The Leviathan broke the surface with a surge of displaced water, settling in the black waves like a dormant sea monster. On the shore, a crowd had gathered, drawn by the disturbance. They were a sea of dark leather and pale hair, their sharp elven eyes fixed on us.

  [Master, tactical analysis is complete,] Tes reported in my mind, her voice a stream of cold data. [One hundred and twenty hostiles detected. All armed. All combatants.]

  A schematic appeared in my vision, highlighting each figure with a red threat-level indicator.

  [One hundred and nineteen are Dark Elves. One is… other.]

  My own eyes found him easily. He stood before the elven warriors, a hulking figure of pure menace. His skin was the color of polished obsidian, and a pair of cruel, curving horns grew from his brow. A demon. He radiated an arrogance that was almost a physical force.

  The topside hatch hissed open. One by one, we emerged, propelled by our armor’s jump jets, and landed on the beach in a spray of black sand.

  I took the lead, the sleek, dark-blue frame of my custom Mark VII a stark contrast to the desolate landscape. The hilt of my Plasma Katana hovered at my waist, unlit. Bob, now known as Goliath, landed beside me with a heavy thud, his Mark II automaton a walking fortress. Patricia, now Nyx, followed, her Mark VI landing with a whisper-quiet grace. I had given them strict instructions: they were never to remove their armor in front of others. Our new identities were absolute.

  Our armored boots crunched on the volcanic sand as we approached.

  The demon chieftain stepped forward, a guttural laugh rumbling in his chest. He looked from our advanced suits to the magnificent vessel behind us, his eyes filled with undisguised greed. He thought this was already over.

  [ANALYSIS: TIER 5 COMBATANT. SIGNIFICANT PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND DEMONIC MANA RESERVES.]

  Impressive, for this forgotten corner of the world, I thought. For me, it’s barely a footnote.

  “I am Borak,” the demon boomed, his voice like grinding stones. “Chieftain of the Dark Moon tribe. That magnificent ship… is now mine.”

  I came to a stop a dozen meters from him. My voice, filtered through the automaton’s external speaker, was cold and metallic. “There has been a misunderstanding,” I replied. “I am the new chieftain of the Dark Moon tribe.”

  His face contorted in a snarl of fury. But before he could issue a command, I acted.

  The hilt of my katana shot from my hip, propelled by a targeted thrust of gravitic force. It flew toward him in a straight, deadly line. He scoffed, seeing only a bladeless handle. He didn't even bother to raise a hand. A fatal mistake.

  Mid-flight, just an inch from his throat, the blade ignited with its signature azure VWOOM. In a single, seamless motion, the activated plasma edge completed its trajectory, slicing cleanly through his neck. His arrogant expression was frozen on his face as his head slid from his shoulders and landed on the sand with a soft thud. The massive body stood for a second longer before collapsing in a heap.

  The plasma blade extinguished, and the hilt returned to my side, hovering obediently. I remembered my father’s lesson, learned too late in a hail of fire and death: Never show mercy. Never leave an enemy alive. I would not make that mistake again.

  I looked up at the one hundred and nineteen stunned warriors, their weapons half-raised. The silence was absolute, heavy with shock. But it was not surrender. A few of Borak’s most loyal followers, their faces contorted with a mixture of fear and fury, let out guttural war cries and charged, their crude blades held high.

  Before Goliath could even raise his shield or I could reactivate my katana, a black blur shot past me. Nyx moved like a phantom, a whisper of displaced air. Her energized forearm blades extended with a soft hum as she flowed between the two charging elves. A flick of her wrist, a spin that was both beautiful and deadly, and a second later, she was back in formation beside me as if she had never moved.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The two chargers collapsed, their throats opened in perfect, bloodless, cauterized lines that glowed for a moment before fading. The remaining one hundred and seventeen warriors froze, their charge dying in their throats.

  It was then that the scout, the woman with the snow-white hair, stepped forward. Her hand was on the hilt of her dagger, but she did not draw it. She trembled, but her voice was steady. "You have shown your power," she called out, her gaze locking with the glowing blue optics of my helmet. "But Borak was powerful, too. He bled us dry and called it leadership. Why should we trade one tyrant for another? What can you offer us besides a quick death?"

  I took a step forward, the full weight of my presence silencing any other potential dissent. "He took from you," I said, my amplified voice washing over them. "I will provide for you. He demanded your loyalty for nothing. I will demand your work, and in return, you will have security and sustenance."

  The woman stared at me for a long, silent moment, weighing the monster before her against the monster who now lay dead in the sand. Then, slowly, deliberately, she dropped to one knee.

