Halochassis

Chapter 58 - Armaros Unmasked

The slums had already descended into utter chaos when Risha caught the black raven gliding through the smoke-filled sky. The bird landed on the broken windowsill beside her, its feathers streaked with ash from the burning district. Tied to its leg was a small, crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it with trembling fingers, revealing a single word written in hurried ink.

RUN.

Nothing else.

She did not need an explanation. The deafening chorus of explosions, steel clashing against steel, and terrified screams echoing through the narrow alleys told her everything she needed to know. The adventurers had finally launched their assault on the slums.

Outside, the Iron Bandits fought desperately against an endless tide of enemies. Fires raged across collapsed rooftops, thick black smoke curling into the crimson evening sky. What had once been a refuge for outcasts and civilians had become a battlefield littered with shattered wagons, broken weapons, and lifeless bodies.

The adventurers overwhelmed the bandits by nearly twenty to one. Worse still, they were leagues stronger. Most Iron Bandits could barely wound a single adventurer before being struck down themselves. Every clash ended the same way—with another bandit collapsing into the dirt while another adventurer marched forward without slowing. The defenders fought with desperate courage, but courage alone could not bridge such a vast difference in power.

Their carefully prepared stockpile of traps had long since been exhausted. Hidden snares lay sprung, dynamite caches had already erupted into towering columns of fire, and the last of their smoke bombs had dispersed into the choking air minutes ago. Every advantage the Iron Bandits had painstakingly prepared had been spent, yet the enemy ranks continued to advance like an unstoppable flood. It was no longer a battle. It had become a massacre.

Determined to buy even a few precious moments for his comrades, Armaros stood alone against hundreds of adventurers. Towering above the burning streets in his dragon form, his obsidian scales shimmered beneath the glow of the flames while molten cracks pulsed across his armored hide. Countless spells streaked toward him in brilliant arcs—magic missiles that crackled with blue energy, roaring fireballs that distorted the air with heat, enchanted arrows that whistled through the sky, and streams of bullets that flashed like silver rain.

None of them found their mark.

Some shattered harmlessly against his armor. Others were deflected by the violent currents generated from his enormous wings, while a few simply vanished into the inferno surrounding him. To the adventurers below, Armaros appeared less like a living creature and more like an unstoppable force of nature descending upon them.

With a thunderous roar that shook the surrounding buildings, Armaros threw back his massive head and opened his draconic jaws. A blinding torrent of crimson fire erupted from his throat, sweeping across the battlefield like a living tidal wave. The unbearable heat vaporized dozens of adventurers before they could even scream, leaving only drifting ash where they had stood moments earlier.

Those who escaped the initial blast suffered an even crueler fate. Their armor glowed red-hot as flames clung to their bodies like hungry beasts. They staggered through the streets, shrieking in agony while desperately clawing at burning flesh or pleading for someone to save them. Their screams mingled with the crackling of collapsing buildings and the roar of the inferno until the battlefield became a symphony of death.

Watching from her hiding place, Risha clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug painfully into her palms.

Adzeel had ordered her to remain hidden and wait for reinforcements. Shin and Aether were supposed to arrive before she joined the battle. That had been the plan.

But Shin's message changed everything.

If Shin himself had ordered them to run, then he had no intention—or perhaps no ability—to come to the battlefield. Whatever had happened elsewhere, it was serious enough for him to abandon their original strategy.

The realization settled heavily in her chest.

Without Shin, the Iron Bandits had already lost their greatest advantage. Judging by the corpses scattered throughout the streets, most of their comrades were already dead.

Closing her eyes for only a heartbeat, Risha whispered, "Awaken... Mastema."

The Halochassis glove wrapped around her arm pulsed with pale violet light. Thin metallic plates flowed over her body like liquid mercury, locking together with soft mechanical clicks until they formed a sleek exoskeleton that hugged every movement of her body. Energy coursed through the armor, humming softly against her skin, while brilliant psychic wings unfurled from her back in a dazzling burst of blue-white light. They shimmered like translucent crystal before lifting her effortlessly into the smoke-filled sky.

