Before Asher could fully turn away, the sound of scraping metal wheels halted him. Two apprentice blacksmiths approached, both clad in soot-darkened leather aprons, their forearms glistening with sweat and coal dust.
Between them, they wheeled a tall, shrouded figure—roughly the height of a man—covered in a thick, ash-stained cloth.
Asher raised a brow, his curiosity piqued.
The apprentices, silent and solemn, maneuvered the object beside the trio of armors already displayed. Once in place, they bowed in unison to Asher and stepped back, their boots crunching softly over the gravel.
Dan said nothing. He stepped forward, reached up, and with one firm tug, tore the cloth away.
The effect was immediate.
A hush fell.
Beneath the veil stood a suit of armor unlike anything Asher had ever seen.
It was monstrous—and magnificent.
The steel was dark and burnished, reflecting light in a dull shimmer rather than a gleam. The plates overlapped like the scales of an ancient leviathan, each one jagged and uneven, as if forged from the bones of a creature older than time.
The cuirass was sculpted into the shape of a brutalized ribcage, each plate resembling a warped piece of anatomy, rising and falling with grotesque artistry.
From the waist hung armored tassets like the layered shells of a predatory beetle, interspersed with torn red cloth and aged chainmail that hung like flayed sinew.
The helm was the crown of dread—a gaping jaw-like visor resembling the maw of a snarling beast. Serrated vents around the mouthpiece hissed faintly, as though the armor was breathing on its own.
Its eye slits were deep, narrow, and shadowed, evoking the gaze of something both blind and all-seeing.
One gauntlet ended in claw-like fingers—less a glove, more a weapon in itself.
Asher tilted his head, drawn in. “What… is this?”
Dan stepped forward, folding his arms. “We call it the Guardian Armour Set. Forged not for a knight… but for a paladin.”
Asher approached, his fingers brushing the surface. The steel was cold—unnaturally so.
“This armor,” Ark added, his voice lower now, “was made for the paladins, the strongest fighters in our land. Men who don’t just hold the line—they are the line. It is three times more durable than the Black Tide Set and was made of an alloy produced from Elden Ore and Dwarven ore. It can withstand those armour piercing arrows at a distance of ten meters!”
Asher stepped back, studying the silhouette.
“It weighs 700 kilograms, making it impossible for veteran knights or even grand knights to survive in it. Only Adeptus knights or the paladins can handle the weight.”
Asher turned to Ark White. “The Crimson Templar Knights don armour that weighs a ton.”
“They’re giants, my lord.” Ark justified with a defeated sigh.
“The Guardian Armour Set is lighter yet much stronger than that armour!” Dan blasted, his chest making dull thuds as he slammed it proudly.
“How many of these do you have?” Asher asked, watching the Guardian Armour Set.
“Only two,” Ark said. “It took three forges to shape the shell. These armour has to be made manually but we can reach 200 in the next one month.”
Asher’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. “Good.”
He turned slowly. “Show me the other one.”
Dan’s lips curled as his eyes sparkled in excitement. “Follow me.”
They traversed the wind-stirred plains, moving steadily toward the heart of the forge complex. Smokestacks crowned the horizon like fingers of a dying giant, belching steam and soot into the cloud-stained sky. The clangor of iron against iron became a steady drumbeat as they passed between tall timber posts into the central forge.
Within, the air shimmered with heat. Steam hissed from copper pipes, and the scent of molten metal mixed with sweat, soot, and oil. Rows of small forges flanked either side of the great hall, each one manned by bare-armed blacksmiths, their muscles corded and slick from labor. Sparks danced like fireflies in the dim light, and the thunderous pound of water-powered hammers struck with the weight of the old gods.
But for Asher and Nero, the heat was little more than a background hum. They walked through it unfazed, their eyes taking in the rhythmic chaos of creation around them. To them, this was not heat—it was the breath of purpose.
They ascended a narrow wooden staircase, its steps groaning beneath their boots, and entered a platform lift. From the corner of his eye, Asher caught two men gripping a massive crank wheel. Their backs flexed as they turned it with great effort, the thick rope wound around a pulley system creaking as it slowly gave way. The hook above the lift slackened, and with a gentle jolt, they began to descend into the earth.
Down they went—past the flickering edge of torchlight, into the ancient belly of the forge.
The walls of the shaft were stone, damp and veined with rivulets of condensation. Torches sat in iron brackets, and their flames licked the darkness, sending shadows dancing along the narrow corridor below. Every footstep echoed, the sound like whispers in a tomb.
Dan and Ark walked ahead, silent, reverent. Then they turned and opened a reinforced door, revealing a chamber carved from solid rock. The ceiling arched like a cathedral, and on a pedestal near the center rested a sword and shield, bathed in the warm halo of a suspended brazier.
The longsword caught Asher’s eye first—a masterwork of elegant violence. Its double-edged blade gleamed with silvery perfection, etched faintly with runes along the fuller. The crossguard swept outward like wings, and at the end of the hilt was a sculpted silver wolf’s head, snarling in perpetual defiance.
Beside it leaned a shield—round, broad, and as dark as the void between stars. It was polished obsidian, or something like it, swallowing light rather than reflecting it. Its edges were rimmed with reinforced steel, and faintly within its glossy surface, Asher thought he saw movement—like the subtle swirl of smoke caught in glass.
Dan stepped forward, pulling a torch from its sconce and moving toward the far end of the chamber. As he approached, shadows receded—and something within them stirred.
A figure emerged.
It was a suit of armor—standing upright and motionless in the stone alcove like a knight long entombed. The torchlight revealed it slowly, piece by piece.
The armor was a perfect contrast to the Guardian Armour Set from before. Where the former had been terrifying, this was regal, bold—a sculpture of power and poise.
It was forged in a deep, gunmetal steel with soft silver veins curling along its surface like stylized vines or waves. The breastplate was broad and flawless, molded with a slight curve to resemble the torso of a titan, a subtle swirl engraved at its center like a crest of nobility lost to time. The pauldrons were immense—towering and angular—each flaring outward with ornate ridges carved into sweeping arcs. They gave the impression not just of protection, but of majesty.
The arms were plated in segmented bands, sleek and almost fluid in design. The gauntlets, though heavy, had an elegance to their structure—each finger joint molded with near anatomical precision.
Its greaves were robust and fitted, marked by spiral engravings and raised ridges that swept downward like currents carved into stone. Flowing between its legs and beneath the waist armor was a dignified half-skirt of blackened cloth, trimmed in muted bronze—war-efficient yet ceremonial.
The helm was the crown jewel: a faceguard devoid of expression, smooth and impenetrable.
It was less a suit of armor, and more a symbol—an echo of a mighty order. Radiating strength, discipline, and honor hardened by countless hammering.
Asher stood still, caught in the silence.