afraid of heat." Since then, his skin seems to be less sensitive to high temperatures. He became a guard, the culmination that an Ok boy can reach, normal.
"Boss."
The word brought him a burst of pain throughout his body, and Aswan's dream disappeared in his wake.
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 couldn't imagine what he was, only the confusing thoughts and ghostly feelings contained in the box, the flashing fire and claws in the dark, and those inexplicable things, twisting, entangled Be around...
To make matters worse, at that time he thought he would be angry, but instead he did not, he felt empty.
In the end, he remembered the face in the dark, white, always with anger.
The memory grows and fades like a runaway mushroom. He only remembers that deep in the ground, in a labyrinth-like cave, many hands began to dismantle his body.
It didn’t take long for the ghosts that belonged to his past limbs to come back—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.
Today, dream is his home.
Sometimes he would return to Aswan and start burning again.
Sometimes he would go back to the labyrinthine 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-exercise, breathing, alive.
He dreamed of the past, how he became a warrior, he tasted the blood in his mouth again, and felt the blade separate the skin and muscles from his bones.
In the clear moment, he once looked up at the metal mask of Jiba, and saw his reflection in the round lens. His heart was beating in the open chest.
"What are your wishes?"
The face behind the mask asked this, and the ridiculous words rang in the voice of the bone saw.
"Become... steel."
He once gasped in his own blood.
They let him get what he wanted.
He dreamed of the scene of a thousand battles in the past, the ground was chewed by gunfire, and the body of the deceased was crushed into mud.
He saw some faces that he never realized he would remember. He saw his life, mixed with various colors, sounds and smells. They were so vivid in dreams.
He was already dead in battle, his flesh solidified in his armor, and they fixed him on the verge of death in a body composed of pistons, steel and engines.
They gave him a new nickname, intercepted from his past title-scrap iron Wicken
He remembered all this, experienced it all again, and screamed silently as the turbulent sleep came.
He struggled for a moment, then fell...
Continue to fall...
The real world returns suddenly, sharply and mercilessly.
He felt his thoughts merge with the machine again, and felt the silent figure around him. He was waking up again, and the process of falling into oblivion stopped.
With the sound of static electricity, a sound came from the darkness.
"You woke up, Wicken, the overlord summoned you."
The painful memory still flashed in his stupid body. For a moment his broken body wanted to scream, but his throat started to cough uncontrollably, as if something was stuck inside.
"Wicks of scrap iron."
The voice rang again.
Waking up is a worse thing than death.
Slowly he lifted the square metal head, the sound came first, and the wind screamed around him.
Then he began to feel his limbs, the pistons and gears waiting for his instructions, and the weapons that had become part of his body.
Finally, he started to install the sensing device like a helmet in an armor. He looked out through the eyes of his machine and through his eyes.
From the outside, EbookFREE.me is two dazzling red lights.
"Can you hear it?"
That voice broke the mournful wind.
"I heard."
He said that he felt the machine take the words from his throat and play them in the loudspeaker.
He took a step and knocked down many of the brackets around him. A fart happened to fall on his shoulder. It was screaming, and the sound was very harsh.
Click!
Wicken stretched out the mechanical arm, crushed it into fragments, and at the same time turned his palm to move, the fragments were twisted into flesh
With every activity, heavy oil fumes and steam squirted from the exhaust pipes of the joints and back. He stepped out of the darkness step by step, looking down at many craftsmen who were shorter than him, hoarse roaring:
"lead the way."