Dunn stared at the Knight Plate displayed on a mannequin. This was to be his armor for the duration of their expedition. And worse, it had once been Ren’s armor. Warrior, help me. Ren was likely plotting to kill him now. In a way, that might even be reasonable—so long as he didn’t resort to poison: a coward’s weapon. After all, he wouldn't want to die such a menial death.
Standing beside the armor were two women—scribed maidens. Their faces were hidden beneath golden hoods, and their bodies were inscribed with an array of weakening symbols. Dunn found himself stunned for several reasons, each layering atop the last.
He had anticipated this moment. The Golden Knight had alluded to it in their last meeting, but Dunn hadn’t believed it a true possibility. Knight Plate was far more valuable than even the finest Shard Armor. Yet somehow, the radiant sir had managed to wrest it from Ren’s grasp.
Not only that, but the armor was no longer bonded to Ren. This meant anyone could claim it, and it would become theirs. He was to be that someone.
Dunn stepped closer to the display, letting his eyes linger on the intricate design of the armor. Bulkier than his current equipment, it was composed of countless reddish plates interlocking with dark, gray-edged joints. It was a marvel—a significant upgrade in every sense. He could summon the armor at will, and it came with a sword. It could even repair itself using his energy. Mana, I think it’s called.
The potential it offered was staggering. He would be stronger and faster than any Shard-bearer. He would become a living desolation. Even Adolla, with all his power, would pale in comparison. But as that thought took root, a shiver rippled through Dunn’s body. Adolla. What would that man do if he saw him wearing this? Wouldn’t he drop everything to challenge him to a duel?
That was more than likely.
“Please bond with it,” one of the scribed maidens said softly. Her voice snapped Dunn from his thoughts, which was fortunate—he had been teetering on the edge of refusal, fearing that Adolla might ignite their entire encampment in a frenzy of battle.
Not that he had the luxury of refusing. This gift came directly from the radiant sir. To reject it would be tantamount to spitting on the generosity of the sovereign ruler. Dunn would be lucky to receive a trial after such an insult; imprisonment in the dungeons for life would be the best he could hope for.
Beyond all that, this armor was a tool of immense power. It elevated its wearer from a special class to a desolation. Not a true one, as he lacked the status of a sanguine and the perks that came with it, but his strength would still surpass that of any normal man. He might even be able to face one of those giants that ruled the domination. Perhaps he could stand against the black-armored stronghands that had attacked their camp not long ago.
And if he couldn’t? Then he would die gloriously, clad in the finest armor humanity had ever forged.
Dunn thought of the radiant sir. Well, second finest, but still not bad.
He lingered for a few moments, his gaze drifting to a random shadow wisp dimming the eternal lamp on the far wall.
“The Chaplain awaits,” the maiden said again, her tone serene and devoid of pride. It was an emotionless voice, one that hinted at absolute devotion rather than apathy.
Dunn knew little about the scribed maidens. The ministries kept them hidden from the public eye, and the symbols etched on their bodies were exhausting to look at for too long. Aside from those details, there was little else he understood about them—save for one thing. They were the Warrior God’s most devout servants.
Perhaps that explained the lifeless voice. Pride had no place among those who served a god.
Dunn stepped closer to the armor until he was mere inches from it. He felt a pang of nervousness, like the first time the legion master had presented him with Shard-Armor.
He would miss his old armor, but in the end, it was just a tool. It had been repaired so many times by the tireless artisans that its originality had long since been welded away.
Drawing a small dagger from his belt, Dunn slid the blade across his calloused finger. A sharp pain flared, followed by the warmth of blood welling to the surface. He pressed the injured finger to the red plates, watching the blood seep into the armor’s interlocking cracks.
A familiar sensation coursed through him. It was as if an additional limb had been grafted onto his body. Though he couldn’t summon the face of the soul like a sanguine, he could feel it—a presence akin to the thrill, coursing through his veins and wrapping him in something both strange and familiar.
The sensation nearly buckled his knees. Ask any Shard-bearer, and they would tell you: nothing compared to the moment of bonding with one’s armor. It was like gaining a silent, unerring companion. A tool that would never betray you.
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It was an otherworldly feeling. A glorious one.
The thrill lasted only a moment longer before Dunn remembered the scribed maidens watching him. He couldn’t very well revel in ecstasy under their gaze. They’ve probably seen this enough times anyway, he thought, refocusing on the new sensation: the extra limb.
It was instinctual. No commands, no words—just a thought. Instantly, the Knight Plate dissolved into black smoke, curling around him. The vapor coiled around his wrists, legs, arms, and face, carrying the acrid scent of sulfur, like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
As the smoke thickened, it solidified into reddish metal, wrapping him in a shell of impenetrable armor. In moments, Dunn stood fully clad, the weight of the armor negligible against his enhanced strength. Where he had once stood eye-to-eye with the maidens, he now loomed over them.
Amazing. I’m like a true warlock...
He attempted to step forward but found his movements unsteady. His legs wobbled, and he nearly stumbled with the effort of a single stride. Despite knowing these were his limbs, the sudden height difference left him disoriented.
