After a few minutes of practicing, Max was convinced—this armor had been worth every credit. The Runeforged Battlegear moved with him, the segmented joints pressing neatly into the seams as he twisted and shifted. There was no clumsy bulk, no awkward grinding of plates. Every movement felt balanced, the plates flexing just enough to allow full range of motion.

  He couldn’t resist a few more mock swings with his staff, spinning it and testing his footing like a sparring drill. The weight of the armor didn’t pull him down; if anything, it made him feel anchored, solid. Even the faint hum of the rune channels through the alloy gave him a strange confidence—like the gear itself was aware, and ready.

  Satisfied, Max decided to head back to his shelter. He had no interest in tangling with the goblin camp right now. “After a week or so, I’ll come back and take them out,” he muttered, adjusting the strap on his satchel. The thought of showing up fully equipped, turning their crude little fort into a bonfire, was a pleasant one.

  He’d barely had time to admire the way the armor caught streaks of sunlight between the trees when the forest floor began to tremble.

  Heavy. Deliberate.

  Not the chaotic shuffle of goblins, not the skitter of mutant rats or the scratchy scamper of those rabid squirrels. This was slower, more purposeful, but each step hit like a hammer against the earth.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. He moved off the main path, taking up position behind a thick-barked oak. He planted his feet, adjusting his grip on the staff. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be subtle.

  The underbrush ahead shook, branches swaying like they were trying to get out of the way. Then came the sound of wood cracking—a branch snapping under something massive.

  It stepped into view.

  Eight feet of ugly, wrapped in mottled gray fur that looked like it had never been clean a day in its life. Crude plates of dark, beaten metal were strapped haphazardly to its chest and shoulders, secured by leather bands so worn they looked ready to tear. The face was a nightmare hybrid—part boar, part wolf. Jutting tusks curled upward past a snarling mouth, while yellow eyes glowed like embers in the shadowed sockets.

  A spiked mace dangled from one massive hand, each spike slick with some dried, dark crust Max didn’t want to identify. The thing’s other arm ended in claws thick enough to shear through bark.

  The system pinged.

  [Dire Warg-Troll – Level 12]

  Status: Aggressive – Movement Speed +10%, Damage Output +15%

  Max tilted his head. “Okay… so you’re what happens when fantasy taxidermy goes wrong.”

  The Warg-Troll’s lips peeled back in a wet snarl, and before Max could blink, it lunged. The ground shook under the first step. By the second, it was covering the distance faster than anything that size had a right to.

  Max planted his feet, raising his staff. Mana surged, flowing smoother than he’d ever felt, amplified by the subtle hum of his armor. The rune-etched chest plate lit with a steady blue glow, like a conduit channeling power directly from him into the weapon.

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  The fireball he unleashed wasn’t the sputtering burst he’d thrown in the past—it roared from the staff, a swirling orb of heat and light that trailed a molten streak through the air. It hit the beast square in the chest, exploding in a shockwave that set nearby branches swaying.

  The Warg-Troll staggered, but only for a heartbeat. It snarled, smoke curling from the charred patch of fur where the fire had struck, and swung the mace in a brutal, horizontal arc.

  Max tried to sidestep, but the reach was longer than he’d expected. The spiked head clipped his left pauldron with a bone-jarring clang, the sheer force of it shoving him back a step.

  He winced, instinctively looking for the damage—but blinked in surprise.

  The armor hadn’t dented. The rune channels along the point of impact flared with a faint orange glow, heat radiating outward. Slowly, almost lazily, the scrape and scuff smoothed away, the alloy shifting minutely as if it were liquid metal returning to its original form.

  “What the…”

  The HUD chimed in his vision:

  Passive Ability Detected – Arcane Steel Self-Repair

  Minor physical damage to this armor will automatically repair over time by drawing on ambient mana. Durability loss greatly reduced.

  Max grinned. “Oh… that’s going to be fun.”

  The Warg-Troll bellowed again and came in low this time, the mace dragging through the dirt before swinging upward. Max ducked, the weapon slamming into the ground hard enough to send a spray of soil and pebbles into the air.

  He retaliated with another fireball, this time aimed for its weapon arm. The blast caught the wrist, the heat charring through the leather straps binding its makeshift gauntlet. The beast roared and charged in close, closing the gap in a heartbeat.

  Max didn’t back off. The armor moved with him as he sidestepped, the plates shifting seamlessly at the joints. His vambrace runes pulsed brighter as he brought the staff up like a spear and funneled his mana into a condensed bolt.

  The shot cracked through the air, striking the troll’s temple. The massive head rocked sideways, knees dipping, but it recovered quickly. Too quickly.

  Max hit it again. Then again. The +10% casting speed bonus wasn’t just a number now—it was a rhythm, the spells firing off like a heartbeat, each one flowing smoother than the last.

  The troll roared, swinging wildly in a frenzy. A blow glanced off his breastplate with a heavy thud. The armor shuddered, the runes glowing brighter for a moment before settling, the damage vanishing almost as soon as it appeared.

  “Yeah,” Max said through clenched teeth, dodging another swing, “I could get used to this.”

  He gathered his mana, the armor seeming to hum in sync with his own pulse. The runes across his chest and gauntlets flared bright blue. The fireball he summoned this time was enormous, the air around it distorting from the heat before it even left his hands.

  When it struck the Warg-Troll dead center, the explosion lit the clearing in searing orange. The shockwave rolled over Max like the breath of a furnace.

  The beast was thrown backward into a tree with a splintering crack. The trunk shuddered under the impact, bark and branches raining down. When the smoke thinned, the Warg-Troll lay slumped, its mace lying just out of reach.

  The system pinged:

  [Dire Warg-Troll Defeated]

  Experience Gained

  Loot: Heavy Mace (Common), 250 Credits, Minor Mana Crystal (Uncommon)

  Max let out a slow breath, the rush of adrenaline still sparking through his limbs. His armor gleamed under the dappled sunlight, not a scratch to be found despite taking two hits that would’ve caved in his Initiate’s Robes.

  He reached up and brushed the shoulder where the first blow had landed. Smooth. Cool to the touch.

  “Best. Purchase. Ever.”

  The ambient glow from the runes dimmed as he relaxed, but the hum was still there—steady, patient. Like the armor was listening, waiting for the next attack.

  Max tucked the mana crystal into his pouch and smiled. “Alright,” he murmured, turning back toward the path, “let’s see what else wants to test me.”