Chapter 175: IronKnight

  IronKnight stood amidst the ruins of Vitoria, the iron helm covering his face, concealing any expression—but the weight in his stance was undeniable.

  His black Stone Tower robe fluttered in the wind, brushing against the scorched, bloodied earth, his iron-plated armor clinking softly with each step, as its shape was obvious underneath the robes..

  The air was thick with smoke and the heavy scent of burning flesh and charred wood.

  Ash drifted through the dimming sky like a slow, silent snowfall, and in the distance, faint embers flickered, remnants of the devastation that had consumed the town.

  Behind him, a handful of survivors—broken officers, weary defenders, and trembling civilians—huddled together in silence.

  Their uniforms, once pristine, were tattered and stained with soot, blood, and grief. Some curled into themselves, staring hollow-eyed at the ground, while others mourned in quiet sobs.

  Bodies littered the area—civilians, officers, and monstrous hounds alike, their corpses twisted and scorched.

  The hounds, their bodies once wreathed in unnatural flames, now their grotesque forms leaving behind only charred husks and pools of molten ichor.

  But the worst was yet to come.

  Iron Knight’s grip on his longsword tightened as he lifted his gaze toward the center of the destroyed town.

  There, standing like the gaping maw of hell itself, was the fissure of fire—a jagged crack in the earth, pulsing with an ominous orange-red glow.

  From its depths, waves of searing heat radiated outward, sending distortions through the air.

  It had been weeks since the first of these creatures had emerged. The first few had been manageable, each flaming hound fought and slain by the town’s officers.

  But as time passed, each wave grew stronger—larger packs, larger beasts, each more feral than the last.

  And now, the fifth wave was coming.

  Iron Knight could feel it—a monstrous presence, something more than just another pack of hounds.

  The pressure that seeped from the fissure’s depths was something he had not felt before. His heart was steady, but his mind was heavy.

  He had made a mistake in not calling for urgent reinforcements earlier.

  He turned toward one of the remaining officers, a man still grounded in reality, unlike the others who were too shaken, too broken to continue.

  “Victor.” His voice was calm, authoritative—cutting through the despair like a blade.

  The officer flinched, snapping his head up toward Iron Knight, his face pale from exhaustion but his eyes still holding a glimmer of awareness.

  “Take the others. Get them to the outskirts. Keep them out of the next wave.”

  Victor hesitated. “Sir, I—” His voice faltered. He looked around at the scattered remains of their forces. “The next wave will kill us all. Even if we run… it might not matter.”

  Iron Knight turned his head slightly toward the fissure, the glow of the fire reflecting off the black steel of his helmet.

  “Maybe not.”

  Victor swallowed, reading the unspoken meaning behind the words.

  Iron Knight was going alone.

  He nodded, then turned to the others, trying to rouse them, to drag them from their despair. Some would follow. Others wouldn’t. But he would try.

  As Victor moved to rally the survivors, Iron Knight turned away from them and began walking toward the town’s center—toward the heart of the fire, toward the unknown horror that awaited in the depths of the fissure.

  The clang of his armor echoed as he moved, his blade resting loosely at his side, each step pushing through the ash-covered ground.

  The sky darkened.

  Iron Knight stood motionless, a lone figure in a battlefield of ruin and fire, surrounded by the stench of death.

  Before him, a massive fissure yawned open, its depths seething with a heat that made the air waver.

  Then, without warning, a pillar of fire erupted from its depths, roaring into the heavens like a call from the underworld itself.

  The flames licked the sky for a few moments before receding, leaving behind five monstrous creatures in their wake.

  The dog beasts stepped forth, each as large as a caravan, their twisted bodies wreathed in embers and seared flesh.

  Each one bore two grotesque heads, their muzzles lined with jagged fangs, saliva dripping from their jaws like molten tar. Their eyes, hollow pits of flame, darted around, searching for something—anything—to rip apart.

  Iron Knight watched them with unwavering determination, the twin purple lights glowing from the slit of his helmet flickering like torches in the night.

  His black robes billowed, revealing the layered plates of enchanted armor beneath, each piece etched with intricate sigils of an apostle who had walked the path of darkness.

  Slowly, he raised his armored right hand, parting his cloak. A thick black mist coiled around his palm, writhing like a living shadow before condensing—solidifying into the form of a massive, two-handed greatsword.

  The blade was pitch black, absorbing the light around it, emanating a dark aura that pulsed like a heartbeat.

  The creatures snarled. Then, as if a silent command had been given, they charged.

  Iron Knight gripped his sword with both hands, his body lowering into a stance. He was prepared.

