On the edge of the North Second Ring Road, a silver-gray power armor stood quietly in the middle of the dilapidated street, clutching a heavy rifle half the height of a man, resembling an unsharpened greatsword.
The years had left traces of frost and snow on the surface of the armor, its urban camouflage paint job replaced by a patchy crimson.
The rifle in its hand was filled with flesh-red fungal growths in the fork-shaped magnetic rails, similar to the armor.
Fragments of memory still existing in the cells would occasionally surface before its eyes; it vaguely remembered that it was a machine born for battle.
However, it had long forgotten why it fought, not to mention when the last battle had ended...
Just then, a light breeze blew from the other end of the street; almost simultaneously, the rolling sound of wheels approached from the silent street corner.
