[Knight]: ARKHAM TODAY IS YOUR END.
Weapons came up across the line—bows half-drawn, blades lifted with shaking hands. Even veterans stiffened as their eyes locked onto the towering pair before them.
A Wendigo knight stood at the forefront, his presence crushing the air itself. Beside him loomed a massive mechanical construct like a knight.
[Mercenary 1]: Why is a Victorian Steamknight walking with an Ursulan Wendigo… Wearing Kazimierz knight armor?
The words carried farther than intended.
Several mercenaries stiffened at once.
The armor.
The machine.
Bad memories surfaced uninvited—of the siege, of three superpowers grinding the country into dust. Of iron giants tearing through golem lines like paper, steam screaming as palace walls fell. Of a Steamknight stepping over rubble to deliver the former king's head to history.
No one had forgotten that day.
The Wendigo knight turned slowly.
For some reason, the question had offended him.
[Knight]: You.
The mercenary swallowed.
[Mercenary 1]: …Me?
The Wendigo took a single step forward.
The ground cracked.
[Knight]: Yes. You.
His voice was deep, restrained—anger compressed into iron.
[Knight]: I am not a knight of that country—a land of counterfeit honor and bought titles — that tried to kill me for winning the Kazimierz Major twice.
A pause.
He gestured toward the massive construct at his side.
[Knight]: And that is not a Steamknight.
Steam vented softly from the machine's joints, runes flickering beneath layered plates.
[Knight]: Built by Sarkaz's hands and Sarkaz's parts. Not by some angry cat people who mistake hatred for tradition.
Silence followed.
Thick. Uneasy.
Then—
[Mercenary 4]: …I mean. He's not wrong. Victoria is racist.
A few snorts escaped the group.
[Mercenary 8]: Went there once. The Tara bar was cheaper, louder, and somehow less racist than the Victorian one.
[Reth]: And don't forget the looks. To them, every Sarkaz is infected until proven otherwise.
Mordred scoffed, folding his arms.
[Mordred]: You all had it easy. I had to sneak into the city—and when they found me, the entire garrison came down on my head.
He shook his helm slightly.
[Mordred]: All I wanted was honey beer… and maybe a little blood.
A mercenary laughed before he could stop himself.
[Mercenary 69]: That was you?! me and Three others got kicked out because of that mess— But watching you sprint through the gate with the guard captain in your mouth? Worth it.
Mordred paused.
[Mordred]: …Was that guy the guard captain?
Laughter rippled through the camp—low, rough, relieved.
Even the Wendigo knight didn't object.
Sacrifice punched the stone wall next to her; it turned into dust with that one punch that stopped the laughter.
Silence slammed down harder than the blow.
[Knight]: …We'll let us go ba—where was I? ARKHAM.
[Sacrifice]: Dead.
The word landed without emphasis.
The knight blinked.
[Knight]: …Huh.
[Sacrifice]: He attempted to interfere with me while I was sleeping. I smashed him with a rock. He broke.
She said that with no emotion.
Several mercenaries took an involuntary step back.
For all they knew, their boss had smashed someone's head against a stone before—and might do so again if circumstances demanded it.
The knight stared at her.
Then slowly—
He laughed.
Once.
Short. Hoarse. Disbelieving.
[Knight]: I have hunted that thing for nine years.
His voice dropped, the rage inside it old and exhausted.
[Knight]: Columbia. Kazimierz. Ursus. Higashi. Yan. Leithanien. Victoria.
Each name was full of despair.
[Knight]: I lost parts of my body. Friends. Entire squads.
He looked at the broken dust where the wall had been.
[Knight]: All that… just to hear he died because he touched the wrong woman in her sleep.
A pause.
His gaze sharpened—not hostile now, but focused.
[Knight]: …Wait.
He took a step closer.
Slow. Careful.
[Knight]: Are you an Oath-bound?
[Sacrifice]: Yes.
The knight threw his head back and laughed.
[Knight]: Hah—ha… Finally. I'm not alone anymore.
He lowered his head again, voice rough but honest.
[Knight]: Then tell me your oath. Please.
[Sacrifice]: A doctor's oath.
That wiped the grin clean from his face.
He stared at her—really looked this time.
[Knight]: …So even fate itself has a sense of irony.
A breath.
[Knight]: If another who cannot kill or fight will accept it, then hear this—
He straightened, armor settling with a dull, heavy sound.
[Knight]: My name is Protector. And from this moment on, I will protect you… and follow you.
Sacrifice did not answer immediately.
She studied him the way she studied wounds—looking past bravado, past posture, past words.
[Sacrifice]: Why? And why should I trust you?
Protector's shoulders sagged.
Not in defeat.
In honesty.
[Protector]: Because I am a dying man.
He tapped his chest once.
[Protector]: Four years. That's what's left.
Silence.
[Protector]: No goal. No nation. No future worth lying about.
He met her eyes without flinching.
[Protector]: If I'm going to spend what time I have left bound by an oath, then I'd rather spend it protecting someone who still believes life matters.
He looked at the line of mercenaries around Sacrifice.
[Protector]: So, will you accept this "patient" or let him die alone?
[chapter end]
[Author Here] has almost finished with my report, so I decided to take some rest and make this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, now back to work.