I. The Reach of the Raven
The armory of Obsidios Iubeo was a cavernous hall of heat and noise, but it lacked the chaotic clangor of a Union smithy. Here, the industry was rhythmic, driven by the pulse of the Obsidian Ordo. The air smelled of ozone, hot iron, and the faint, metallic scent of blood-magic.
Corvin Nyx walked down the rows of weapon racks, the heels of his boots clicking sharply on the stone floor. Flanking him were the architects of his military might: Obsidian Marshall Garrus Vane and Forgemaster Alcides Ynatos.
Alcides stopped at a rack of freshly cooled weapons. He pulled one down with a grunt of exertion. It was seven feet long, the shaft made of white ash wood treated with alchemical hardeners until it was as tough as iron. But the business end was the marvel. A twelve-inch leaf-bladed tip made of Obsidian-Steel—a fusion of black glass and purified iron that swirled with a smokey, violet pattern.
"The Obsidian Hasta," Alcides announced, his voice rough with the pride of a father. "Balanced for the thrust. Heavy enough to stop a cavalry charge dead in its tracks. The tip will punch through standard Union plate like it's wet parchment."
Corvin took the spear. He tested the weight, spinning it once in his hand. It was significantly heavier than a standard pike, dense with the magic infused into the metal.
"It is heavy," Corvin noted. "A Union conscript would tire holding this in formation after five minutes."
"A Union conscript is just a man," Garrus Vane replied, his voice a low rumble. "Our Legionnaires are... more."
Garrus gestured to the open archway leading to the training yard. Outside, under the grey sky of the domain, the Third Cohort was drilling. They moved with the terrifying, tireless efficiency of machines. They wore the full Obsidian Plate and carried the massive Tower Scutums, yet they sprinted into formation without a single man lagging behind.
"We have measured them, Lord," Garrus continued. "The assimilation with the Obsidian Ordo is complete. The constant exposure to the Void Stone, combined with the diet of the Dark Harvest, has altered them. Their bone density has increased. Their muscle fibers are tighter. Every man in that yard has stabilized at Circle One, Step One."
Corvin watched the soldiers. He saw a soldier lift a crate of ammunition that would normally require two men, hoisting it onto a wagon with one arm.
"They are no longer just holding the magic," Corvin murmured. "They are becoming it."
He handed the spear back to Alcides.
"The sword is for the brawl," Corvin said. "The spear is for dominance. Issue them. Every man carries the Scutum on the arm, the Gladius on the hip, and the Hasta in the hand. I want to triple our killing zone. When the enemy approaches, I want them to face a forest of black steel before they can even touch a shield."
Garrus saluted, his fist striking his chest with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. "It shall be done. The Phalanx will be ready by sunset."
II. The Knot in the Web
Three days later, the theory of the armory met the reality of the border.
Praesidium Four sat like a black knot in the center of the Obsidian Web. It was a brutalist blockhouse of fused stone, straddling the Via Obsidia. The paved road ran directly through its open gates, a vein of civilization cutting through the wild scrublands of the south.
The sun was high and hot, baking the dust outside the domain's border. Inside the Fatigue-Reducing Field of the road, the air was cool and crisp.
Centurion Varrus stood on the battlements. He was a man transformed. Once a mercenary sergeant who fought for coin, he now bore the Spread-Wing Brand at the base of his throat. He was a Circle One, Step Three (Apex) warrior—a human at the absolute limit of physical potential.
He didn't need a spyglass. His enhanced eyes picked out the details of the dust cloud rising on the southern horizon three miles away.
"Banners," Varrus noted calmly. "Red silk. Gold trim."
Beside him, his Decanus, a scarred woman named Heda (Circle One, Step Two), spat over the wall. "The Red Sash Company. Union trash. They're hired muscle for the Tax Collectors. Nasty work. They burn villages that can't pay."
"They are off the road," Varrus observed, his eyes narrowing. "They are trampling the fields."
"They're heading straight for the gate," Heda said. "Five hundred spears. Fifty light cavalry. They think we're a toll booth."
Varrus didn't panic. He didn't even shout. He felt the brand on his throat pulse, a warm connection that linked his mind to the 160 Legionnaires inside the blockhouse. He could feel their heartbeats. He could feel their readiness.
"Let them come," Varrus said.
The Red Sash column slowed as they approached the strange black pavement. Their commander, a brute of a man named Gorm riding a heavy warhorse, trotted to the front. He saw the outpost—a small, square fort manned by what looked like a handful of guards. He laughed.
"Open the gate!" Gorm shouted, his voice thick with arrogance. "This road belongs to the Ministry of Commerce! Pay the transit tax or we burn this black rock to the ground!"
Varrus looked down from the wall. He didn't speak. He simply projected a thought through the Flock-Link.
>> Command: Phalanx. Gate Formation.
The iron portcullis of the Praesidium didn't drop to lock them out. Instead, the gears ground, and the gate rose higher.
Gorm grinned, turning to his lieutenant. "See? They surrender. Cowards. Charge! We'll loot the stores and burn the rest!"
He kicked his horse. "Forward!"
The mercenaries surged. But their cheers died in their throats as the shadows of the gatehouse birthed a nightmare.
From the dark maw of the Praesidium, the Raven Legion marched out.
They didn't run. They stomped. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. The sound of 160 pairs of heavy, obsidian-shod boots hitting the paved stone in perfect unison was like the heartbeat of a giant.
They fanned out across the road, blocking the path entirely.
"Shields!" Varrus roared.
CLANG.
The front row dropped to one knee, their massive Obsidian Scutums locking together rim-to-rim to form a wall of black steel. The second row stepped up, placing their shields on top of the first, interlocking the edges. It was a fortress of moving metal.
