The morning sun poured over the sprawling walls of Nineveh, its golden rays striking the ziggurats that towered above the city like stairways to heaven. Merchants shouted their wares in the streets, camels and donkeys clattered along the stone roads, and the Tigris shimmered in the distance like a silver serpent.
But within the Adventurer's Guild, the noise was of another kind. Mugs clattered on wooden tables, mercenaries boasted of their latest kills, and weapons gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
A tall man stepped through the oak doors, his presence quiet yet commanding. Alaric Starhelm — scarred arms revealed beneath his travel-worn tunic, black hair falling untamed, his eyes heavy with the fatigue of too many restless nights. Today marked his first true step as a registered adventurer.
He walked straight to the mission board. Parchments fluttered in the draft, most marked with familiar requests: hunt beasts, escort merchants, deliver messages. But one bore a black seal that caught his attention.
"Recovery Mission: Retrieve a sealed chest from the ruins of Black Hollow — once an Akkadian outpost. Beware of goblin infestations. Reward: 30 silver pieces."
His jaw tightened. It wasn't glorious, but it was a start. He tore the parchment free and strode to the clerk's desk.
The mustached attendant glanced at the slip, then at Alaric. "First mission?"
Alaric gave a curt nod.
"Not alone you won't." The man tapped the parchment. "Treasure recovery requires three. Too many rookies vanish in Akkadian ruins. Find two companions, then I'll stamp it."
Alaric exhaled through his nose. Rules were rules.
Scanning the hall, Alaric spotted a young woman seated alone. Her white hair gleamed in the torchlight, framing a delicate face — though one purple eye was hidden beneath a black eyepatch. The other, sharp and gleaming like an amethyst, watched the room with calm calculation. A tall staff rested against her chair, its runed crystal humming faintly.
Alaric approached. "Name's Alaric Starhelm. I need companions for a mission. Interested?"
The woman looked him over, expression unreadable. Then her lips curved faintly. "You don't waste words. Sure." She rose gracefully, her black cloak shifting like liquid, faint red lines pulsing beneath the fabric. When she moved, the cloak seemed to ripple with something unnatural — wings, perhaps, waiting to unfurl.
"I am Celestria Fawnwell. Mage. My Converter is this staff." She tapped it lightly, and for a moment, the faint shimmer of armor flickered across her form — polished metal plates with a narrow visor hiding her eye. Then it vanished. "If coin is promised, I'll lend you my strength."
Then Celestria followed Alaric as he went to seek the next companion.
Near the mission board stood a tall, lean figure polishing a bow. A hood cast shadow over his sharp features, a dark cloth masking his mouth. Strands of soft blue-black hair escaped the hood, brushing his cheeks. His stance was casual, but Alaric noticed the quickness in his hands, the way he always angled himself toward an open path.
"You hunt alone?" Alaric asked.
The archer looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Depends on the prey." His voice was low, calm.
"Goblin nest. Recovery mission. We'll need precision."
The man chuckled softly, slinging the bow across his back. "Name's Sylas Windrider. Archer. My Converter is this bow." He flexed his fingers, showing leather gauntlets with faint etched runes. For an instant, green armor shimmered over him a hooded cloak flowing with the wind, a massive bow humming with elemental energy then faded. "If you've got the grit, I'll see the arrows find their mark."
At last, the three stood before the clerk. He looked them over the scarred warrior, the pale mage, the masked archer and shook his head with a wry grin.
"Strange company. But the parchment's stamped. Don't let Black Hollow swallow you."
On the Road to Black Hollow
By midday, the trio left Nineveh behind, the sun climbing high above the dusty horizon. The broken silhouette of Black Hollow loomed ahead — once an Akkadian outpost, now a scarred ruin.
As they walked the stony path, Celestria broke the silence. Her purple eye lingered on Alaric.
"You don't carry a Converter. Why?"
Sylas glanced sidelong, adjusting his hood. "I noticed that too. Most adventurers wouldn't last a day without one."
Alaric's tired eyes stayed fixed on the road. "Because I've never been chosen."
Celestria tilted her head. "Never?"
He nodded once. "Converters choose their wielders. I've trained, bled, fought…but none have answered me. Without one, every fight is a storm. Monsters are strong, stronger than steel alone."