  The dam of their fear and uncertainty broke. One by one, then in a great wave, the rest of the tribe knelt.

  “Stop,” I commanded, my voice sharp. The motion halted instantly. “I have no time to waste on such formalities.”

  A wave of fear washed over them. In their minds, my refusal could only mean one thing: I was rejecting their surrender and intended to slaughter them all.

  The woman’s voice was filled with panic. “Please, great chieftain! Spare our people! We acted on our old chieftain’s orders! Please, accept our allegiance!”

  I raised a hand, a gesture for silence. Inside my helmet, an eyebrow arched in mild annoyance. “My sign of allegiance is different,” I stated. “My general, Goliath, will demonstrate.”

  Bob stepped forward. He raised his right, gauntleted fist and struck it against his chest plate, right over his heart. It created a single, deep, resonating THUMP. An efficient, unambiguous gesture I had taught him on the journey over.

  A collective sigh of relief went through the crowd as they realized my meaning.

  “Take me to your village,” I ordered.

  As if on cue, Kaelus flew out of the open hatch in his cat-sized form, a shimmering comet of starlight, and landed gracefully on my shoulder pauldron.

  Brother, I want cool armor too, his voice grumbled in my mind.

  Soon, I replied silently. Don’t worry.

  The sight of him sent a new shockwave through the elves. Not of fear, but of pure awe and reverence.

  “Is… is that a dragon?” the lead woman asked timidly as she led us away from the shore.

  I nodded. “He is my partner.”

  Her eyes widened, and she immediately launched into another torrent of apologies. Apparently, in the Obsidian Dominion, dragons were considered sacred beings, the only creatures powerful enough to stand against the Lumina Imperium’s wrath.

  When we arrived at the village, a collection of crude huts nestled in a petrified forest, I saw another hundred elves, mostly children and the elderly. The woman led me to the chieftain’s hut, a slightly larger but equally grim structure built around a massive, gnarled stone throne.

  I took the seat, Kaelus still perched on my shoulder. No one objected. Just like that, I had a stronghold and a tribe.

  I gestured to the woman. “Tell me your name, and tell me about your tribe.”

  “I am Mirelle, daughter of Chieftain Baelen, the leader before… Borak,” she said, her voice laced with old pain. She told me how the demon had challenged and killed her father, seizing control. She spoke of his cruelty, of his brutal rule that had bled the tribe dry. The stories were harsh, a grim reminder that the Obsidian Dominion was a land where only the strong and ruthless survived.

  Finally, I got to business. “Under my rule, the law is simple. Those who don’t work, won’t eat.”

  They all stared at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. An old man finally spoke up, his voice quavering. “My chieftain… you will… provide food for our service?”

  I nodded, baffled by their reaction. “Of course.”

  The entire hut erupted in cheers. It was then that the pieces clicked into place. The only person I had seen with any meat on their bones was the demon. I had seen fertile fields and pens for livestock on the way here.

  Mirelle explained, her face a mask of bitterness. “Borak forbade us from eating the produce of our own farms. He sold it all to other settlements for his own wealth. We were forced to scavenge in the forest to survive.”

  They lived worse than slaves. I pushed the thought aside. I could fix their society later. Right now, I had a more pressing need.

  I leaned forward, my armored form imposing on the stone throne. “I require the location of a dungeon. A powerful one. One that has not yet entered its break phase."

  Guys, before we begin this next arc, I need to talk about the craft of this story, because it's important that you understand my intent. I am a firm believer in show, don't tell, and Arcane Steel is designed from the ground up to be an immersive, first-person story. The narrative style itself is a character, designed to mirror Alarion's internal state. Many of you have told me in the comments that the writing is making you feel his emotions, and I'm here to tell you that this is 100% intentional.

  Think back on the path we've walked with Alarion so far. The beginning of the story was playful and nonchalant because he was. The time skips felt jarring because he wasn't living in the moment and just wanted to get things over with. Some characters felt two-dimensional because he didn't care about them, while others felt more developed because they mattered to him. The submarine arc was infused with confusion and sadness because he was lost in his grief.

  And that brings us to the dungeon arc we are about to begin. I'm telling you this now so you are prepared: this part of the journey will feel grinding, repetitive, and at times, hopeless. This is intentional. You are in his headspace, and he is a man running on nothing but the fumes of vengeance, with no light at the end of the tunnel.

  I am taking you on this journey with him, step by step. After this, you will feel his self-hatred, and then, finally, you will feel his hope and his relief. This is a necessary evil. If you want to get goosebumps at the end, if you want the final triumph to feel truly earned, then we have to walk through this darkness with him first.

  Trust the process. I promise you, the payoff will be worth it.