The Living Armour, despite the strange holographic panel hovering in front of its helm, remained inert and unmoved. It had no will, no thought—only the programming etched into its soul-bound iron. Roam the dungeon. Eliminate intruders. Repeat. That was all it knew.
And so, it obeyed.
Far from the throne room, at the jagged, broken entrance of the dungeon, a new group of Raiders crossed the threshold. The ancient castle's ruined stones rose like cracked teeth from the earth, half-sunk in moss and roots. Vines draped down the fractured walls like funeral veils, and every step through the dry ground crisped beneath their boots. The heavy scent of dry rust and old sparks lingered in the air like fog.
Five figures entered, disturbing the eerie peace. Three men, two women.
At their lead, a tall male with an infuriatingly cocky smile strode forward. His armor shimmered slightly with enchantments, and each step he took dripped confidence. Behind him walked a second male, noticeably more animated, his swagger accentuated by every word that came out of his mouth. Close by was a blonde woman, lips full and voice honeyed, her attention squarely fixed on the man beside her.
Trailing them was a sharp contrast. A wiry male barely able to carry the mass of overloaded packs strapped to his back. His knees trembled with each step. His breath came ragged. His thin frame, shadowed beneath the burden, marked him as what he truly was—a porter.
Porters were the lowest rung on the Raider ladder. Tier 1 at best. They could not enter dungeons alone, However, Unlike Normal Humans who couldn't enter Dungeons because they couldn't survive the raw mana these places emitted, they were still there. But parties often hired them to carry supplies, gear, and loot. It was dirty work, but for someone without options, it was survival.
"Porters," people called them. But in truth, they were expendable.
The ranks of Raiders followed a clear structure: from Tier 1 to the elite Tier 7. Dungeons, too, were ranked the same way. The Living Armour Dungeon, where they now stood, was classified as Tier 1—a low-risk, high-respawn zone. The perfect training ground. Or the perfect hunting ground, depending on who you asked.
"I told him, 'You better get first place or I'll kill you myself!'" the second male, Baron barked out a laugh, recounting some twisted joke. His companion, the blonde woman, burst into giggles, clearly delighted.
She wore her intentions on her face. Flirtation was her weapon, and favor was her goal.
The man, known as Baron, let his gaze drift to the second woman in their party. Her black hair was tied in a tight ponytail, and her eyes were cold and unyielding. Her body was lean, her movements sharp and measured.
Fiona.
She said nothing in response to the joke. Not a smile. Not a glance.
Baron frowned for a moment, wounded by the lack of attention, before shifting his gaze to an easier target: the struggling porter at the back.
"Hey, idiot! Hurry up! I better not find my stuff missing, or I'll shelf you like what I'm about to do the 'Living Armour's myself!" he barked.
"Haha, take it easy on the poor soul," Tina chimed in, chuckling as she added her own poison. "You don't want him turning out like his crippled sister, do you?"
Evan, the porter, flinched. The words hit him like a slap. His fingers tightened around the straps of the bags, his lip bleeding from how hard he bit it.
Baron's grin widened. "What? Want to say something back?"
"N…No," Evan mumbled, keeping his head down.
Baron laughed. "Where'd you get your brain from?"
Tina scoffed. "I'd kill myself if I were your sister."
The air thickened with tension, but no one intervened.
"All right, guys!" came a cheerful voice—Ben, the leader, turned to face the group. His ever-present grin hadn't faded. "We're close to the castle. Let's plan this out before we go in."
Ahead, the ruined structure rose like a monument to forgotten wars. The castle walls, though crumbled and half-sunken, still radiated menace. Blackened scorch marks decorated the stones from past magical battles. Statues lay toppled, their faces worn away by time, their weapons shattered, This was the background on the Dungeon, A past war.
Ben motioned for the group to huddle up.
"Baron and Tina—you'll handle the Armours' outside the castle walls. Use area skills. Don't let them cluster," he ordered.
Baron rolled his shoulders. Tina flipped her hair. Easy enough.
"Fiona and Evan, you're with me. We're going in through the gate. Gotta carve a path to the throne room."
Baron snorted. "You're really bringing the porter with you?"
Ben shrugged. "He's just carrying. If he dies, he dies."
Fiona remained silent.
"This dungeon is cleared only when All the 'Living Armours' are destroyed," Ben said, his tone turning serious. "That means every single one. No skipping."
"Agreed?" he asked, eyes scanning the group.
Each member nodded in turn.
The ruins before them seemed to groan in anticipation. Somewhere within the dark corridors, the Living Armours' stirred once again. The air grew heavier. And in the throne room, the lone Living Armour waited in silence, unaware of its fate—and of the strange force awakening within.
A new cycle of bloodshed was about to begin.