"Damn it! There's no end to them!" Adzeel shouted from within Armaros as another wave of unholy flames swept across the battlefield. Even after incinerating dozens, more adventurers continued pouring into the slums as though the deaths of their comrades meant nothing. "Mastema! I told you to wait for reinforcements!"

Risha hovered beside the dragon, her luminous wings beating silently against the smoky air.

"Azazel isn't coming, Leader," she answered grimly. "He sent a raven."

She paused, her voice tightening.

"He told us to run."

"As if that's even an option!" Armaros bellowed, fury shaking the heavens themselves. "Look around you! Our comrades are being slaughtered! Not just them—the civilians too!" His burning eyes scanned the streets where terrified families fled between collapsing buildings while adventurers cut down anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path. "Those adventurers aren't heroes anymore."

"They're animals."

With another deafening roar, Armaros folded his wings and hurled himself toward the ground. Hellfire engulfed his enormous body until he resembled a blazing meteor crashing from the heavens. Moments before impact, he spread his wings wide.

Hundreds of flaming blades burst outward from each wing, slicing through the air in radiant arcs.

"Incoming!" several adventurers screamed.

Panic rippled through their formation. Some threw themselves behind broken walls. Others abandoned their comrades and fled in every direction. Mages hastily raised shimmering barriers while archers scattered, desperately searching for cover.

It wasn't enough.

Armaros tore through their ranks like a divine executioner. His burning wings carved across the battlefield, cleaving armor, flesh, and stone alike. At least thirty adventurers fell in a single devastating pass, their bodies engulfed by unholy flames before they even struck the ground.

The burning streets echoed with their agonized screams as the inferno swallowed the slums whole, painting the night in fire and blood.

The adventurers stared at the battlefield with hollow, defeated eyes. The air reeked of smoke, scorched earth, and fresh blood, while broken weapons littered the cratered ground beneath their feet. Every desperate charge they had made ended in failure, and every sacrifice seemed meaningless against the overwhelming force standing before them. In their minds, Armaros should have already slaughtered nearly a thousand people by now, yet the terrifying truth was even worse. Despite facing an endless tide of enemies, he showed no signs of exhaustion. His movements remained sharp and precise, his breathing steady, and his gleaming Halochassis bore not even a single scratch to show for the countless battles he had fought.

The crushing difference in strength finally broke what little courage remained. One after another, adventurers lowered their weapons and began retreating, their boots crunching over shattered stone as panic spread through the ranks like wildfire. Some glanced over their shoulders, searching desperately for an escape, while others whispered hopeless prayers beneath trembling breaths. Just as despair threatened to consume the battlefield, a brilliant golden light descended from the heavens, illuminating the smoke-filled sky and forcing every pair of eyes upward.

"Don't lose hope, heroes of the future! Our goal is just right in front of our eyes!"

The commanding voice thundered across the battlefield with unnatural clarity, drowning out the screams, explosions, and clashing steel. Adzeel recognized that voice instantly. Beneath the armored shell of Armaros, a cold smirk slowly spread across his lips as he turned toward the source, his scarred hands tightening around his weapon.

It was the Chosen One—Alexander Goldheart.

He floated effortlessly high above the battlefield in a perfect T-pose, as though gravity itself dared not challenge his authority. Rays of golden light radiated from his body, casting long shimmering reflections over broken armor and pools of crimson blood below. To the weary adventurers, he appeared less like a man and more like a divine messiah descending from the heavens to deliver salvation. His flowing golden hair danced gracefully in the wind, every strand gleaming beneath the sunlight, while his piercing golden eyes radiated an overwhelming sense of authority that few possessed the courage to meet directly.

"Alexander... fucking... Goldheart," Adzeel muttered through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with murderous intent.