Sylas let out a low whistle. "And yet here you stand, still breathing."
"Barely," Alaric muttered. His hand brushed one of the scars along his arm, a mark of countless battles survived by grit alone. "I can't rely on waiting for destiny to choose me. Until it does, I'll keep fighting the way I know how."
Celestria's lips curved faintly, though her eye was thoughtful. "A man without a Converter, standing against monsters. Either reckless…or remarkable."
Sylas smirked. "Or both."
Alaric said nothing more, but in the silence that followed, the ruins of Black Hollow grew larger on the horizon — their jagged stones like teeth waiting to swallow them.
Into Black Hollow
By the time they reached the outskirts, the air was foul with rot and moss. Walls jutted like broken bones, vines strangling what little remained.
Alaric drew his sword, steadying his breath. "The chest should be in the lower vault. Stay sharp."
Celestria's purple eye narrowed. "We're not alone."
The first sound was claws on stone. Then the guttural laughter. Yellow eyes blinked in the shadows, one pair, then ten, then twenty. Goblins, crude daggers and rusted spears in hand, crawling out from the ruins like vermin.
Sylas clicked his tongue. "You didn't mention a nest."
Alaric lifted his sword, voice calm but firm. "Then we clear it."
The goblins burst from the ruins like vermin from a corpse, shrieking with guttural laughter, their yellow eyes gleaming in the half-light. Rusted blades, jagged spears, and scavenged bones glinted as they charged, hundreds of clawed feet hammering against stone.
Alaric's tired eyes narrowed. He shifted his grip on his sword, every scar on his arms burning with the memory of battles fought without armor, without divine gifts — only blood and grit.
Beside him, Celestria raised her staff, her voice a chilling whisper.
"Converter… awaken."
She bit her finger, letting a drop of blood fall upon the black crystal embedded in the staff's core. The weapon pulsed, a deep crimson glow rippling outward. In an instant, the energy engulfed her. Metal plates unfolded across her form, sealing shut with a hiss. A visor of obsidian steel snapped down over her face, the red line etched across it blazing like molten fire. Her cloak writhed unnaturally, stretching, warping — then tearing open into a pair of vast, jagged wings, each feather outlined in crimson light.
She slammed her staff into the ground. Fire licked across the stones.
"Burn!"
The nearest goblins erupted into shrieks as flame consumed their bodies, their flesh bubbling, their crude weapons melting in their hands.
One screeched as its face sloughed off. "Ssscchrrraaagh! Witch! Witch!"
Celestria tilted her head, her voice calm beneath the visor.
"That's right." She thrust her staff forward, and the creature vanished in a storm of fire.
On the other side, Sylas calmly drew his thumb across the razor edge of his bowstring. A bead of blood welled, dripping onto the runes carved into his weapon. The bow pulsed, expanding with a groan like a beast awakening from slumber.
"Converter… respond."
Green light flared around him, swirling into plates of armor that wrapped his lean frame. His hood thickened into emerald steel, his gauntlets sparked with runic power, and the bow he held grew massive, its limbs glowing with elemental symbols.
Sylas smirked beneath his mask, drawing back his first arrow.
"Let's hunt."
The first wave hit like a storm.
A goblin leapt at Alaric, jagged teeth gnashing. He met it with steel, his blade cutting the creature from collar to hip in one brutal swing. Its body spilled open, intestines slapping wetly onto the stone floor.
"Pathetic," Alaric growled, kicking it off his blade.
Another rushed him — he pivoted, thrusting his sword through its mouth and out the back of its skull. Blood sprayed across his scarred arms.
To his left, Celestria's wings snapped wide, a storm of flame erupting with each beat. She raised her staff and swept it in a brutal arc, the crystal glowing red-hot. A column of fire tore across the battlefield, catching goblins mid-leap. Their skin sloughed off as they screamed, bones blackening before their bodies collapsed into ash.
A hulking goblin tried to flank her, swinging a jagged axe. With a flick of her cloak, the black-red wings folded around her like a shield, sparks scattering as the blade skittered uselessly against them.
The goblin howled, spittle flying. "We'll eat your heart!"
