The courtyard had been transformed into an arena. Wooden barriers, hastily reinforced with stone, held back the packed crowd. Miners, smiths, apprentices, and soldiers pressed against them, voices rising like a storm tide.
At the center, five giants of iron stood ready.
Four Armatus frames—battle-scarred, their plating repaired a dozen times from drills and raids—faced Logos' prototype. Each Armatus bore the scars of practical warfare: chipped plating, soot-stained runes, scratches where steel had met steel. They were armed as their riders favored. Masen carried a broad chopping blade nearly as tall as his frame, Kleber's glaive gleamed wickedly in the sunlight, Desax had outfitted his with a shield and spear for control, while Bal, as always, hefted his massive hammer, a weapon designed to crumple armor like tin.
Across from them, Logos' prototype stood apart. Taller, heavier, its armor layered in ridged plates, reinforced joints glowing faintly where rune circuits hummed. It bore a single great axe—blunt-edged, yet its balance spoke of engineered intent. Where the others shifted restlessly, the prototype was unnervingly still, as though every motion awaited precise command.
The black-haired boy inside flexed his hands across the levers. Runes lit in response, his machine mirroring his smallest movement with mechanical grace.
The captains tightened formation, spreading wide to surround him.
Then Logos moved first.
The prototype surged forward with a hiss of compressed air, wheels grinding against earth. Before the captains could react, the axe came down in a vertical sweep. Masen raised his blade to parry, but the sheer momentum crashed through.
Iron shrieked. The outer layer of Masen's Armatus shattered like pottery, jagged shards raining across the dirt. The veteran cursed, leaping free as his frame buckled.
"Are you trying to kill me?!" the old soldier roared, staggering clear of the smoking wreck. His voice carried equal parts fury and disbelief.
Inside the prototype, Logos' voice crackled through the rune amplifiers, perfectly calm.
"It's my first time fighting."
Masen sputtered. "First—?! Damn brat!"
"This isn't fair," Kleber muttered through his amplifying tubes. His voice echoed across the courtyard, a mixture of awe and frustration.
"You volunteering to step down?" Bal's laugh rumbled, hammer spinning lazily in his frame's grip.
"Not a chance." Kleber lowered his glaive into guard, a predator's grin audible in his tone.
The crowd erupted into laughter, easing some of the tension.
But Logos' voice cut through the mirth like a blade.
"This isn't about fairness. It's about data."
The words fell cold. Even the laughter of the common folk dwindled to uneasy murmurs. For many, it was the first time they had heard their lord speak not as a boy or even as a commander, but as something colder—an engineer dissecting the world.
Bal seized the moment. He bellowed, his Armatus charging like a thunderclap. The hammer rose, gleaming, and came crashing down.
The prototype spun on its runed wheels, pivoting cleanly aside. Bal's hammer struck dirt, shaking the courtyard with the impact. Dust plumed, soldiers staggered at the barricades.
But Bal only grinned inside his frame. "Not bad, boy! But you'll need more than numbers to put me down!"
The prototype's axe swung in vicious reply. Steel scraped and plates shrieked as the axe bit into Bal's side armor. The blow tore deep, ripping the plating away like cloth, exposing the captain's face behind sparking wards. A hair's breadth closer, and the weapon would have cleaved through the cockpit.
Bal froze. The crowd gasped.
From within the prototype, Logos' calm voice echoed:
"Recorded. Side armor fails against rotational acceleration. Adjust design later."
Bal's grin faltered. He had been measured, dissected, and dismissed as though nothing more than part of an equation.
"You arrogant little—!" he snarled, wrenching his hammer free, but Kleber was already moving.
The glaive thrust forward in a spear-like lunge. The prototype turned the axe haft sideways, catching the strike, sparks flying as steel kissed steel. Kleber pressed forward, his laughter booming through the amplifiers.
"Finally! A fight that makes the blood sing!"
Their frames locked, wheels screeching, plating grinding, the ground beneath them torn apart by their contest.
Desax made his move. His Armatus darted from behind, shield raised, spear thrusting for the prototype's exposed flank. The crowd roared as three titans collided in a maelstrom of force.
Inside, Logos' expression never changed. His hands shifted in tiny precise motions, every lever, every rune-sequence adjusting like clockwork. The prototype's wheels snapped into reverse, pivoting the machine at an unnatural angle. Desax's spear thrust whistled through empty air.
The axe came around in a brutal arc, smashing into Desax's shield. The impact rang like a bell, denting the metal deep enough to bow. Desax cursed, shoving hard to keep his footing, but the sheer weight drove him back several paces.
"His machine isn't just strong," Desax hissed through clenched teeth. "It's faster than it should be!"
Lucy, watching from the sidelines, folded her arms. Her jaw was tight. "It's not faster—it's efficient. He built it to waste nothing."
Masen, still nursing his pride on the sidelines, barked a harsh laugh. "That efficiency's going to kill you all if you're not careful!"
The duel raged on. Bal rejoined the fray, hammer smashing against the prototype's guard. Kleber circled like a wolf, glaive cutting arcs of gleaming steel. Desax pressed with relentless thrusts. Three Armatus against one.
And yet, the prototype did not falter.
Every strike that landed, Logos noted aloud.
"Impact absorbed. Shock dispersion adequate."
"Joint torque exceeded—adjust piston strength."
"Enemy coordination: average."
Each observation made the captains grind their teeth harder. He wasn't fighting them—he was testing them.
Bal finally roared, breaking the rhythm. His hammer slammed down with such force it cratered the dirt, throwing up dust in a blinding curtain.
Through the haze, Logos' voice carried, steady and cold:
"Test complete."
When the dust cleared, the prototype stood behind them. Its wheels had carried it through the smoke, leaving the three Armatus swinging at shadows. Its axe rested on its shoulder, untouched.
The crowd erupted in disbelief. Some cheered, some gaped in stunned silence. To them, their lord had not only survived against four veterans—he had crushed them.
Bal tore off his helm, face red. "You call that a test?! You nearly killed us!"
"Correction," Logos said flatly, "I nearly destroyed your machines. You were never in danger. Safety overrides were inscribed into the rune matrices."
The captains froze. None of them had even noticed such safeguards.
Desax's voice was dry, but there was a spark of grudging respect. "So even while making us look like fools, you were holding back."
"Not holding back," Logos replied. "Collecting useful data while preventing useless casualties."
Kleber barked a laugh, clapping his glaive against the dirt. "Cold as steel, boy—but damn it all, I like it. Next time, though, try fighting us for real."
Lucy sighed, shaking her head. But in her chest, relief mixed with unease.
The townsfolk cheered wildly, the sound rolling like thunder. They weren't engineers, and they weren't strategists. All they had seen was their young lord clad in iron, standing invincible against four of his strongest warriors.
And that sight planted something in their hearts.
Belief.