Devlog: An Iron Mannifesto

I am not here to coddle you. I am not here to pat you on the head and feed you porridge. I am here to drive nails into the rotten door of modern storytelling and leave a hammer ringing in your skull long after you finish reading.

Chapters 2 and 3 of Ashes of Mercy now stand in the release lineup. Mark it down: September 11th. The day the first flames lick out into the world. But don’t you dare expect comfort. Chapter 2 is suspicion. Accusation. A knife in the back disguised as a test of loyalty. Chapter 3 is rage. A pulpit turned into a war drum. A personal vendetta against traffickers and their ilk — written not just as fiction, but as a funeral pyre for every predator that’s ever slithered out of the dark.

Call it preachy. I don’t care. I am a preacher. Preaching is in my marrow, my breath, my bones. But I don’t preach to soothe. I preach to burn. These chapters aren’t words — they’re brands pressed against flesh, scars you’ll carry whether you wanted them or not.

So here’s your warning: if you come into Ashes of Mercy expecting fairy tales, close the book now. If you want soft endings and sanitized sermons, walk away. This is not for you. This is a book written in fire and barbed wire. It doesn’t ask for your approval, it demands your reckoning.

The door has been nailed shut. The hammer’s echo is still ringing. On September 11th, you’ll hear it for yourself.

— Calvan L. Starling

Rage. Repent. Rise.