Inside Mastema's cockpit, Risha felt a chill crawl down her spine. She had heard that tone before, and she knew exactly what it meant. Of everyone in the world, Alexander Goldheart was the one person capable of driving Adzeel beyond reason. Destroying the Chosen One had become more than revenge—it had become the singular purpose keeping him alive.

"Leader..." Risha spoke cautiously through the communication channel, unable to hide the concern in her voice.

Alexander slowly spread his arms, his confident smile never wavering as he addressed the battered army below.

"Listen, my dear adventurers! Those two above the skies are demons incarnate! We must defeat them, or else the Demon King will rise once more and plunge our world into ruin!" His booming voice echoed across the valley, igniting something within every listener. "Fight not for your own lives! Fight not for riches! Fight not for glory! Fight for the generations yet to come—for the children who deserve to inherit a peaceful future!"

He raised his hand toward the heavens, golden mana swirling around him like divine fire.

"We fight with vengeance!"

"VENGEANCE!"

The united roar shook the battlefield. Hundreds of voices merged into a deafening cry that echoed against distant mountains. Fear vanished from their faces, replaced by burning determination. Weapons were raised once again, shields slammed together, and the retreating army surged forward with renewed conviction. In only a few words, Alexander had reignited the spirit of an army on the verge of collapse.

Armaros watched the spectacle in silence before letting out a low, irritated growl.

"That self-righteous bastard..."

His crimson sensors shifted toward Mastema hovering nearby.

"Mastema," Armaros ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze the air, "we're taking down Alexander Goldheart. Right here. Right now."

"Are you sure, Leader?" Mastema asked, momentarily hesitant.

"Retrieve the weapons our Halochassis engineer prepared for us."

"Got it."

With a burst of blue thrusters, Mastema shot across the battlefield, disappearing into the smoke while Armaros remained suspended in the sky.

For a brief moment, silence settled over the battlefield.

Only three figures dominated the heavens now—Armaros, Alexander Goldheart, and the small force of fewer than a hundred adventurers standing steadfast behind their champion. The wind howled between them, carrying dust, ash, and the metallic scent of blood.

"We've met before... Alexander Fucking Goldheart," Armaros said, his voice echoing from behind his mechanical mask.

Alexander slowly drifted forward, his expression calm, almost amused.

"I'm afraid I don't remember. Who are you, exactly?"

A metallic hiss escaped Armaros' helmet as its faceplate unfolded piece by piece. Hidden beneath the armor was Adzeel Schwarzer himself—his dark blue hair matted with sweat, his tanned skin weathered by countless battles, and a face marked by scars earned through years of relentless warfare. Yet none of those features commanded attention more than his eyes, burning with unwavering hatred.

"How about now?" Adzeel asked.

Recognition flashed across Alexander's face before twisting into a smug grin.

"Sir Adzeel Schwarzer." He gave a mocking chuckle. "I've heard the rumors—that you became an Iron Bandit. I never believed them until today."

Alexander tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curling even higher.

"Tell me... does your wife know what you've become?"

The words struck Adzeel harder than any blade.

"Don't you dare talk about Rachel!" he roared.

His furious voice exploded across the battlefield like thunder, startling even the adventurers below. Crimson killing intent poured from his body as mana erupted around his Halochassis, sending violent shockwaves rippling through the sky.

"I am here to take your head, you honorless trash!"

With a sharp metallic clang, Adzeel drew his massive spiked buster sword. The enormous blade reflected the crimson glow of the battlefield as he launched himself forward, his thrusters screaming while the air cracked behind him from the sheer speed of his charge. Every ounce of hatred, every painful memory, and every burning desire for vengeance fueled his assault toward the golden Chosen One.

Alexander didn't flinch.

In less than a heartbeat, radiant golden mana condensed within his hand, rapidly taking shape before erupting into a colossal sword of pure divine energy. Its brilliant light eclipsed the battlefield itself, forcing nearby adventurers to shield their eyes.

Then, with one effortless swing—

A blinding flash of gold tore across the heavens.