Celestria's visor glowed as she whispered coldly, "Try."
She opened her wings with a snap, slicing the creature in half with their burning edges.
On the right flank, Sylas drew and loosed in rapid succession. His first arrow erupted into a wave of fire, engulfing five goblins in a roaring inferno. His second whistled like a shriek, splitting mid-flight into three crackling bolts of lightning — each arrowhead exploding inside a goblin's chest, bursting them apart in showers of gore.
The third arrow gleamed blue-white with frost. It pierced a goblin through the throat, freezing it solid in an instant. The creature toppled over, brittle, before Alaric's sword shattered its body into shards of bloody ice.
"Keep them pinned!" Alaric shouted, slashing down another foe. His blade caught a goblin in the jaw, tearing half its face clean off.
"Already ahead of you," Sylas replied coolly, loosing another arrow that detonated in a cluster of three, leaving nothing but steaming limbs scattered across the stones.
But the goblins kept coming. For every one slain, three more clawed their way out from the tunnels below.
A massive goblin champion roared, its body covered in scars, wielding a club studded with iron spikes. It swung with bone-crushing force, slamming into the ground where Alaric had stood only a second before. Dirt and shattered stone sprayed into the air.
Alaric lunged, sword flashing. He carved into the beast's thigh, splitting sinew and spraying dark blood.
The champion snarled, spitting black ichor. "Man-flesh… mine!"
"Not today." Alaric ducked low, the spikes grazing his hair, and drove his blade up under its ribs. The sword burst from the creature's back, ripping through lung and flesh.
The goblin spat blood and collapsed, twitching.
Two smaller goblins leapt onto Alaric's back, clawing and biting. Their nails raked his skin, drawing blood.
"Get off me!" he roared, slamming one into the ground and stomping its head until bone and brain splattered under his boot.
The other sank its teeth into his shoulder — he snarled and rammed his sword backward through its chest, pinning it like an insect before ripping free.
"You fight like a beast," Sylas called, loosing another arrow. "But beasts die fast."
Alaric spat blood onto the stones, glaring. "Then I'll die standing."
Celestria soared above the fray, her cloak-wings beating. She spun her staff, a vortex of fire spiraling outward. Goblins were lifted screaming into the air, their skin peeled back by heat before they exploded into burning chunks.
One shrieked as it burned alive. "Mercy! Mercy!"
She landed hard, slamming her staff into its chest and whispering, "No." The creature burst into flame.
Sylas crouched low, his gauntlets sparking as he drew another arrow. The bowstring sang, and the arrow morphed mid-flight into a storm of jagged stone shards. They ripped through the crowd, punching holes clean through goblin skulls and ribcages.
"Pathetic rabble," Sylas muttered.
A goblin tried to rush him, dagger raised. Without looking, Sylas slammed his gauntleted fist into its face, caving in its skull with a wet crunch. He drew another arrow in the same motion and shot it into the throat of a charging foe, its head bursting apart in a crimson mist.
"Too easy," he said under his breath.
Still, the tide did not end. Dozens more poured from the broken walls of Black Hollow. The ground was slick with goblin gore, bodies piled upon each other in heaps. The air stank of burning flesh and spilled entrails.
Alaric panted, sword dripping with dark blood, his body spattered with gore. Celestria stood beside him, her crimson visor glowing as flames licked the edges of her armor. Sylas loomed on the right, his emerald hood flickering with runes, arrow nocked and ready.
"Still think you can do this without a Converter?" Sylas asked, his voice dry.
Alaric spit blood from his lip, tightening his grip on his blade.
"I don't need one." He lifted the sword high. "Steel is enough."
The goblin screams slowly dwindled, echoing into silence as the last survivors fled back into the tunnels, limping and shrieking curses in their wretched tongue. The stench of blood, smoke, and burning flesh choked the air.
Alaric leaned on his sword, chest heaving, sweat and gore dripping down his scarred arms. His tired eyes scanned the field piles of twitching corpses, black blood soaking into the cracked stones of Black Hollow.
Celestria stood nearby, her crimson visor dimming as she pressed her staff into the ground. Her black-and-red cloak-wings folded inward, curling back into a normal cloak with a hiss of energy. She lifted her eyepatch, one glowing purple eye gleaming faintly as she whispered, "Converter… rest." The armor peeled back into the staff, leaving her pale and trembling, but her chin lifted with quiet pride.
