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A young man through away his life and was forced to live through the Life of his favorite game characters. He then learns that they were not punishments and he is to be . . .
Introduction to Iron Shadows The war ended in a firestorm—an unholy blast that wiped clean the earth’s slate. The nuclear holocaust left nothing but dust, irradiated ruins, and a dying world. Cities that once reached for the sky now lay shattered, hollowed-out carcasses of a bygone age. In the wake of humanity’s self-destruction, chaos reigned. Governments fell. Armies disbanded. The survivors? They were nothing more than scavengers, fighting tooth and nail for scraps in a world that had forgotten what civilization was. But among the wreckage, power still had a price. The weapons that had once been the doom of nations—the mechs—still lingered, relics of a war long past. Giant, thirty-foot machines of steel and fire, bristling with weapons and nuclear reactors. They were the ultimate symbols of strength, and in a world ruled by savage gangs and brutal warlords, strength was the only currency that mattered. Juno Ashford wasn’t born a leader. He wasn’t born a hero. He was born in the ruins—a survivor, a scavenger, a product of the streets. But he was something else, too. Something darker. Where others saw destruction, Juno saw opportunity. Where others saw pain, he saw a tool—a means to an end. The world had never been kind to him. The streets of the ruined cities were full of weaklings—beggars, traitors, fools—people who clung to the remnants of humanity, hoping for salvation, desperate for meaning. Juno had no such illusions. He didn’t care about saving anyone. He cared about winning. And winning meant one thing: power. When Juno first discovered the wreckage of a forgotten mech—a hulking titan of rusted steel buried under a pile of rubble—he didn’t see an ancient weapon or a relic of a lost war. He saw a path. A way to rise above the dust. To carve his name into the ruins of a broken world. The mech wasn’t working. The reactor was dead. Its systems were fried, its weapons stripped away by scavengers long ago. But Juno didn’t need a pristine machine. He didn’t need a working titan. What he needed was a tool—something he could bend to his will, something he could fix, something he could use to crush those who stood in his way. The Ruinwalker, as he’d come to call it, was the key to everything. Juno didn’t fix the mech because he thought it was a noble cause. He didn’t see it as a means of protection or survival. No, Juno saw it as a weapon—a way to dominate. To control. To break the weak. And fix it he did—no matter the cost. He scavenged parts, manipulated others, and when people got in his way, he didn’t hesitate to use them. Juno wasn’t the kind of man who worried about bloodshed; he was the kind of man who thrived on it. He wasn’t interested in allies—only tools. And tools that outlived their usefulness? Tools that became liabilities? They were discarded. He used fear like a weapon, manipulating the weak and the desperate into doing his bidding. He killed without remorse, without hesitation. In fact, the more he took, the more he enjoyed it. The more he crushed, the more powerful he felt. The world was his to break—and he intended to break it all. One gang, one territory, one life at a time. When the Carnifix finally came to life, it wasn’t a miracle—it was an inevitability. The towering titan of rust and destruction became an extension of Juno’s will. He didn’t see it as a machine. It was his machine. He could feel the power thrumming in his veins as he stepped into the cockpit, the controls fusing with his mind. He was no longer a mere scavenger, no longer a nameless face in the crowd. With the Carnifix, he was a king. A tyrant. A god. Juno’s first act was brutal, but simple: take what he wanted. The Vultures, a gang that controlled one of the few remaining water sources in the region, were the first to fall. But not in a battle for survival—no. Juno didn’t fight them to live. He fought them because he could. The Vultures were weak. They were pathetic. And the fact that they had something he wanted made them expendable. When the battle was over, Juno didn’t just take their water supply—he took their leaders, broke their spirits, and turned their soldiers into his new foot soldiers. He didn’t care that the Vultures were a family, a community. He didn’t care about their loyalty, their history, or their dreams. They were tools. He was their master now. And soon, others took notice. The Iron Fangs came next. Then the Red Suns. One by one, Juno picked apart the other gangs in the wastelands, using the Ruinwalker to dominate, intimidate, and crush all opposition. His reputation grew—whispers in the dark alleys, rumors in the burning ruins—that there was a new power in the wasteland. Not a savior. Not a liberator. But something darker. Juno wasn’t interested in a better world. He wasn’t interested in building anything new. He wanted to tear it all down. To reshape it in his image. And there were those who would rise to challenge him. But Juno was used to challenges. He was used to winning. He always won. And anyone who stood in his way? They were just another broken tool.
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