This will take time to master in combat. He acknowledged the challenge and couldn’t help but marvel at Ren’s exceptional skill. The man had supposedly mastered the Knight Plate in mere hours. Dunn continued experimenting with the armor, clenching his fists, twisting his torso, and even attempting a few jumps. Each leap left the ground beneath him cracked and fractured, the solid stone yielding to his immense weight.
Oddly enough, he didn’t feel the weight at all. It reminded him of wearing Shard Armor—a sensation of encumbrance reduced to insignificance. Yet this armor seemed even more advanced, almost ethereal.
Perhaps some new kind of shard armor that feels weightless, he mused. The thought wasn’t far-fetched. The Sanctitarium reportedly produced dozens of unique designs annually.
After a few more motions, he managed to find a semblance of balance. Satisfied, he joined the Scribed Maidens, and together, they departed the chamber, heading toward the War Temple.
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Dunn walked through the grand hall of the temple, the bulk of his armor belying its surprising lightness. His gaze wandered to the statues flanking both sides of the path, each one a towering tribute to fallen heroes. He wondered briefly if his own image would join their ranks should he meet his end in battle. Then again, it hardly mattered. In death, such honors were meaningless.
The temple, carved into the heart of an artificial mountain, opened up before him. His eyes were immediately drawn to the colossal statue of the Warrior God. He pumped a gauntleted fist in silent respect, his gaze shifting to the priest-adepts bustling about. Despite his newfound strength, being in this sacred place filled him with an odd, gnawing sense of vulnerability.
The Waygate had seen increased use since the arrival of the Golden Knight. Supplies for the expedition, and even new Scribed Maidens had all passed through its profane archway. Dunn despised the construct. If it were up to him, he would have destroyed it outright. But the Radiant Sir had sanctioned its use, and his orders were absolute.
Before long, Dunn spotted the white-hooded Chaplain waiting near the temple’s inner sanctum. He greeted the man with a bow before following him deeper into the mountain. Curiosity gnawed at him. Why had he been summoned? The Maidens had offered no explanation.
It must be significant, Dunn speculated, focusing on the Chaplain’s steady pace ahead of him.
They stopped before a door—a massive slab of black iron etched with glowing, weakening symbols. The sight of it made Dunn frown. He turned to the Chaplain.
“What is this?”
The Chaplain remained silent, his hooded face unreadable. He gestured to the Maidens behind them. Oddly, Dunn had nearly forgotten they were there.
At the silent command, one of the Maidens stepped forward, pressing a delicate hand against the iron surface.
“You are about to learn why the Radiant Sir has come to this place,” the Chaplain said, his voice low and deliberate.
Dunn’s brows knit together. What in the Warrior’s name? He glanced at the Chaplain, then back to the Maiden, her hand still resting on the door.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Instead of answering, the Chaplain issued a single word. “Open.”
Light flared from the Maiden’s body—or more precisely, from the strange symbols inscribed upon her skin. The sigils radiated a harsh white glow that spread to the inscriptions on the door. Dunn instinctively reached for his sword.
Red flames curled around his fingers, solidifying into an obsidian-black chain blade. He raised it high. Striking down a Maiden was forbidden, but what he witnessed felt heretical. He was a Legionnaire, sworn to protect humanity from such profanities.
Before his blade could descend, a golden sword of light intercepted his strike, halting it above the Maiden’s head. Staggering backward, Dunn turned to the Chaplain, who now held the luminous weapon.
“What is this?” Dunn’s voice grew sharp with suspicion.
The Chaplain remained calm, studying him with an unreadable expression. “I expected a more tempered reaction,” he said. “Instead, you behave like that one—Adolla, I believe.”
The mention of Adolla sent a chill through Dunn. Could the Chaplain be involved in something profane?
His thoughts were interrupted as the Maiden screamed. Her entire body now glowed with a blinding intensity, like a miniature sun. But her usual composure was gone, replaced by raw, primal terror.
Dunn stepped forward, reaching out, but before he could intervene, the light vanished. Where the Maiden had stood, only ash and charred cloth remained.
Wide-eyed but steady, Dunn felt the familiar surge of the thrill coursing through him. He was a soldier, sworn to act in humanity’s defense. Whatever was happening here, it was wrong. Raising his sword again, he prepared to strike down the Chaplain.
The door suddenly creaked open, and a thunderous voice echoed from within.
“Stop, Legionnaire Dunn!”
The command carried such overwhelming authority that Dunn collapsed to his knees. His Desolation Plate should have protected him, yet he was utterly subdued.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced through the doorway. His eyes widened at the sight of massive golden boots. Raising his gaze, he beheld the imposing figure of the Golden Knight, his spear held ready as always.
Why is he here?
The Golden Knight stepped forward, his voice calm yet commanding. “This is why we’ve been using the Waygate more frequently. This door is a Paragon Engine of immense power. Opening it required potent mana,” he explained, his gaze flickering to the ashes on the ground. “All of it.”
The knight extended a hand, his massive gauntlet engulfing Dunn’s. Even in his armor, Dunn felt dwarfed by the Golden Knight’s presence. With a firm pull, he was brought to his feet.