"They will think twice before crawling from these ruins again," she said softly, her voice edged with cold exhaustion.
Sylas cleaned his bowstring with gloved fingers, shaking blood from his hooded armor. His elemental runes flickered and dimmed before the plates melted away, reabsorbing into his Converter. He exhaled through his mask, lowering his bow.
"Efficient enough. Though I'd rather not waste so many arrows on filth."
Alaric snorted, wiping his blade on a fallen goblin's ragged cloak.
"You're welcome," he muttered.
Sylas glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "For what?"
"For cutting down half their numbers with nothing but steel," Alaric replied, his voice steady despite the crimson dripping from his shoulder.
Celestria turned to him, concern flickering in her uncovered eye. "You shouldn't fight bare. Without a Converter… you'll die sooner than either of us."
Alaric's tired eyes softened for a moment, but he only said, "Then I'll die with my blade in my hand. That's enough."
The three stood in silence for a moment, the ruins groaning around them as if remembering all who had died here.
At last, they pressed deeper into the crumbling Akkadian outpost. Torchlight flickered across broken walls, shattered statues, and carvings half-swallowed by moss and time. The deeper they went, the colder the air became, as though the shadows themselves thickened.
At the heart of the ruins lay a chamber wide, round, its stone roof cracked but still standing. In the center sat the object of their quest.
It was massive, built of blackened wood bound in iron, its surface carved with ancient runes half-buried in rust. Chains crossed its length, and an old Akkadian seal glowed faintly on the lock, whispering of power and things best left untouched.
Celestria's wings twitched faintly before dissolving back into cloak. She tightened her grip on her staff, her voice quiet. "This… feels wrong."
Sylas circled it, running a gloved hand over the runes. "Old work. Dangerous work. Whatever's inside… it wasn't meant for common hands."
Alaric stepped forward, his boots crunching over the stone floor. He placed a scarred hand on the iron lid, the chill biting into his skin. For a moment, he thought he heard something stir not a sound, but a pulse. Like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
He pulled back, narrowing his eyes.
"This is what the guild wants."
"Or what the guild fears," Celestria murmured.
Sylas drew an arrow, ready to notch. "Open it. But stand ready. Chests like these don't guard themselves."
Alaric's sword hand tightened. His tired eyes glanced once at his companions — then down to the sealed chest.
The chamber seemed to breathe around them, the silence heavier than the blood-soaked battlefield outside.
And with a steady breath, they prepared to face what awaited inside.
The chest creaked open with a groan that echoed like a dying beast. Dust spiraled into the air, glowing faintly under their torchlight.
Inside lay not gold, not jewels, but a single object — a gauntlet of black iron, its surface jagged like obsidian shards. Long, cruel nails jutted from its fingers, glistening faintly as though wet with blood. The Converter's core pulsed deep within the wrist, a crimson light beating like a heart.
Celestria's one visible eye widened. "That… that's no ordinary Converter."
Before Alaric could reply, the gauntlet twitched. Then it leapt from the chest with a metallic snarl, striking his arm like a predator.
"Ghh—!" Alaric staggered back, clutching his wrist. The gauntlet dug into his flesh with its nails, piercing deep, blood running down his forearm. The Converter's core flared bright red, fusing to him as if it had been waiting all this time.
"Alaric!" Celestria cried, rushing forward, but a wave of dark energy blasted outward, throwing her back.
Sylas raised his bow, but the emerald glow of his armor flickered, reacting violently to the surge. "That thing—! It's choosing him."
Alaric fell to one knee, gasping as the gauntlet sank its nails deeper, his veins burning with fire. Then, piece by piece, the armor began to manifest.
Black plates crawled across his body like liquid shadow, locking into place with sharp, hissing clicks. A long black cape erupted from his shoulders, rippling with an unnatural wind. From the back of his helmet sprouted a mane of blood-red hair, streaming like flame in the dark chamber.
His visor snapped into place — a single glowing crimson line across his helm. Then the helmet's shape twisted and snarled, forming into the visage of a dragon's head, its jagged fangs etched into the metal.
