What had changed wasn't massive—there was no grand eruption of power, no fiery awakening of a soul—but it was just enough. Enough to shift the very framework of its being. Enough to cause a ripple in the endless stillness that had once defined its existence.
Was it enough to think for oneself? To strategize? To ponder life and death?
No, it was none of that.
Instead, it was the kind of change that brought with it awareness—simple, raw awareness. A new perspective, born not from intellect, but from something deeper. Something far older. A flicker of will.
This 'Living Armour' had once been hollow—nothing more than a puppet draped in iron. A machine of war, cold and unthinking, whose sole purpose was to defend the dungeon's decrepit halls and slay all intruders without question. But now, that changed.
A new spark ignited.
Where it once walked with mechanical efficiency, its movements were now scrappy, uncoordinated—like a child attempting its first steps. Its heavy metal boots scraped along the floor before its momentum betrayed it, sending its plated body tumbling forward. The pointed curve of its helmet struck the ground with a resounding clang.
The 'Living Armour' could not groan from the fall, for it did not yet understand such a concept. It lay there, splayed against the cold stone floor of the castle, motionless for a moment.
Then, it began to move.
Slowly, uncertainly, it pressed one hand forward, armored fingers spreading open and clutching at the gritty stone. With a groan of protesting joints, it pushed upward, lifting itself onto one knee in a posture that resembled reverence or perhaps supplication. It did not yet understand why. It simply moved.
Its hand brushed against something long and cold its fallen sword. The weapon lay beside it, partially buried beneath the hem of its plated foot. It gripped the blade not by the hilt, but the edge. A poor mistake, but one born of ignorance rather than recklessness.
The 'Living Armour' raised the sword above its shoulder, then slowly shifted it downward. Using the blade as a makeshift crutch, it attempted to lift itself again. The sword handle held onto the stone floor, the sharp edge resisting the weight placed upon it. Sparks kissed the air as it scraped along the armour. For the Armour hand placed the handle on the ground while gripping it's sharp tip.
But then—the sword slipped.
With no support left beneath it, the heavy creature lost its balance once more and collapsed backward, this time crashing through a stack of withered barrels and ancient wooden crates. The old wood exploded into a flurry of splinters and dust, the crash echoing through the abandoned halls like the roar of a collapsing tower.
[ DING!! ][ DEFEATED 'CELLAR SPIDER' ][ GAINED 2 EXP ][ DEFEATED 'BLACK ANT' x12 ][ GAINED 3 EXP ][ GAINED '1' WILL ][ GAINED '12' WILL ]
The system's monotonous chime rang through the air, unheeded by any but the one who had triggered it.
From beneath the rubble, the 'Living Armour' stirred. First a hand emerged, clutching at the ground. Then came the head, helmet scratched and dirtied by its fall. Slowly, painstakingly, it pulled itself free from the broken remains of the storage area.
Now standing upright again, it moved with more clarity—more balance. It had learned.
Its talent—Thy Will Be Done—was now active. This innate gift allowed the 'Living Armour' to extract fragments of Will from defeated creatures. Though the insects and vermin it had crushed were weak, their meager thoughts and instincts were enough to grant it enough awareness. Each spark of Will was a fragment of identity, and the 'Living Armour' had begun to collect them.
It turned its gaze forward.
Ahead stood two other 'Living Armours,' each silently patrolling the throne room's boundaries. One moved near the open heavy main door; the other wandered close to the crumbling wall opposite.
They bore swords and walked without aim—much like the Willful one once had.
But something was different now. The Willful one had seen how the other Living Armours were holding their swords
The newly aware 'Living Armour' looked at its own sword—now lying once again on the ground—and bent down, kneeling with metallic grace. The sound of iron scraping stone echoed softly as it grasped the hilt this time, not the blade.
It rose again, now fully gripping its weapon properly.
Then, as if guided by instinct or perhaps nascent thought, it realized something: the other two had not acknowledged him. They did not attack. They did not respond. They simply continued their patrols.
They were not threat. Not to him at least.
The Willful 'Living Armour' stepped forward, walking between them toward the throne room's main entrance.
As it moved beneath the broken archway, a shaft of golden sunlight poured through a shattered windowpane, illuminating the dust swirling in the air.
The light fell across its metallic shoulders, casting long shadows that followed behind it like memories it did not possess.
It stepped into the hallway beyond.
There, more Living Armours roamed—silent and unaware of the awakening happening among their ranks. The Willful one observed them, then looked around until its gaze landed on something else: a stairway. It spiraled upward, vanishing into shadow, twisting and turning through the depths of the stone tower.
Sword in hand, it moved.
Each step was an effort. Though it had learned to walk, ascending stairs was another lesson entirely. The sword became a walking stick once more—not misused this time, but wisely leveraged. It leaned into the blade with careful precision, climbing higher and higher with every step.
Finally, it reached the top.
It stood now at the summit of the tower, a narrow platform surrounded by cracked stone and rusted railings. The breeze tugged gently at the tattered banners still clinging to the battlements.
Then it looked outward.
Beyond the tower walls stretched the ruined lands—fields overgrown with ivy, forests curling into the distance, the sky vast and unknowable. It had never seen any of this before. Everything was new. Everything was... strange.
But before it could reflect for long, the sharp clash of metal snapped its focus away.
Clang! Clang!
It peered over the edge, drawn by the noise. And then, it saw him.
A man. This man was none other than Baron
Skin vibrant, glowing in the sun. Wild hair crowned his head—strange and bright. The creature had no words for it, but it knew... this one was different.
It had never seen a human before. But something within the Living Armour stirred.
Its grip tightened around the hilt of its blade. An instinct—an echo from somewhere, whispered in its hollow core:
Kill.
There was no thought. Only compulsion.
The Willful 'Living Armour' walked to the edge of the tower, the metal plates of its body gleaming in the light. Then, with a single, decisive step, it leapt from the height—falling through the air toward the battlefield below, sword poised to strike.