A throne had been erected from piles of stolen crates, smashed machinery, and the bones of the fallen. Standing before it, holding the battered, bleeding Expedition Leader by the throat, was the Iron-Tooth Warlord.
The Warlord was a monster of a Hobgoblin—nearly eight feet of corded muscle and scarred grey skin. But it was his gear that made the air in the room feel heavy and sick.
He was wearing a suit of what looked like living tar.
It was a thick, grey sludge that coated his body like a second skin. But it wasn't uniform. It clustered thickly around the pieces of scrap metal and dwarven plate he had strapped to his chest and shoulders, acting like a binding agent. But where there was no metal—his joints, his lower ribs, his neck—the grey sludge was thin, almost translucent, pulling away as if it had no interest in protecting the flesh beneath.
The Dwarf in his grip saw Gideon. His eyes were swollen shut, his legs dangling uselessly.
"Run..." the Dwarf wheezed, blood bubbling past his lips.
The Warlord laughed—a wet, grinding sound that echoed off the stone. He looked Gideon in the eye, baring yellow fangs.
"Another hero," the Warlord rumbled in broken Common.
He didn't toss the Dwarf aside. He squeezed.
CRACK.
The sound was sharp and final. The Dwarf went limp. The Warlord dropped the body onto the pile of refuse as if it were nothing more than a used rag.
Gideon stopped. The momentum of his charge died, replaced by a cold, heavy silence in his chest.
"Elara," Gideon said, his voice flat. "Stay back."
Elara, who had slipped into the shadows near the door, hesitated. She looked at the massive Warlord, then at the numbers above his head.
[ TARGET: IRON-TOOTH WARLORD (Elite Variant) ][ LEVEL: 35 ]
"He’s Level 35, Gideon," she whispered, her hand hovering over her daggers. "That’s a nine-level gap. He will kill you in three hits if you aren't perfect."
"I’m not dying," Gideon said. He stepped forward, dragging his boots through the dust. He banged his Sword against his shield.
CLANG.
"I’m working."
The Warlord roared, snatching up a massive, rusted iron club that looked like a driveshaft torn from a mining engine. He charged.
The ground shook.
Gideon didn't retreat. He dropped his center of gravity, planting his feet.
"[Radiant Lattice: Shield]!"
The hard-light barrier flared to life, reinforcing the battered steel of his heater shield.
BOOM.
The impact was catastrophic.
The iron club slammed into the shield with the force of a falling building. The Radiant Lattice shattered instantly into a shower of glass-like shards. The force traveled through the steel, through Gideon’s arm, and into his skeleton.
Gideon was launched backward. He slammed into a stone pillar, the breath exploding from his lungs.
[ HP: 920 / 1100 ]
"Heavy..." Gideon wheezed, falling to one knee. His left arm was numb. His shield was dented so deeply it was pressing against his forearm.
The Warlord didn't let up. He was fast for his size. He swung the club again, a horizontal haymaker aimed at Gideon’s head.
Gideon couldn't block that. Not again.
"[Photonic Displacement]!"
SNAP-FLASH.
Gideon vanished.
In his place, a Photon Shell—a glowing, screaming statue of hard light—flickered into existence.
The iron club smashed through the decoy. The shell detonated in a blinding flash of white light.
ZZZT.
The Warlord roared, shaking his head, temporarily blinded.
Gideon materialized in the air behind him, gravity taking hold. He gripped his sword with both hands, the blue vein pulsing violently. He saw a patch of skin on the Warlord’s back where the grey sludge was thin, pulling away from the spine to cluster around a metal shoulder plate.
"[Smite]!"
Gideon drove the blade down.
CRACK-HISS.
The sword bit deep. Radiant energy discharged into the Warlord’s flesh.
The Warlord howled, spinning around with a backhand swing that caught Gideon in the chest before he could recover.
WHAM.
Gideon flew again, tumbling across the floor. He rolled, coming up on his feet, spitting blood.
[ HP: 750 / 1100 ]
"That hurt," Gideon gasped, wiping his mouth. "That really hurt."
Elara took a half-step forward from the shadows, her knuckles white on her daggers. She watched Gideon stumble, watched the Warlord raise the club again. She calculated the distance. She could intervene. She could end it.
But Gideon shook his head, eyes locked on the monster.
"I see it," Gideon muttered, watching the grey armor ripple. "It binds to the metal plates, clumping up for protection. But where there’s just skin... it stretches thin. It leaves the gaps exposed."
The Warlord charged again.
This time, Gideon didn't wait to block. He ran.
He sprinted along the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The Warlord smashed the spot where he had been standing, sending stone shrapnel flying.
Gideon circled. Keep moving. Keep the mana flowing.
"Stand still!" the Warlord bellowed, tearing a chunk of rock from the floor and hurling it.