The air turned heavy, suffocating, as the Converter finished its work.
Alaric rose slowly, the last plates of armor sealing shut. He flexed his clawed gauntlet, its nails glinting in the crimson glow. The chest's runes shattered with a crack, the ancient chains falling lifeless to the ground.
For a heartbeat, silence ruled the chamber.
Then Alaric's voice broke it — deeper now, resonant within the helm, like steel grinding against stone. "…Maker of Swords."
As he spoke, the gauntlet pulsed, and black steel shimmered into existence in his free hand — a jagged longsword, its edge dripping with energy, as though countless weapons slept within the Converter, waiting to be drawn.
Celestria stared, awe and fear in her eye. "Alaric… it chose you."
Sylas lowered his bow slowly, though his tone was sharp. "Or cursed him."
Alaric looked down at the blade in his hand, then to his companions. His tired eyes, hidden behind the dragon visor, burned with a new, terrifying fire.
"…Whatever it is, it's mine now."
The Converter pulsed once more, as if satisfied.
And the ruins of Black Hollow trembled.
The chamber still pulsed faintly with the echo of Alaric's transformation. Dust drifted from the cracked ceiling, and the chains of the chest lay in twisted heaps, lifeless now that the gauntlet had claimed its host.
Alaric stood in silence, the black cape trailing behind him, his dragon helm glowing with a crimson line of light. The jagged sword in his hand shimmered with cold, frost misting from its blade. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Celestria's voice finally broke the quiet. "That… armour. It wasn't forged by human hands."
Sylas kept his bow half-raised, his voice calm but laced with tension. "It came to you like it had been waiting for this very moment. Almost like a curse."
Alaric didn't answer. Instead, he clenched his clawed gauntlet. The nails glinted, then the Converter pulsed. Slowly, the plates of black armour began to unravel, folding back into shadow and flame before collapsing inward. The dragon helm split apart and dissolved. The crimson mane of hair burned away in sparks. In seconds, the monstrous armour vanished — leaving only the Converter itself, now a black gauntlet bound to his arm, the nails dug lightly into his flesh.
Alaric flexed his hand. The gauntlet did not budge.
"It doesn't come off." His voice was calm, but his tired eyes betrayed unease.
Celestria stepped closer, lowering her staff. "It claimed you. That means… you're its wielder now. Whether you wanted it or not."
Sylas gave a dry chuckle, turning away. "Let's hope it doesn't devour you in your sleep."
Alaric sheathed his sword with a rasp, ignoring the comment. "We have what the guild asked for. Let's move."
The ruins of Black Hollow were quiet now, save for the crunch of boots on broken stone. Goblin corpses littered the halls, black blood pooling in cracks of the ancient Akkadian floors. The trio moved carefully, but no more enemies rose to meet them.
Outside, the moon hung low over Nineveh's distant lights. The chill of the Tigris wind brushed against them as they made their way down the ruined steps.
Celestria walked beside Alaric, her cloak swaying. She studied the gauntlet clinging to his arm. "Most Converters respond to ritual or choice… but yours leapt to you. I've never seen one act with such… hunger."
Alaric's tired eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Maybe it mistook me for someone else."
Sylas snorted, his voice muffled beneath his mask. "No. It saw you. And it liked what it saw."
The three of them fell into silence again, each step drawing them closer to the gates of Nineveh.
By the time the sun began to crest the horizon, its golden light spilling over the walls, they stood once more before the great oak doors of the Adventurer's Guild.
And though the city was alive with the chatter of merchants and the scent of spices, all eyes turned to the three bloodstained adventurers as they entered.
The guildhall's lamps burned low, casting long shadows across the oak beams. The noise of adventurers haggling over contracts dulled when Alaric, Celestria, and Sylas entered, bloodied and weary.
Behind the counter stood the same official who had handed Alaric his mission that morning — a lean man with streaks of silver in his hair and eyes sharp as steel. He had been waiting.
The chest landed with a dull thud on the counter. The iron bindings hung torn, and when the lid creaked open, only emptiness greeted them.
The official's eyes lingered on the void inside for a long moment, but instead of shock, his lips curled into the faintest knowing smile. His gaze shifted to Alaric — and more importantly, to the black gauntlet fused onto his arm.