  The first beast lunged, its twin heads spewing fire, the heat licking at his armor as it closed in.

  Iron Knight sidestepped, his cloak whipping behind him, and in a swift, controlled arc, he swung his greatsword—a massive slash that barely missed as the hound pivoted at the last moment.

  Before he could recover, another beast struck from his left, its maw snapping shut just inches from his shoulder.

  With practiced efficiency, he twisted his grip, using the flat of his greatsword to parry the attack before rotating his body in a fluid motion. With a brutal backswing, he cleaved through another beast lunging from behind, splitting it open from chest to hind leg.

  But the moment its corpse hit the ground, its body began to convulse.

  Danger.

  Instinct took over.

  Iron Knight threw himself back just as the slain beast erupted in a fiery explosion, the force shaking the ground and sending up a shockwave of heat and debris.

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  He barely avoided it.

  As he rose to his feet, the remaining hounds wasted no time, rushing at him once more. Their movements were relentless, their coordination precise—they weren’t mindless beasts; they were strategic killers.

  But so was he.

  Instead of retreating, Iron Knight planted his greatsword deep into the earth.

  The moment the tip touched the ground, a surge of dark energy pulsed outward—a pillar of shadow erupted beneath him, sending out a wave of crushing force that hurled the creatures off their feet, their snarling bodies twisting mid-air before crashing onto the cracked earth.

  For a moment, everything fell silent, only the crackling flames of the battlefield filling the void.

  Iron Knight stood tall, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword, the black mist around him pulsing, thickening.

  This was a challenge unlike any he had faced before.

  And he relished it.

  His aura flared, the darkness within him thrumming with excitement.

  Then—a voice cut through the night.

  "IronKnight!"

  The call was sharp, urgent.

  He turned his helmet slightly toward the sound, his glowing purple eyes narrowing.

  Someone was approaching.

  Iron Knight turned his helmet toward the source of the voice, as he caught sight of a lone figure walking through the carnage with an unsettling ease.

  The young man, no older than his early twenties, bore an unusual air of nonchalance as he approached.

  His dark green hair, an unnatural shade, fell just above his shoulders, and his golden, goat-like eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.

  A handsome face, sharp and refined, held a faint smile—as if the grotesque battlefield surrounding them was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  Draped in the flowing black robes of the Stone Tower, the man moved with an unhurried confidence, the silver badge pinned to his chest confirming his status.

  Strapped to his back was a massive longbow, nearly his own height, crafted from a fusion of gnarled bone and entwined foliage.

  At his waist, tied loosely, hung a mask of a green goat, its curved wooden horns decorated with twisting vines and sprouting leaves.

  As he walked, the earth responded to his presence.

  Thin roots crept along the scorched soil, wild grass sprouted in patches beneath his every step, and delicate weeds grew defiantly from the cracks of the shattered landscape.

  Even the corpses of the slain dogs were not spared—tiny sprouts of green wormed their way through the cracks in their flesh, as if nature itself sought to reclaim what had been tainted.

  IronKnight immediately recognized him.

  There weren’t many Apostles with such striking hair and an unmistakable connection to nature.

  Apostle Huntsman.

  A formidable tracker, hunter, and archer, Huntsman had made a name for himself through his sheer adaptability.

  Despite being a non-gifted Apostle, he had carved his own path, wielding the power of nature in a way few others could.

  But Iron Knight cared little for birthright.

  All that mattered was the badge.

  And Huntsman was an ally.

  The presence of another apostle seemed to give the remaining two-headed dogs pause, their glowing ember eyes flickering with hesitation as they felt the new pressure in the air.

  Huntsman’s easy smile widened slightly. “Seems I arrived just in time,” he mused, tilting his head as if assessing the monstrous beasts before them. “Apologies for interrupting your fun, but I figured you’d appreciate the help.”

  His golden eyes flicked to the corpses of the slain hounds, noting the charred remains and lingering darkness. “Though… I fear my natural affinity might not be the best match for these creatures.” He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “So I’ll have to fight a little differently.”

  With a casual grace, Huntsman reached for the mask at his waist, lifting it to his face.

  “Excuse my rudeness—I’d rather finish this quickly.”

  The moment the wooden mask touched his skin, a surge of energy exploded from his body.

  A dark green aura erupted from beneath his robes, spiraling around him like a violent tempest of leaves and vines.

  The very earth beneath his feet trembled as thick roots burst forth, coiling around him like a cocoon of living wood.

  Then, in a single breath, the swirling vegetation retracted—absorbing into his form.

  What emerged was no longer the calm, smiling young man from before.

  Huntsman had transformed.