Gideon slid. The rock shattered against the wall above him, raining dust into his eyes.
He popped up, sprinting toward the Warlord’s exposed flank.
"Not today!"
Gideon leaped. He didn't swing for the armored chest. He swung for the elbow—where the grey sludge was stretched thin between the gauntlet and the shoulder plate.
SLASH.
The sword cut through the grey film and bit into the goblin's tendon. The sludge instantly retracted, pulling back to the metal plates, leaving the wound wide open.
The Warlord screamed, dropping his club. But he didn't stop. He lashed out with his other hand, grabbing Gideon by the ankle.
"Got you, rat!"
He slammed Gideon into the ground.
CRUNCH.
[ HP: 610 / 1100 ]
The world went grey for a second. Gideon tasted copper. The Warlord raised a massive, armored boot to stomp Gideon’s chest flat.
"[Photonic Displacement]!"
SNAP.
Gideon blinked five feet to the left. The boot came down, cracking the stone floor where Gideon’s ribs had been.
Gideon scrambled back, panting, his vision swimming
He looked at the Warlord. The monster was bleeding, but he was still a mountain of rage and iron.
"You are annoying," the Warlord growled, picking up his club again. The grey armor rippled, trying to pull the cut on his arm closed, but failing without metal to anchor it.
Gideon stood up. His legs shook, but he locked his knees. He raised his shield, which was now shaped more like a bowl than a heater.
"And you," Gideon spat, blood dripping from his chin onto his ruined canvas tunic, "are wearing a suit that doesn't fit."
He gripped his sword.
"Round two," Gideon whispered. "Let's see who breaks first."
The Warlord didn't give him time to recover. He roared, swinging the iron driveshaft like a baseball bat.
Gideon ducked. The club passed inches over his head, the wind pressure snapping his hair back.
"[Smite]!"
Gideon lunged from the crouch, driving his sword into the Warlord’s exposed knee joint. The blade bit deep into the cartilage.
CRACK.
The Warlord howled, stumbling. But he didn't fall. He used the momentum of his stumble to backhand Gideon with his armored gauntlet.
THUD.
Gideon took it on the shield, but the force was overwhelming. He was knocked sideways, crashing into a pile of crates. Wood splintered. He tasted bile.
[ HP: 480 / 1100 ]
"You... die..." The Warlord limped forward, dragging his ruined leg, raising the club high for a killing blow.
Gideon looked up. His vision was blurring at the edges. His mana was full—the [Open Circuit] screaming with the stress of combat—but his body was failing.
"Not... yet..." Gideon wheezed.
The club came down.
"[Photonic Displacement]!"
SNAP.
Gideon didn't teleport away. He teleported up.
He materialized ten feet in the air, directly above the Warlord’s head. Gravity grabbed him instantly. He fell, bringing the Reforged Iron Sword down with the full weight of his body and his armor.
He aimed for the neck—where the grey sludge thinned out between the helmet and the chest plate.
"[Smite: Overcharge]!"
He poured everything he had into the blade. The cyan light turned blinding white, humming with unstable energy.
SHUCK-BOOM.
The sword drove into the gap. It severed the spine. The explosive force of the Smite detonated inside the Warlord’s chest cavity.
The massive Hobgoblin went rigid. The iron club fell from his hand with a deafening clang.
Gideon rode the collapsing corpse to the ground, twisting the blade as they fell to ensure the kill.
The Warlord hit the floor. He twitched once. Twice. Then, the red light in his eyes faded.
[ ENEMY DEFEATED: IRON-TOOTH WARLORD (Level 35) ] [ XP GAINED: 15,000 (Boss Bonus + Solo Kill Multiplier) ]
The sound of the level-up was deafening, a chorus of chimes that drowned out Gideon’s own heartbeat.
[ LEVEL UP! ] [ Gideon Vance is now Level 27. ]
[ LEVEL UP! ] [ Gideon Vance is now Level 28. ]
[ LEVEL UP! ] [ Gideon Vance is now Level 29. ]
Gideon rolled off the body and collapsed onto his back. He stared up at the rocky ceiling, gasping for air.
"You cut it close," Elara’s voice came from above.
She was standing over him, looking down with a mixture of critique and relief. She offered him a hand.
"I have... 480 health left," Gideon panted, accepting the hand and groaning as she pulled him up. "That’s plenty."
"That’s one hit," Elara corrected. She kicked the dead Warlord. "But you did it. You killed a Level 35 Variant solo. That’s... impressive."
Gideon looked at the corpse.
Now that the Warlord was dead, the armor was reacting.
The grey sludge lost its cohesion. It stopped looking like muscle and started looking like oil. It slid off the Warlord’s body, pooling on the stone floor in a glistening, viscous puddle. It bubbled slightly, releasing a smell like hot asphalt and ozone.
