Oblivion Iron Armor Novels & Stories

The arrival of the "Void-Vanguard"—the original Shadow Claws now possessed by the Architects' "Liquidation Frequency"—turned the twilight into a funeral. They emerged from the violet-lilies of the forest like ripples in a dark pond, their armor a matte, scentless obsidian, their eyes two solid pools of liquid silver. They moved with the rhythmic, mechanical precision of a clockwork nightmare, their blades creating a low-frequency hum that made the vibrant colors of the North bleed out once again.

The flames turned into jagged shards of orange glass that fell and shattered on the ground. "We can't get close, Emma!" Félix shouted, his daggers useless against the void. "It’s not a physical cold! It’s the Absence of Motion!" I looked at the Iron-Wolves of the South. They were standing at the edge of the plaza, their skin iridescent with the magnetized silver-iron of their new evolution. "Arthur! The Iron-Blood!" I cried. "Your marrow! It’s the only thing with enough density to resist the Zero!"

Its silver blade caught the first light of dawn. "For the kingdom." His voice carried across the valley. "For our future." Thousands of weapons rose into the air. A deafening roar answered him. Behind the front lines, Aurelia tightened the straps of her leather armor. It was lighter than royal battle gear, designed for movement rather than ceremony. Silver threads woven into the dark fabric shimmered faintly, recognizing the blood that flowed through her veins. She stared toward the battlefield. Thousands of lives. Thousands of choices. Thousands who would never return home. Lucian approached quietly.

Moriah was gazing at his reflection. His tight black armor was made from iron, the breastplate was lined with transmuted thin craft of gold, the symbol of his army Wolf was carved in the left side of the plate. He saw his gesture in the mirror, as cold as always, two piercing and cruel eyes, small stubble around his chin. He blinked, slightly wondering why he was looking at himself, it was unlike of him. It was also a big day for him.

Vale moved in front of Lyra without hesitation, Ronan flanking her left side, Cassian her right, Malachai behind. “I hate that this formation makes sense,” Cassian muttered. Vale’s voice vibred low. “Silence.” The storm pulled itself inward, folding, compressing— until a figure stepped out. A tall silhouette in armor carved from pale bone. Antlers curled from its helm like sharpened branches, each one inscribed with lines of ancient script. The armor was not dead material—it breathed, faint flashes of silver and red pulsing under its surface like veins. And the air around it…

Eriyumilai stood proudly between Blake’s legs. Eriyumilai’s sleek, muscular frame was now clad in matching black armor, intricately designed to complement Blake’s suit. The armor was both elegant and functional, with sharp, angular lines that mirrored the pup’s natural strength and agility. Spikes adorned his shoulders, and the chest plate gleamed with a polished finish, offering protection while enhancing his intimidating presence. The pup’s eyes, still bright with youthful energy, now held a fierce determination, his sharp teeth barely visible beneath the armor that covered his strong, battle-ready jaw.

Not that ze wanted to flirt with anyone, but rather to get the discounts that only a silver tongue could pry out. Eva noted that the suits of armor were also like the rest of the tech - at least a generation old. A few were even older than that. But for the most part, they were still highly protective and worked well enough. At least, for more basic threats. There were also some kitbashed armor sets on the stands. It was as though they were put together with the scraps the armorer had left. Their colors were completely off, and in some cases the designs simply didn’t match.

He pondered for a while and said, “There is a family that works with my clan, and they use Preitium from the deep sea to create Preitium Armor. Even at the highest temperature, this Preitium would not melt. Is it tough enough to withstand the hellish lava?” Blind Ivan nodded and said, “Maybe, but the odds should be fifty percent. If Young Master Vlad puts on the Preitium Armor and enters the Devil’s Eye, it would be great if he could block the invasion of the hellish lava. What if that armor can’t stop it? Wouldn’t it kill the young master in the Devil’s Eye?” Carwyn’s expression became more solemn. He said, “Your tone suggests that there is no other way to get around it?”

Neither Mom nor Dad spared me a backward glance. From that day onward, I learned to stand on my own two feet. I had to take care of myself. I was only six years old when I faced the loneliness, the danger, and the helplessness of life on my own. I forced myself to be strong and resilient. I forced myself to be independent. I made sure to build a tough armor around myself to protect myself from harm. My armor was close to perfect during my childhood and teenage years. However, on the night of my 18th birthday, the first crack started to form in my carefully-crafted armor.

Curse on them all, he would now have to slay Olobiri quickly, which would be less than the madman deserves. His challenger already stood waiting. Olobiri, the skeleton smith, the bone gatherer, the bane of Benin was albino, tall and handsome. Nearly as tall as Arualan, wider at the shoulders with arms the size of tree trunks. Garbed in his terrible bleached bone armor, a large buffalo skull for helm sat firmly on his dreadlocked head. In each of his hands, he held a long-jagged knife made of bones; a collection of human skulls decorated his waist, clattering together in the evening breeze, finger bones taken from his victims, held together on a string was tied around his neck. Olobiri was ap