ZERO ONE: ONE HOPE!

In the bowels of Gizmograd, far below the bustling streets and the ceaseless hum of machinery, lay hidden a completely different world.

This was not a world filled with glittering lights, but one that was dark, grimy, and full of rusted secrets.

Narrow corridors made of old brick and damp metal panels stretched out like a giant spider's web. Hot, strangely scented steam constantly hissed from leaky pipes in the ceiling, creating a thick fog that made it heavy to breathe.

A sickly, dim light came from industrial lamps that flickered erratically, like the eyes of a mechanical monster watching in the darkness.

This was the dark heart of Gizmograd. This was the headquarters of The Gear Phantoms.

In the midst of that organized chaos was an enormous main chamber, looking like a grand cathedral made of iron and steel.

In the center of the room, it was not a sacred altar that stood, but a metal stage. Upon it, within a thick glass dome, various crystal fragments of different colors shimmered in the dim light. Blazing red, cold blue, toxic green, and a purple like a stormy sky.

Each crystal fragment emitted a light that pulsed slowly, like hearts beating to a strange rhythm.

That was the source of their power and their purpose: the legendary shards of Primordial Spectrum Energy.

The masked members of the Gear Phantoms moved ceaselessly, each busy with their own task. The tense atmosphere was abruptly shattered when a group of members stumbled into the main chamber, battered and worn. They walked with limps, their masks dented, their black uniforms torn and covered in soot.

They were like soldiers who had just returned from a hellish battlefield.

In the middle of the room, on the stage, stood a man.

He was tall, burly, with an imposing posture like the statue of a tyrant. His jet-black hair was cut in a military style, his face as hard as if carved from granite, with a gruesome scar running across his left eye.

His right eye was dark brown, sharp and cold. But his left eye... was no longer human. It was a glowing red lens surrounded by small silver gears that constantly spun slowly, emitting a sinister light.

His right arm was also no longer of flesh and bone, but an intricate prosthetic arm made of black metal, with fingers as sharp as an eagle's talons. Every time he moved it, a low mechanical hum could be heard.

He was Rattler, the supreme leader of The Gear Phantoms. The "Gearsmith" feared throughout the underworld of Gizmograd.

Rattler looked at the battered group with a cold gaze. He hated weakness more than anything.

"Report," Rattler said, his voice deep and heavy, full of unspoken threat.

Two members who looked the most senior stepped forward trembling and immediately knelt.

"F... forgive us, Lord Rattler..." one of them said. "We... we have failed..."

"Failed?" Rattler repeated mockingly. "You didn't just fail. You were disgraced! Beaten soundly by a snot-nosed kid!"

"But, my Lord..." the other member tried to defend himself. "That boy... he's no ordinary boy... he has an incredibly powerful fire ability..."

"Enough!" Rattler bellowed, his voice like a clap of thunder. "I don't want to hear a loser's excuse! What I want are results! Where is Niki Stella?!"

"We... we were unable to capture him, my Lord..." they answered in resignation.

"UNABLE?!"

Rattler's roar echoed, making everyone shudder. His red mechanical eye flickered faster. The gears in his prosthetic arm began to spin at high speed, emitting a terrifying whirring sound.

"Then you are of no more use to me!"

Rattler raised his deadly mechanical arm high.

"Gearsmith's Technique… GRINDING PUNISHMENT!"

"AAAAAAHHHHH!"

The mechanical arm slammed down. Grinding without mercy. The gears spun at an immense speed, tearing their bodies apart. Fresh blood splattered everywhere. Their shrill screams filled the room, before finally being replaced by the sound of the machine continuing to grind flesh and bone.

The other Gear Phantom members could only watch in horror. No one dared to move. No one dared to breathe.

Rattler pulled back his now blood-soaked mechanical arm with a cruel, satisfied smirk. He looked at the remaining living members.

"This is a warning to all of you," he said, his voice calm again but far colder. "Never return to me empty-handed."

"Bring me Niki Stella, alive. And destroy anyone who dares to stand in your way!"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

"Y... YES, LORD RATTLER!" all the members answered in unison, full of fear.

Rattler nodded with satisfaction, then turned towards a hidden private room. Just as he sat down, the communicator on his desk beeped. A holographic screen lit up, displaying the face of someone completely hidden in shadow.

"Rattler," the voice on the screen echoed, cold and full of arrogance. "You're late delivering the package. Do you think this is a game?"

Rattler clenched his human hand under the desk, suppressing his rage. "I am aware of the schedule. But the situation is a bit complicated. There was a minor interference—"

"DO NOT GIVE ME A LOSER'S EXCUSE!" the voice cut in harshly. "You have one job, Gearsmith. If you fail again, you yourself will bear the consequences. You understand what I mean, don't you?"

Rattler was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening. "I understand."

"Good," the voice sounded threatening again. "Do not disappoint me again."

The call ended. Rattler stared at the dark screen, his hand still clenched tightly.

"Those insolent bastards..." he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "They think they can control me?"

He rose violently, walking towards a window that overlooked the glass dome containing the Energy crystals.

"You are all gravely mistaken," he said. "I am not your puppet." He knew, the power he held was the key.

"Gizmograd will fall," he whispered. "And a new world will rise from its ashes. A world ruled by absolute power… and gears."

"And I... I myself will be its ruler."

With that cold resolve, Rattler pressed a button on his desk panel. "Vyce, to my office. Now."

In mere seconds, his office door hissed open again. A young woman with jet-black hair stepped in almost silently.

She wore a tight-fitting black combat suit with silver gear accents. Her face was as beautiful as a porcelain doll's, but cold and expressionless. Her sharp grey eyes were like those of an eagle.

This was Vyce, Rattler's right hand, nicknamed the "Speed Demon" for her inhuman speed.

"Lord Rattler," Vyce greeted, her voice flat.

Rattler nodded. "A disgraceful failure. A group of clowns defeated by a single boy."

"According to the data, he is no ordinary boy," Vyce said. "He possesses extraordinary fire-elemental power."

"Fire, hmm..." Rattler murmured, a strange tone in his voice. He shook his head slightly, pushing away an old memory. "We must retrieve Niki Stella as soon as possible. His teleportation device... it is the key."

"Then... what about the fire boy, my Lord?" Vyce asked.

"He is dangerous," Rattler said without turning. "Eliminate him. Eliminate all who dare to block your path. I want no more failures."

"Understood, Lord Rattler. I will carry it out myself," Vyce answered professionally.

"Good. Prepare your best squad. I want you to lead the assault on Junkyard Junction. Take Niki back, and teach that fire boy a lesson he will never forget."

Rattler then took out a small box from his pocket. The box was made of jet-black metal.

"What is this, my Lord?" Vyce asked.

"A tracking device connected directly to a sensor on Niki's prototype," Rattler answered. "With this, you can track him wherever he goes."

"But, remember..." Rattler moved closer, his red mechanical eye staring intently into Vyce's.

"Never open this box... unless... you are absolutely forced to."

"Its contents... are extremely dangerous. Perhaps even for you."

Vyce swallowed, a reaction she rarely ever showed. "Understood, my Lord. I will not disappoint you."

Vyce then turned and left, ready to carry out her orders. The sound of her swift footsteps echoed for a moment before vanishing.

Rattler turned back to the window, a thin, cruel smirk etched on his face.

His attack would begin soon.