Elara wrinkled her nose, stepping back.
"Gross," she said flatly. "It’s slag. Industrial runoff that gained some kind of pseudo-animus. Trash loot."
She turned toward the throne, looking for a chest or gold. "Hopefully, he has something better in his stash."
Gideon didn't turn away. He stared at the puddle.
It was repulsive. It looked like industrial waste. But as he watched, a bubble rose to the surface and popped.
Bloop.
Gideon felt a tug in his chest. Not a physical tug, but a magnetic one. The Open Circuit in his veins hummed, recognizing a similar frequency.
"It’s not trash," Gideon whispered. He took a step toward the puddle.
"Gideon," Elara warned, seeing his expression. "Don't touch the murder-goo."
"It binds to metal," Gideon muttered, ignoring her. He remembered how it had clustered around the Warlord’s plates. "It fills the gaps. It’s a binding agent."
He knelt. He reached out with his left hand—the one still strapped to his battered, dented heater shield.
"Gideon!" Elara shouted.
He touched it.
SCHLICK.
The reaction was instant and violent.
The grey sludge surged. It didn't just stick to his finger; it launched itself. Like a living tide, it raced up his arm, coating the steel rim of the heater shield, diving into the deep dents and scratches, filling them instantly.
"Whoa!" Gideon scrambled back, trying to shake it off, but it was too fast.
It raced up his shoulder. Gideon didn't have armor—he just had a shredded canvas shirt and torn pants. The sludge didn't seem to mind. It soaked into the fabric, hardening slightly, but mostly just creating a framework. It wrapped around his belt, forming a magnetic loop for his sword. It coated his rough shoes.
It felt cold. Heavy. Like wearing a wet blanket made of lead.
"Get it off!" Elara yelled, drawing a dagger to cut it away.
"Wait!" Gideon gasped, holding up a hand.
The cold was fading. The heavy, wet sensation was being replaced by a strange, thrumming warmth.
The sludge settled. It hardened.
It didn't give him a suit of plate. It formed a dark, matte-grey lattice over his body—a skeleton waiting for flesh. It reinforced his shield, making the steel seamless again as it slowly repaired the dents and drained his mana. On his chest and legs, it was just a web. It bound the tattered remains of his shirt together, preventing them from ripping further, but it offered no real protection. It was a chassis, waiting for parts.
A burning sensation flared between his shoulder blades.
[ ITEM ACQUIRED: FLUX-SLAG SYMBIOTE ]
[ Description: ]
- Base Material: Liquid "Flux" Steel (Grey, semi-solid).
- Effect: Acts as a universal binding agent. It does not provide defense on its own, but it allows the user to attach and integrate external materials without the need for blacksmithing or enchantment. Will restore equipped items over time. Will drain mana based on gear. If given a power source, it will feed off that source and provide left over mana to your equipment.
[ Upgrade System: "The Glutton's Weave" ]
- You can press raw materials, monster parts, or metal plates into the Flux.
- Cost: Requires a safe environment and a massive Mana dump (1000 MP per part) to "soften" the Flux, allowing it to absorb and fuse with the new material.
[ WARNING: ]
- Binding: To take the armor off, you must expend 100% of your Mana, leaving you defenseless.
- Sustain: The armor requires a constant Mana tithe to maintain cohesion and self-repair. If Mana reaches 0, the Symbiote will feed on HP.
Gideon stood up. He flexed his arm. The grey material shifted smoothly. His clothes were still rags, but now they were magnetic rags held together by a living web.
"It eats mana," Gideon breathed, checking his status bar. His mana regeneration had slowed slightly, the armor sipping from the [Open Circuit] like a background app.
Elara walked around him, her expression twisted in distaste. She poked the grey plating on his back with the tip of her dagger.
"It branded you," she said, pointing to a mark that had formed on the back plate.
It was a jagged, ugly symbol—a cracked anvil with a hammer broken across it.
"The Broken Anvil," Elara read, her voice dropping. "That’s an exile mark. Dwarves use it for smiths who create forbidden weapons or use shortcuts. If any Iron-Hill Dwarf sees that on you, they’re going to attack on sight."
"Shortcuts," Gideon grinned, tapping his chest. The grey web thumped dully against his skin. "That’s exactly what this is. I don't need a forge anymore, Elara. I just need scrap metal and mana. I can build my own suit, piece by piece."
"You look like you're wearing industrial waste," Elara said, sheathing her dagger. "And you smell like a burnt battery."
"I smell like potential," Gideon corrected.
He turned to the Warlord’s corpse, then to the massive vault door at the back of the room. The grey framework on his body hummed, pulsing in sync with his mana, hungry for something to bind with.
"Now," Gideon said, stepping over the body. "Let’s see what he killed an entire squad of Dwarves to get to."