The battle in the courtyard surged with a new, frantic heat even as the temperature of the night plummeted. Durant moved through the carnage like a reaping gale, and seeing him—a titan of black and crimson—breathed a second wind into the lungs of the exhausted knights. Their shouts grew louder, their grips tighter, as they followed the path of his singing greatsword.
The air was thick with the visceral sound of the conflict: the thud of silver into frozen flesh and the dry crack of Wight-bone splintering under heavy steel.
Durant was a blur of lethal geometry. He cut through the undead with a cold, rhythmic precision, his greatsword carving paths through the tattered black robes. Despite the sheer mass of his plate, his mobility was uncanny. When two Wights lunged simultaneously from his flanks, aiming for the joints in his harness, Durant didn't brace—he vanished. With a low, heavy roll, he cleared the kill-zone, the plates of his armor clattering like a chest of silver coins.
He rose in a single motion. Clack. He parried the first Wight's swipe with his crossguard, delivering a brutal counter-thrust that pinned the creature to the earth. Before the second could capitalize, Durant stepped laterally, his shadow stretching long under the torchlight. He unleashed a blinding barrage of slashes, the silver blade humming as it reduced both monsters to heaps of silent, butchered meat.
But the Wights were mindless, and a third—hiding in the heap of the fallen—leaped at Durant's back. It latched on with a feral screech, its claws screeching against his metal pauldrons and teeth gnashing at the gorget of his helm. Durant roared, a muffled, metallic sound, as he threw himself backward against a timber post to dislodge the creature. He spun, his blade catching the moonlight as it severed the Wight's torso in one desperate, final arc.
The immediate area fell quiet. Durant stood panting, his visor turned toward the ground. His armor was a mess—jagged gouges marred the crimson trim, and the matte-black plate was dented and scarred from the frantic assault.
Slowly, he knelt. The mud beneath him was no longer brown; it was a dark, steaming crimson, soaked through with the life-force of the fallen knights. Durant placed a gauntleted hand into the pool of blood.
Then, the horror of his gear revealed itself.
The Iron Blood armor began to pulse. The liquid red didn't just sit on the metal; it was pulled upward, defying gravity, as the armor "drank" from the ground. The gashes in the steel began to knit together like healing flesh, the matte-black alloy absorbing the essence of the fallen to seal its wounds. Within seconds, the dents smoothed over, and the crimson edges of his plate glowed with a fresh, sinister luster.
Rejuvenated by the grim sacrifice of the soil, Durant rose.
The smell of iron and rot choked the air as the Wights swarmed. They were a sea of desiccated flesh and rusted blades, pinning Durant in a tightening circle of malice. Claws screeched against his breastplate, and jagged swords found the gaps in his joints, but Durant didn't flinch.
He was no stranger to pain; to him, it was merely a dull reminder that he was still standing. More importantly, his armor was alive in its own terrible way. As the blood of the knights sprayed across the ground, the metal drank deep. The plates pulsed with a dull, crimson light, the jagged gashes in the steel knitting together like healing skin. With his safety guaranteed, Durant abandoned all defense and became a whirlwind of carnage.
Slash! Slash! Slash!
He unleashed a barrage of unrestrained violence.
A brutal downward cleave split a Wight from skull to sternum, the impact shattering the stone beneath its feet. A raging uppercut followed instantly, catching the next monster under the jaw and launching its head into the gloom. A whirlwind of transition strikes shredded the remaining front line into a pile of twitching limbs.
Durant didn't stop to breathe. Leaving the heap of trophies behind, he pivoted toward a desperate shout where a group of knights were being overrun near the outpost's inner wall.
Slash! Slash! Slash!
The Wights pressing the knights never saw him coming. He moved through them like a scythe through dry tallgrass. In heartbeats, the pressure was gone, replaced by the rhythmic thrum of his armor absorbing the blood and smoothing over the dents of the skirmish.
"This guy is insane," gasped one of the knights, staring at the gore-streaked titan who seemed more monster than man.
