Deep in the Panzer Paladin’s dormant core, Flint processed that reply. Then, quietly, he began to dream of new weapons.
She hit Malachar’s shield at the apex of its rotation cycle. The hex plates screamed, fractured, and died. Her gauntlet punched through his chest console and lifted him off the ground.
The warlock-engineer stood at the rear of the Phalanx, surrounded by a rotating shield of hexed plates. He wasn’t fighting. He was observing . Recording. Ariane realized with cold horror that this wasn’t a battle—it was a field test. He was learning how the Paladin fought.
Silence. Then: "...I am still here. Barely. Power reserves: 0.3%. Enough for one thought every few minutes."
"Do it."
The demonic horde below had a name whispered by refugees: the Black Phalanx. They were not born; they were rendered —corrupted code given iron flesh. Their leader, a warlock-engineer named Malachar, had spent decades reverse-engineering humanity’s own war-forges. Now his legions marched in perfect, silent lockstep, each carrying a blade that could shear through reinforced bunker walls.
