The path to Logos's workshop wound through a half-finished courtyard where piles of scrap metal, broken automata parts, and disassembled weapon housings cluttered the stone. The sun was high, glinting off bronze gears and twisted pipes, giving the entire place an uncanny shimmer. The air smelled of oil, charred crystal, and hot iron—an odor that never seemed to fade no matter how often servants tried to sweep the place.
Lucy led the group at a brisk pace, her arms folded tightly behind her back. Behind her came Bal, tall and unhurried, flanked by three others—Masen, Desax, and Kleber. They weren't dressed in parade armor like some knights; their gear was service-worn, scarred from years of use, but kept functional. Mercenary veterans elevated into service, not pampered noble sons.
"Are these the only ones you have?" Lucy asked over her shoulder, her tone edged with skepticism.
Bal snorted. "Look, if I knew an eleven-year-old boy could talk me into following him, I'd have worked harder to scrape up influence. Be grateful I brought these three at all. Most men wouldn't risk their reputations—or their necks—on a child's promises."
Masen, the eldest of the three, grumbled low. "And with good reason. If it's exactly as Bal said, then we're already neck-deep in trouble."
"Trouble's the only constant in this keep," Desax muttered.
Kleber, the youngest, adjusted his gauntlet with a smirk. "Better trouble than boredom."
He stopped mid-step, squinting ahead. "Hey—what's that?"
All four raised their heads. Something was moving around Logos's workshop. Circling it. Fast.
At first it was just a blur—a flash of brass and violet light streaking past the stone arches, the rush of displaced air sharp against their ears. Then, as it slowed, the shape became clearer: a tall, lean figure, armored from head to toe, built narrower than the keep's hulking Armatus frames but far more agile. The body was brass and iron, but the face was a twisted, angular mask of a demon, its eyes glowing a haunting violet.
"…Looks like armor," Desax said carefully. "But isn't that a bit small?"
"It's about the size of a man," Masen muttered. "But no knight I've seen moves like that."
Kleber's hand went to his sword hilt instinctively. "You sure it's not a cursed construct?"
Lucy let out a long-suffering sigh and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Young master!"
The figure skidded to a halt, dirt scattering under its feet. The demonic face snapped toward them, violet eyes burning bright. Then it lowered its stance and charged—
—all the way up to the group before stopping mere paces away.
Lucy didn't flinch, though the three knights immediately shifted their grips on their weapons.
From within the armor, a familiar voice spoke: "You are here already."
Lucy's shoulders relaxed. "Of course."
The demon's faceplate hissed, folding back in a series of clattering clicks until it opened like the petals of a metallic flower. Seated within the narrow cockpit was Logos Laos himself, pale-faced, his expression utterly calm, the violet glow of mana-crystals reflecting across his features. He looked smaller than ever inside the machine, and yet, somehow, more commanding.
Bal was the first to break the silence. "…That's a child."
Logos blinked at him. "We met three days ago." He turned his attention to the group, nodding once. "Good. You've brought the others. That will save us time."
Masen frowned, still staring at the frame. "Boy, do you have any idea what that thing looks like from the outside?"
"Of course." Logos adjusted a lever inside the cockpit, making the suit straighten to full height. "It looks exactly as I designed it. A frame for testing a new mobility system."
Desax snorted. "Mobility system? Looks more like a nightmare with legs."
"I made the face in a hurry," Logos admitted with unusual bluntness.
Lucy pressed her lips thin. "You nearly gave Bal's men a heart attack."
"This is a test model," Logos continued, ignoring her tone. "Prototype for high-speed movement. The balance is still imperfect—the knee joints overheat after prolonged strain—but otherwise the results are promising."
Bal stepped forward, circling the suit with a calculating eye. His voice was dry but measured. "Promising is one word. Dangerous is another."
"All innovation is dangerous," Logos replied immediately, his young face firm, almost severe. "The difference lies only in whether it serves chaos or order."
Kleber barked a laugh, unable to contain himself. "Gods, Bal, the brat talks like a priest with grease on his hands."
"I heard that," Logos said without looking at him.
Bal ignored the outburst, his arms crossing as he studied the boy. "So, what's the point of this little display? You trying to intimidate us into line? Or just showing off?"
"Neither." Logos's eyes sharpened. "I thought you all would be late. I decided to use the time efficiently."
Masen's brows furrowed. "Efficient? You call nearly trampling your allies a test?"
"Yes." Logos tilted his head slightly, as if confused by the question. "Why? Was there a better use of my time while I waited?"
The three knights exchanged glances. Even Bal had to suppress a short laugh.
Lucy folded her arms, glaring up at him. "One day, Logos, you'll learn there are ways to test things that don't involve giving everyone heart failure."
"Or," Logos countered coolly, "perhaps people will learn that walking into a live testing ground is idiotic."
Kleber smirked despite himself. "Brat's got a sharp tongue. What do you even call this thing?"
Logos blinked once. "…I hadn't thought of a name yet. It is merely Prototype Unit One."
"That's awful," Kleber declared.
Lucy groaned softly. "Maker save me. He's going to rename half the keep 'Prototype Something' if we don't stop him."
Desax raised an eyebrow. "Why not just give it a proper title? At least then people might stop whispering about curses."
"They'll name it themselves," Bal cut in. His tone was dry, but his gaze was steady on the boy. "That's how these things work. And right now? Rumor will call it the Demon of Laos Keep. Whether you like it or not."
Logos's face remained unreadable. "Names are irrelevant to function."
"Not when fear spreads faster than truth," Bal countered. "To half the keep, that thing looks less like salvation and more like the herald of some nightmare."
The violet glow flickered across Logos's pale cheeks. He leaned forward in the cockpit, voice low but steady. "This suit is only for testing mobility systems. It is not a weapon, not yet. A stepping stone toward the new line of armors I will make for the keep."
Bal's lips quirked, half-smile, half-warning. "Then you'd best be ready, boy. Because once people see this, whether you intend it or not—your Demon has already stepped onto the battlefield."