Your mind is playing tricks on you.   Three weeks in this hole and you are sure you’ve gone mad.   You start to head back, to the ropes and ledges you made to get this far but before you do a loud synthetic voice booms!

“ARROGANT TEUTON!  As your fathers of old, you are nothing to me!”   An enormous metal hand explodes from the ground  and wall.  Rocks and steel rain down and dust rises everywhere.  The machine gods of old were only myths, or so you believed.

Fatebends and you dodge away from the hand but not the rain of rock.   Tons of concrete grind your muscles and bones, crushing your guts and ribs, with a roar and splatter.  The ground cracks and and shift and the pile of debris you are in slides downward towards a giant metal face that has come from below. Through mind numbing pain and agony you light brands and blade as you face the enemies of old.

Swinging your Vorpal sword it barely singes its maw as you hurdle past and down into its dark and lifeless innards.   When you impact deep in the metal beast you feel its movement slowing.  With each labored breath you wheeze out it too loses power. Together you die, and like your fathers of old embrace in oblivion.