  His once-human frame had shifted into that of a hulking, weregoat-like figure, standing taller and broader than before.

  His arms and legs rippled with lean, predatory muscle, coated in a layer of thin, vibrant green leaves instead of fur.

  His horns had grown, stretching outward like ancient gnarled branches, their surfaces covered in creeping vines and blooming flowers.

  His fingers had sharpened, his claws black as bark, exuding a faint glow of natural mana.

  The scent of earth and fresh wood filled the battlefield, momentarily clashing with the scent of burnt flesh and sulfur.

  Iron Knight watched silently, unmoving, his glowing purple eyes flickering with intrigue.

  Huntsman reached behind him, gripping his towering longbow in one hand.

  With the other, he reached toward the ground—where the roots at his feet responded immediately, twisting and stretching upward, forming into a quiver of newly grown arrows.

  He plucked one effortlessly, nocking it onto his bowstring.

  His green eyes gleamed beneath his mask.

  “Let’s hunt.”

  Iron Knight exhaled, the motion unnatural—more of a ripple through the darkness that formed his being than an actual breath. He reached up to his helmet with one massive, gauntleted hand and slowly removed it.

  The moment the helmet left his form, there was nothing beneath it.

  No flesh. No bone. No face.

  Only two faint purple lights and pure blackness, writhing and shifting like living smoke, as if the very concept of a knight had been stripped of all humanity and left only a vessel of darkness.

  Then, that black aura expanded.

  It surged outward in thick, rolling waves, twisting around him like an unnatural fog, warping the space it touched.

  His form grew—three times his previous size—until he stood like a monolithic warrior of shadow, his titanic greatsword pulsing with an eerie, malignant glow.

  Huntsman, still in his weregoat form, glanced upward at the hulking figure of darkness.

  His green goat-like eyes gleamed, impressed. “You’ve already digested your second rune.”

  Iron Knight’s voice, now an echoing, distorted growl, responded simply. “Yes.”

  Huntsman gave a small, approving nod, but inwardly, he was already analyzing himself. He was still in the early stages of digesting his second rune, and any form of success would most likely come in a year.

  His own power was growing, but he had yet to fully integrate it into his being the way IronKnight clearly had.

  There was no time for self-reflection.

  The two apostles turned their eyes toward the remaining two-headed hounds, their grotesque bodies still twitching as they reacted to the overwhelming power before them. They were no longer hunting.

  They were afraid.

  Then, behind them, the fissure pulsed again.

  A deep, hellish rumble echoed from the fiery depths of the cracked earth, like a warning—or perhaps a summoning.

  Huntsman, sensing the change, tensed. His goat-like legs bent slightly, preparing to move. In a split-second decision, he launched himself into the air, his powerful legs propelling him high above the battlefield.

  As he reached his peak, he prepared to release the nocked arrow on his bow. But it wasn’t just one arrow.

  The moment he loosed it, the single shot multiplied mid-air, splintering into thousands—each fragment becoming a deadly, razor-sharp shard of wood.

  Like a rain of death, the arrows fell upon the remaining two-headed hounds, puncturing their bodies with countless piercing strikes.

  They howled and shrieked, but the storm of arrows tore through them mercilessly.

  By the time Huntsman landed lightly on the charred ground, the last remnants of the creatures had already begun to dissolve into blackened husks.

  But victory was fleeting.

  As some of the corpses of the slain hounds crumbled into embers, the fissure pulsed once more—and this time, it vomited forth another infernal pillar of fire.

  But what emerged was far more terrifying.

  Four monstrous hounds leaped from the flames, landing with earth-shattering force.

  Each was twice the size of the previous creatures, their three grotesque heads snarling and snapping in different directions.

  Blackened flames danced along their cracked, ashen skin, and their tails—longer than their bodies—dragged behind them, trailing thick, toxic smoke that curled into the night sky like writhing spirits.

  The very ground beneath them blackened and crumbled, the lingering heat turning soil to molten cracks and corpses to cinders.

  Their eyes burned with unnatural intelligence, as if something more sinister lurked behind those fiery pupils.

  Then, as one, they threw their heads back and howled.

  The resulting shockwave of flame and force sent cracks racing through the already fractured earth, scorching the battlefield and forcing both apostles to brace themselves.

  The air reeked of burning flesh, the scent thick and suffocating.

  Huntsman tightened his grip on his bow. His instincts screamed that these creatures were no mere mindless beasts.

  Iron Knight lifted his towering, black greatsword, the darkness affinity within it flaring with ominous energy.

  Neither Apostle spoke.

  They didn’t need to.

  They both knew what they were in for.

  This was a true battle.