"Spears!"
SNAP.
One hundred and sixty Obsidian Hastas leveled instantly. The sunlight gleamed off the black blades. It was a bristling hedge of death.
III. The Collision of Eras
Gorm looked at the formation. He had 500 men. They had 160. The math was simple.
"Run them down!" Gorm screamed. "They are infantry! Break the line!"
The Red Sash mercenaries charged. They were a chaotic, screaming mass of rusted chainmail and axes. They were used to terrifying peasants and breaking militia lines. They expected the shield wall to buckle under the weight of the horses. They expected the soldiers to flinch.
They were wrong.
The cavalry hit the line first.
CRACK.
It was the sound of flesh and bone meeting Obsidian Steel. The warhorses crashed chest-first into the Obsidian Scutums.
A normal man, even a strong one, would have his arm broken by the impact of a charging horse. But the Legionnaires were Circle One. Their bones were iron-dense. They braced against the pavement, their boots digging into the magic stone, and they absorbed the kinetic energy.
The wall did not move an inch.
The horses broke their necks against the shields. Riders were thrown over the top or crushed beneath their mounts.
Then, the spears went to work.
The reach was devastating. The mercenaries, armed with swords and axes, couldn't get within four feet of the Legionnaires.
Thrust. Recover. Thrust. Recover.
It was mechanical butchery. The Obsidian-Steel tips punched through the cheap Union chainmail and boiled leather as if it were linen. Men fell, clutching their chests, before they could even swing a weapon.
"Push!" Gorm screamed, trying to rally his infantry. "Swamp them! Climb over the dead!"
The mercenary infantry surged forward, climbing over the bodies of the horses. They hacked at the shields, but their steel weapons sparked and chipped against the Obsidian-infused metal.
Inside the phalanx, the Legionnaires were silent. They weren't panting. They weren't panicked. The Fatigue-Reducing Field of the road beneath their feet kept their stamina topped off. They stabbed with the rhythm of a machine.
Thrust. Recover.
"Hold the line!" Heda shouted from the second rank. "Don't break the seal!"
They didn't. They were a single organism, breathing and killing in unison.
IV. The Apex Predator
Gorm watched from the rear, his face pale. He realized too late that he wasn't fighting men; he was fighting a meat grinder. He saw his cavalry dead and his infantry shattering against the black shields. Panic set in.
"Fall back!" Gorm yelled, yanking his horse around. "Regroup at the ridge! Get out of range!"
"No," a voice said from the chaos.
The shield wall opened—just a crack. Centurion Varrus stepped out.
He moved with the Circle One, Step Three blur—a speed that Gorm's eyes couldn't track. Varrus didn't use a spear. He had drawn his Obsidian Gladius.
He sprinted past the dying mercenaries, weaving through their clumsy strikes like smoke. He moved faster than a man in full plate had any right to move. He reached Gorm's horse in two seconds.
Varrus didn't strike the rider. He struck the horse.
He drove his armored shoulder into the beast's flank. The impact—fueled by the supernatural density of his rank—hit with the force of a battering ram. The 1,000-pound animal screamed as it was knocked sideways, its legs buckling.
Gorm crashed to the pavement, the wind knocked out of him. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword, his eyes wide with terror.
"What are you?!" Gorm shrieked, swinging wildly.
Varrus knocked the sword aside with a casual backhand of his shield. He stepped in and grabbed Gorm by the throat. The Spread-Wing Brand on his neck glowed with a terrifying violet light.
Gorm was a big man, a veteran killer of twenty years. But Varrus lifted him off the ground with one hand, his arm holding the weight as steadily as stone. Gorm clawed at the gauntlet, his boots kicking the air.
Varrus brought Gorm's face close to his visor.
"You are trespassing on Imperium land," Varrus stated, his voice cold and devoid of mercy.
He tightened his grip. There was a sickening crunch as Gorm's windpipe collapsed. Varrus held him for a moment longer, ensuring the life was gone, then tossed the body onto the pile of dead cavalry like a sack of spoiled grain.
"Advance!" Varrus commanded.
The Phalanx took a step forward. STOMP. Another step. STOMP.
The surviving mercenaries broke. The terror was absolute. They dropped their weapons and ran, fleeing back into the dust of the Union, screaming about the black demons that walked like men.
V. The Report
That evening, inside the Sanctum of Obsidios Iubeo, the report arrived via the Raven Link.
Veridian Vex stood by the map table, reading the mental transcript sent by the flock.
"Total engagement time: Twelve minutes," Veridian read. "Enemy casualties: One hundred and forty dead, including Commander Gorm. The remainder have routed south. We have confiscated their horses and iron."
"Legion casualties?" Corvin asked from his throne.
"Zero," Veridian said. "Three minor sprains. The Phalanx held. The density gap is too high, Lord. A Union charge breaks against us like water against a cliff."
Garrus Vane smiled—a rare, sharp expression. "They know now. They know we are physically superior. They won't send a mob next time."
Corvin looked at the map. The marker for Praesidium Four glowed brightly. The border was sealed.
"They cannot starve us," Corvin mused, glancing at the granary reports. "We have the bread. They cannot kill us. We have the steel."
He looked at Warren Fulkom.
"So what does a Merchant do when he finds a competitor he cannot burn?"
Warren smiled darkly, tapping the hilt of his dagger. "He tries to buy him out. Or tax him. They will send the diplomats next, Lord. They will try to claim this land is still technically Union territory and demand their cut. They will try to achieve with a quill what they failed to achieve with a sword."
Corvin leaned back, his Eyes of the Abyss glittering in the torchlight.
"Let them come," Corvin said. "I would like to see how much a Union diplomat is worth."