Darkhold Iron Man Novels & Stories

He had a halberd in his hand and was a big man with bulky muscles and a ferocious aura. "Another powerhouse?" Chase frowned. "Surrender, little bastard!" The newly arrived Iron Armor Squadron commander smiled savagely. "You're hiding a secret, so I won't let you get away so easily. Tell me what your secret is!" "I do have a secret, but you don't have the right to know what it is," Chase replied coolly. "Oh? How do you plan to play this out?" The commander's voice sounded increasingly grim. He stepped closer and closer toward Chase, his battle robes billowing despite the air being still. It flapped loudly in the air.

The dark hair on his chest was matted with the dirt of the ridge, his claws extending from his knuckles with a wet, heavy click. From the dense spruce forest behind the split boundary stone, the first of the invaders appeared. They were massive, twice the size of Silas’s timber wolves, their bodies wrapped in thick plates of dark iron that had been bolted directly into their flesh. These were the Iron Hounds, the selective breed of the Southern Council, raised in dark caves and fed on nothing but raw meat and sulfur to make them hate their own kind. Their eyes were bloodshot and wild, their jaws fitted with steel muzzle guards that had been sharpened to razor edges.

There was no time to dodge—she braced for impact. But before the attack could land— BAM! A massive, calloused hand intercepted the strike, stopping it completely. A shockwave burst through the arena, sending dust and debris flying. The master’s eyes widened in shock. Standing before him was a giant of a man—Brutus Ironhide, also known as the Juggernaut. His sheer size dwarfed everyone around him. His massive frame was packed with muscle, his thick arms resembling steel pillars. A square jaw, thick eyebrows, and an almost brutish presence made him look more like a walking fortress than a man.

A young man, dressed immaculately, walked toward them with an air of arrogance. Jasper's face turned red, and he looked incredibly awkward. "Who are you?" Penny asked curtly, not hiding her annoyance. Today had brought an unusually high number of uninvited guests, each more insufferable than the last. The young man proudly introduced himself. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Harry Whitaker." He lifted his chin, a look of superiority on his face. "My father is the chief veteran master of the Celestial Vanguard Sect, known as the Ironfist Titan."

Instead, it left a hole that was the size of a thumb. “What is that?” Everyone was dumbfounded. “That was… an iron man?” Everyone on the island was flabbergasted. The iron man’s appearance also surprised the old man in white and Maxime from a few kilometers away. “How is this possible? Another Demigod is joining the fight?” Renard, who had initially believed he could kill Tyr, was stunned for two seconds as well. Shocked, he looked to the opposite side and saw an iron man floating in front of Tyr, purple flames burning in his eyes.

POV EMMA BELLE The harbor was a graveyard of broken dreams and twisted metal. Malakai hadn't just brought ships; he had brought an industrial nightmare. From the bowels of the Dreadnought, a new horror had been unleashed: the Iron-Hollows. They were humanoid machines of brass and riveted steel, but they didn't run on coal. Their chest cavities glowed with a sickly, captive violet light—the siphoned essences of shifters who had been captured in the Western Isles.

Huge holographic billboards projected the face of a man I didn't recognize—a man with silver-grey hair and eyes as sharp and predatory as a falcon’s. ​"That’s him," Silas whispered, his voice crackling with static over the internal comms of our transport. "The Iron King. To the world, he is Julian Vane, the great philanthropist who rebuilt the power grid after the 'Great Outage.' To us, he is the gatekeeper of the apocalypse, the man holding the keys to the world's survival."

Not of biology, like me, but of iron and hatred. The man stood nearly seven feet tall, bulked out by a crude, industrial exoskeleton. It wasn't the sleek, polished armor of a superhero movie. It was ugly. It was welded together from scavenged mining equipment, stolen military plating, and exposed hydraulic cables. Thick steel plates covered his chest and legs, painted a dull, matte grey. On his right arm, he wore a massive, piston-driven gauntlet that hummed with magnetic energy. On his left forearm was mounted a sawed-off, drum-fed auto-shotgun. But it was his face that froze the blood in my veins.

a voice rasped. It wasn't a human voice. It was a mechanical, harmonic vibration that shook the very foundations of the smelting vats. The Iron Hook sat behind a desk fashioned from the jagged, turbine-blade wreckage of a downed Council drone. His entire right side was a forest of pneumatic hydraulics, his shoulder an exposed nest of copper wiring that hissed rhythmically, keeping time with the city’s heart. He was the monopoly of Iron Ridge, a man who had traded his marrow for a seat at the table of scavengers.

A blast of freezing air rushed in, instantly numbing Vespera’s face. She stepped out. The Ironhold wasn't a palace. It was a fortress carved from black volcanic rock, perched on the edge of a jagged cliff. There were no gardens. No statues. Just high walls, archers shivering in watchtowers, and a courtyard filled with mud and ice. A man was waiting for them. He was massive, clad in battered plate armor, with a wolf-pelt cloak over his shoulders. His face was scarred, and his eyes were hard as flint.