"Insane, perhaps," his comrade replied, bracing his sword. "But I've never seen a more welcome sight. Forward!"
The undead numbers were finally faltering. With Durant leading the charge as an unbreakable vanguard, the surviving knights found their courage, carving through the diminishing remnants of the Wight horde.
The tide had finally broken. With the mercenary leading the way, the remaining knights made short work of the stragglers. The frantic screeching of the Wights faded, replaced by the heavy, ragged breathing of men who had looked into the abyss and survived. As the mist began to settle over the quieted outpost, not a single blue eye remained alight in the darkness.
The battle for the Misty Woods outpost was over.
As the last of the Wights fell, the frantic symphony of steel was replaced by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of exhausted men. The veteran knight, his armor caked in a mixture of mud and black ichor, began barking orders.
"Clean this mess up! Pile the dead for burning and get the wounded treated," he commanded, his voice raspy but firm.
Durant, his duty for the moment fulfilled, turned toward the outpost camp. It was a grim, utilitarian place, but compared to the blood-soaked dirt of the front line, the simple wooden barracks felt like a cathedral of peace. Once inside, he unlatched his helm. The cool air hitting his sweat-slicked face was a mercy. He reached into a pouch on his utility belt and withdrew a small glass vial, the cork sealed with wax. Inside, a thick, crimson liquid swirled—a potent concoction designed to knit flesh and bolster a weary heart. He popped the cork and drained the health potion in a single, bitter swallow.
A few knights drifted into the room, their movements stiff with fatigue. They looked at Durant with a newfound, if wary, respect.
"Thank you for the hand, mercenary," one muttered, leaning against a support beam. "I don't think many of us would be standing without you."
"Don't mention it," Durant replied, his voice low. "It's my job."
Silence soon claimed the room as the weight of the day crushed the remaining energy from the men. Durant didn't seek a bed; he simply slid down against the rough timber of the wall, letting his eyes close. He drifted into a sleep that felt like a momentary blink, though his body craved hours more.
"Wake up, mercenary."
The veteran knight's hand on his shoulder pulled Durant back from the gray void of sleep. Durant blinked, his hand instinctively twitching toward his blade before he recognized the face above him.
"What's happening?" Durant asked, his voice gravelly.
"The supply wagon just arrived from Bastion's Reach," the veteran explained. "Brought enough stores to feed an army, though after that fight, most of the men are eating like they've been starved for a month. I told them to save a portion for you, but soldiers don't always have a high opinion of hired swords when their stomachs are growling."
"I understand," Durant said, grunting as he pushed himself up. His joints popped, but the potion had done its work; the ache was manageable.
He followed the veteran to the dining hall—a drafty room filled with the steam of hot food and the clatter of wooden bowls. The veteran led him to a small, cleared spot at the end of a long bench.
The veteran led him to a cleared spot at the end of a long, scarred wooden bench. A plate was set before him, filled with the dense, salt-heavy fare of a frontline outpost. It was a humble spread: a thick slab of yellow cheese, a few strips of crispy, salt-cured bacon, and a generous hunk of crusty bread. Beside it lay a couple of pieces of hardtack, those tooth-breaking biscuits built to survive a campaign. To wash it all down, a simple glass of water stood waiting.
"Good job out there," the veteran said, nodding toward the meal.
"Thanks," Durant replied. He took a piece of the stone-dry hardtack and dunked it into his water, letting it soak for a moment to save his teeth before taking a bite.
From across the table, a younger knight paused, his eyes traveling over the dark, unsettling texture of Durant's armor. "Hey... you're Durant, aren't you? The one with the living plate? The armor that mends itself?"
Durant looked up, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. What of it?"
"I've heard the stories," the knight said, a hint of awe cutting through his exhaustion. "They say you're a rising mercenary. That you'll take any contract, no matter how suicidal the odds are."
Durant took a slow, deliberate bite of the bacon before answering. "A man has to put food on the table. Dying of hunger is just as permanent as dying by a Wight's claws."
The knight chuckled darkly, nodding in agreement. "Fair point, mercenary. Fair point."