The Willful Living Armour had defeated Baron.
Victory had been achieved—not through brute superiority, nor through overwhelming strength, but through method. Another means of battle had been discovered, and in battle, a method was as valuable as power itself. The Living Armour did not celebrate. It did not react. Instead, it learned. The act, the timing, the result—each detail was etched into something deeper than memory. The method was now recorded.
To catch the enemy off guard.
The Willful Living Armour remained perfectly still, its rigid frame frozen amid the aftermath of slaughter. Blood had long since stopped spraying; the violence had passed, leaving behind only silence and the scent of iron. The world around it seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging the birth of something unfamiliar.
The Willful Living Armour had amassed a great amount of Will.
It possessed consciousness—an awareness of itself and its surroundings—yet it could not speak. It had a path, but no light to illuminate it. It stood motionless, not because it was incapable of movement, but because it was thinking. Not in words. Not in logic. But in fragments of realization, in instincts crystallizing into something closer to thought.
Its helmeted head remained lowered, angled toward the dust-choked stone beneath its feet. The ground was uneven and fractured, ancient stone scarred by time and battle. Slowly, a viscous liquid crept across the surface—dark red blood, still warm, inching closer to the Living Armour's greaves. The liquid reflected faint light as it moved, carrying with it the final proof of Baron's existence.
As the crimson pool drew nearer, something stirred.
The Willful one slowly raised its head.
Its gaze lifted forward—not toward the corpse, not toward the battlefield—but toward the system panels hovering before it. There was only one visible at first, its familiar translucent blue surface displaying the Living Armour's current state:
Name: ____
Race: Living Armou
Level: 3
Active Skills: None
Passive Skills: None
Talents: Sturdy Body, Thy Will Be Done
The Living Armour stared at the empty space beside Name. It lingered there longer than necessary. Something about that absence felt… important. It did not know why. It did not know what a name was meant to signify. Yet it sensed that this space was waiting for something that belonged to it.
Its gaze shifted downward, then upward again, scanning each line in turn. Level. Talents. Skills. The symbols were strange, yet not incomprehensible. It was as if the meaning behind them seeped directly into its being, bypassing the need for understanding.
Did it comprehend these characters through Will?
No..
The Living Armour realized—without words—that the panel itself felt natural. Familiar. Like an extension of its existence. It did not question why it followed the information presented before it; it simply did. The Willful Living Armour understood that it was following something, though it lacked the concept to name it.
That thing was instinct.
A will expressed through instinct.
The Willful Living Armour shifted its attention away from the panel and surveyed its surroundings. Scattered across the courtyard lay the remains of other Living Armours—motionless, broken, their helmets cracked open, their bodies reduced to hollow shells. Their existence had ended, just as Baron's had.
The Willful Armour looked down at its own hands.
Metal fingers, stained dark with blood.
Then it looked back at the fallen Armours.
They were similar.
Not identical—but close enough that the difference mattered.
Through this comparison, a realization took shape. The Willful one understood that the soft, light-skinned creature with strands growing from its head—the human—was a threat. Not merely an enemy, but a danger to its kind. The human had destroyed those like it. The human had fallen to it.
This was recorded.
As that understanding settled, the Living Armour noticed something new forming beside the status panel. Another screen slid into existence, its background a deep, dark purple—far heavier than the light glow of the status interface. The air around it felt denser, more oppressive, as if the panel itself carried intent.
Its title explained everything.
[ Talent Activated ]
Will Counter
Through Effort, you have gained Will, further Granting you a way forward
Will shouldn't grant choices but to create
[ You have gained insight ]
[ Increasing Arcane Core Capacity ]
[ Increasing Talents other than 'Thy Will Be Done' ]
The moment the final line appeared, something shifted.
The Living Armour could not feel pain. It could not feel warmth or pressure in the way living creatures did. Yet it heard the change—not with ears, but from within. A deep resonance echoed through its frame, like a silent bell struck inside its chest.
Its Arcane Core was growing.
Hidden beneath layers of metal and rune-etched structure, the core pulsed. Once a steady blue, its color began to distort, flickering unevenly. Light leaked from the fractures and seams of the Living Armour's body, no longer the calm blue it once was.
The hue deepened.
Blue bled into crimson.
The Arcane Core shifted fully into a dark red, its glow fierce and unstable, gleaming through the cracks in the armour like embers beneath cooled steel. At the same time, the Living Armour's eyes—once glowing blue—changed as well, becoming wisps of deep, ominous red.
It was no longer a normal Living Armour.
Arcane Cores were the foundation of all monsters. They were the heart of magic, the nucleus of existence for beings born of dungeons. Raiders harvested these cores after battle, trading them alongside materials for wealth. Arcane Cores powered magical weapons, reinforced armor, and even served as catalysts for treasured artifacts.
The darker the core, the stronger the monster from which it originated.
There were rumors—whispers spoken about by Raiders and Crafters—that a pure black Arcane Core could create true artifacts. Weapons of legend. Treasures of impossible power. Some were even said to carry their own spirit, remnants of the monster's will refusing to fade.
The Living Armour did not know any of this.
But its existence was already drifting toward that path.
As its other Talents increased, the changes were not limited to its core alone. The transformation extended outward. Its armor plates subtly expanded, thickening by fractions barely visible to the eye. The width of its frame increased—minutely, but undeniably. Though the cracks and scrapes from previous battles remained, the metal beneath them felt denser, harder.
Stronger.
The Willful Living Armour stood amidst the ruins of battle, crimson light seeping from its body, silent and unmoving.
It had learned.
And it would continue to learn.
Because a creature that gains Will does not simply survive.
It creates a way forward.