"…So it has chosen," he murmured, voice steady.
Alaric scowled faintly. "You knew this would happen."
The man folded his hands behind his back. "Not knew. Hoped. That Converter has waited a long time for someone it deemed worthy."
Celestria stepped closer, her cloak brushing against Alaric's arm. "You mean this was never about the chest at all?"
The official inclined his head. "The chest was only the vessel. The mission was a test — not for the guild, but for you, Alaric."
Sylas pulled down his mask, his sharp voice cutting through. "So you sent him out there to fight without a Converter, bleeding and barely holding the line, just so this thing could 'test' him?"
The man's expression hardened, though his voice did not waver. "Yes. Because only one who suffers and yet endures could awaken the Gauntlet of Nails. Alaric has done so more times than you both realize. That is why it leapt to him without hesitation."
He stepped around the counter, his boots echoing against the guildhall's floorboards. His eyes locked on Alaric's weary ones.
"The first man who wore that Converter was no noble, no chosen son of kings. He was a soldier who would not yield, no matter how many wounds tore his flesh, no matter how heavy the blade he carried. He fought until his last breath. The gauntlet remembers him. And it saw the same in you."
Alaric flexed his hand, the gauntlet's nails digging faintly into his skin. His voice was low. "So it chose me because I don't know how to quit?"
The official nodded once. "Exactly."
He paused, then leaned closer, lowering his tone so only the three of them could hear.
"Every Converter chooses with reason. And now, you must understand what that reason leads to. Every fighter chosen like you… every one of them has left this guild. They all walked the same path. To seek out the Bearer of the First Armour."
The air grew heavy. Conversations around them stilled as adventurers strained to listen.
The man's voice deepened, carrying the weight of history. "That foe is no ordinary tyrant. He has lived since the dawn of Mesopotamia. The first armour sustains him, and with it he has carved rivers of blood across ages. He does not spare, he does not forgive. He has no mercy."
Celestria's one visible eye widened, her grip tightening on her staff. "You mean… he's still alive?"
"Alive," the man confirmed. "And waiting. The gauntlet chose you, Alaric, because you have the strength to stand where others fell."
For the first time, his tone softened. "You can remain here, taking contracts, bleeding for coin, and surviving as you always have. Or you can leave these walls behind, as the others did. You can take the fight to him — to the one even the gods fear."
His words echoed through the hall. "The choice is yours, Alaric Starhelm. Will you remain a wanderer… or become the hero this world so desperately needs?"
The guildhall fell silent. All eyes rested on the man with the black gauntlet.
The weight of silence pressed down on the guildhall. Alaric stood still, his scarred arms tense, his tired eyes locked on the man before him. The black gauntlet on his arm pulsed faintly, as if waiting for his answer.
At last, Alaric spoke. His voice was low, but steady.
"…I've bled enough for scraps. If this is what the gauntlet chose me for… then I won't turn away. I'll fight him."
Celestria let out a quiet breath, her violet eye gleaming in the firelight. She stepped forward, placing her hand over her staff. "Then I'll fight too. If you walk that path, Alaric, I'll walk it beside you."
Sylas crossed his arms, his bow slung across his back. His sharp gaze moved between the two of them, then settled on Alaric. A faint smirk tugged beneath his mask.
"Always figured you'd drag us into something bigger. Fine. Someone has to keep you both alive when you start bleeding again."
The guild official's expression shifted, just slightly — pride buried beneath his steady composure. He gave a slow nod.
"Then it is decided." His voice carried clearly, silencing the last of the whispers in the hall. "You three will not remain as simple adventurers any longer. By morning, you will begin the path toward the First Armour's bearer."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "And what does that path require?"
The man stepped back behind the counter, folding his hands. "Come to me at dawn. There are truths you must learn, maps you must study, and trials you must endure before you are ready. If you truly wish to stand against him… tomorrow marks the first step."
The guildhall buzzed again with murmurs, adventurers whispering of prophecies and doom, of heroes and death. But Alaric, Celestria, and Sylas said nothing.
They simply stood there, the firelight reflecting in their eyes, the black gauntlet glinting with an unspoken promise.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.