Oblivion Heavy Armor Training Novels & Stories

“When both light and dark are done playing gods.” The ash-petal crumbled, And Liora’s flame flared blue for just an instant. Auren stood before the mirror, shirtless, sweat lining his brow. He had been training since before dawn, sparring against illusions conjured by Theron, Strike. Parry. Lunge. Twist. Repeat. But he wasn’t fighting imaginary foes, He was fighting himself, Every swing of Aurenvai echoed with whispers. “You will be her final death.” “Let go, and the realm survives.”

The impending battle required more preparation than I had anticipated. I took a deep breath, contemplating the challenging yet promising journey ahead. Everything else was temporary, but my goals were now unwavering. I understood the training program would test my limits, but I was ready. ‘We are ready,’Malessia declared, echoing my thoughts. I reached for my clothes, putting on pants and sturdy armor, though I kept it slightly loose for comfort and freedom of movement. I didn’t want anything to hinder me. I then laced a pair of lightweight shoes tightly, eager to run and jump without appearing as some naive omega.

He must say, he doesn't like long, dramatic conversations but he is genuinely thankful that the lady cared for Dayanne. His smile vanished in an instant. Why would he care if someone took care of the girl? It's like his thoughts have been in a trance and now he has snapped out of it. He shook his head when he realized he's being over concerned. He's only here to answer his curiousity and to protect her from the harm he has done unto her. He still carries the blame for letting the hunters know that a rare blood exists. Although hunters are trained to protect, he knows that their leaders are willing to kill one person for the satisfaction of an elite blood.

Zeth said with a swiftness that was almost annoying. Just that? No preamble or orientation. No easing in. Twelve men dispersed around the ground with the coordinated efficiency of people who are used to this kind of thing, while Kardor and the older man remained in their position. The training began and it was harder than I expected, even though I was fit. Father had made certain of that from an early age, running, strength work and the basic physical disciplines of a girl that was being raised in a world where survival matters. But this was different, the drills the barbarian men ran were not the normal disciplined structured exercises of Obsidian’s curriculum. They were older and ancient,

I could still feel the phantom heat of the Patriarch’s throat beneath my grip. I reached my private training solar, a sprawling chamber of stark stone and reinforced iron. I didn’t need the silk-lined comforts of my bedchamber, I needed to bleed the rest of the adrenaline from my marrow. I needed to drain the gold from my vision until the world was nothing but grey stone and black iron once more. I stripped off my formal tunic, flinging it into the shadows. My chest was heaving, the silvered scars of a dozen wars glistening in the dim light. I grabbed a heavy practice glaive, the blackened steel cold in my grip, and began the forms.

Dark fitted training leathers designed for movement. Practical. Comfortable. Deadly. I tied my hair back firmly, glancing once in the mirror before leaving. No silver dress. No Luna. No polished illusion. Just Leah. Or whatever version of her was being forged here. When I arrived at the training grounds, the atmosphere struck me immediately. Massive. Open. Brutal. This was no polished ceremonial arena. This was Tombstone. Stone platforms scarred by years of combat. Weapon racks lining the outer edges.

The heir's mantle settled heavier on my shoulders today—not the choking noose of legacy I'd once resented, but fitted armor hammered true in solitary trials and diad-forging. The east quad sprawled vast and battle-ready before us: a colossal training arena ringed by ancient oaks whose branches twisted into living natural wards—gnarled limbs etched with self-renewing sigils that whispered barrier-spells—flagstones beneath scarred deep from recent shadow-skirmishes, combat circles blackened with plasma-residue and claw-furrows. Damian waited imperious at center-stage, his broad silhouette a commanding monolith even in relative stillness—tailored black wool coat draped over a tactical vest bulg

Mechanics—both baseline humans and Actives with metallic or thermal mutations—were stripping the vehicles down, repurposing the armored plating to forge heavy riot shields and fortified barricades. But the true heart of the Free North was not the forge. It was the training ground. Baraka walked down the carved basalt stairs to the central dirt ring. It was no longer a simple sparring circle; it had been expanded into a sprawling, meticulously leveled dojo encompassing the entire center of the cavern.

Rh‌ea'‍s POV‍ Th‍e second his gloved fing‌ers touc‌he‌d my collar⁠, the pat⁠h‍etic Ome‌ga va‌nish⁠e‍d.‌ I spun on my back with⁠ expl‌osive, blin‍ding‍ speed. Driven by four weeks o‌f brutal northern‌ combat traini⁠ng and three years‍ of p‍ure southe‍r‍n‌ gutter s‌urvival, I brought the jagged i‍ron p⁠ipe up wit‍h every o⁠unce‌ of⁠ strengt⁠h in my b‍o‍dy.

Put away the blades, wipe down the sanding floor, and crawl back to your cell. The Central Training Hall was a massive, subterranean amphitheater carved directly out of the mountain's granite heart. Towering iron racks lined the high stone walls, holding hundreds of heavy combat blades, warhammers, and moon-steel pikes. The floor was covered in a thick layer of fine grey training sand, stained dark by decades of noble sweat and sparring blood. High overhead, iron sconces burned with low blue flame, casting long, twisting shadows across the silent room.