Halochassis

It only took ten seconds for Armaros to reach the academy’s airspace. From above, the courtyard and spires of the institution looked almost serene, a polished contrast to the chaos unfolding below. He could already see his underlings breaking formation and fleeing in disarray, chased off by the academy’s overpowered mage students and professors. 

Even from a distance, he could tell the difference in strength was absurd. A normal magic student and a low-level bandit were not supposed to exist in the same league. It felt painfully familiar, like the disastrous raid on their headquarters all over again.

But this time, there was one crucial difference. Adzeel now possessed a Halochassis, and Armaros’ powers now belonged to him. Adzeel had already proven what he could do with that stolen strength; he had torn down adventurers even without a power armor. With Armaros’ abilities added to that monstrous advantage, he would be able to crush far more than before.

Armaros dropped into the middle of the courtyard with a heavy superhero landing, the impact cracking the stone beneath his feet and kicking up dust around him. The gathered elite students stared back at him in a tense, uneven semicircle. 

There were about twenty of them, each dressed and armed in a style as strange as it was distinct: gothic maids with dark lace fluttering around their sleeves, floating monks hovering inches above the ground, a woman holding a parasol as if she had stepped out of a ballroom, spellcaster twins moving in eerie unison, elves with elegant, sharpened features, and magicians who fought with pens instead of staffs. Their robes, charms, and tools shimmered in the afternoon light, each one a different kind of threat.

“It’s a Halochassis!” one of the professors shouted, already lifting his wand toward Armaros. “Get ready!”

At once, the atmosphere snapped tight with danger. Wands, books, amulets, pens, and other casting mediums rose into the air as the magicians prepared their spells. Armaros’ green eyes flashed with a sharp, predatory spark. He drove his massive crimson broadsword into the stone floor with a thunderous clang, the blade sinking deep as if it weighed nothing.

“Come at me.”

The academy answered with a storm. Fireballs roared through the air, their heat brushing across Armaros’ face. Ice spears streaked forward, glittering cold enough to sting the skin. Thunderbolts cracked overhead with a violent snap, followed by splashing water guns, flying boulders, and sonic waves that rattled the air itself. The assault came from every direction, a fierce barrage meant to overwhelm him in a single breath.

Armaros merely swung his giant sword.

The blade took the magic in, swallowing every blast as if it were drinking light from the world. Fire, ice, lightning, force, and sound all vanished into the weapon’s hungry edge. Then his metallic right arm began to shift with a grinding, mechanical shriek, reshaping itself into the head of a dragon. Its jaws opened wide, glowing with stolen power, and the absorbed spells flooded into it like fuel. A heartbeat later, the dragon head unleashed a roaring flamethrower that painted the courtyard in searing orange fire.

“Aaaaargh!” several students screamed as the flames hit them. Some collapsed instantly, their uniforms charred and their skin blistered by second- and third-degree burns, before they could even crawl away from the inferno.

Most of the mages managed to raise barriers in time. Transparent shields and glowing walls burst into existence, catching the worst of the blast and forcing the flames to lick harmlessly against the edges. Yet Armaros had never intended to stop there. The moment their focus shifted to defense, he lunged forward with brutal speed, steel boots slamming across the stone as he closed the distance in an instant. One of the professors failed to move in time.

Armaros’ dragon arm snapped out and seized him by the body, metal teeth locking around him like a vice.

“Burst,” Armaros said.

For half a second, everything froze.

Then the professor was swallowed by fire from the inside out. The heat consumed him almost immediately, turning flesh, bone, and blood to ash in a violent, explosive flash. The blast tore him apart into a spray of blackened fragments that scattered across the courtyard in a rain of smoke and burnt debris.

“Professor Alba… noooooo!” the students screamed, their voices rising with horror and disbelief as the smell of scorched flesh and smoke filled the air.

On the opposite side of Saint Marian Academy, Croft found herself completely bewildered by the situation unfolding around her. She had only arrived at the academy a short while ago to conduct a routine visual inspection, expecting nothing more exciting than a day of paperwork and observations. 

Instead, she had walked into a battlefield. The once-prestigious campus had been transformed into a war zone, its hallways and courtyards swarming with Iron Bandits. The sounds of combat echoed through the grounds—explosions from offensive spells, the clash of steel against magical barriers, and the screams of wounded students and criminals alike.

With no time to investigate the cause of the attack, Croft did what everyone else was doing: she fought.

A bandit charged toward her with a knife raised high above his head. Croft reacted instantly, drawing her revolver and pulling the trigger. The gunshot cracked through the corridor like thunder. The bullet struck the man squarely in the chest, throwing him backward before he could reach her. 

Almost immediately, another muzzle flash erupted from her weapon as she pivoted and aimed upward. Two bandits had taken cover behind a pillar on the second floor, believing themselves safe from retaliation. They were mistaken. Her shots pierced through the narrow gaps in their cover, forcing them to collapse out of sight.

Croft ducked behind a stone column and swiftly reloaded. The metallic clicks of fresh rounds entering the cylinder mixed with the distant sounds of battle.

“Damn,” she muttered, snapping the revolver shut. “Why is this place swarming with bandits all of a sudden?”

Before anyone could answer, she stepped back into the open and fired again. Two more bandits who had been rushing down the hallway were dropped before they could even raise their weapons. Their bodies skidded across the polished floor, leaving streaks of blood behind them.

“I need to get out of here and call Lireina,” Croft said, scanning for an escape route.

Holstering one revolver while keeping the other ready, she sprinted toward the main building’s exit. Her boots pounded against the stone floor as she weaved through overturned desks, shattered windows, and discarded weapons. Just as she reached a large corridor leading outside, she noticed a silhouette standing calmly amid the chaos.

The figure was impossible to mistake.

A man nearly two meters tall stood in the center of the passageway. His long green hair was tied neatly into a ponytail that draped over his back, and his eastern-style armor gleamed despite the battle raging around him. Resting in his hand was a green, spiked dragon lance whose blade seemed sharp enough to split a mountain.

Croft’s eyes widened before relief washed over her face.

“Oh, it’s Qinglong.” She smiled. “The Ultimate Dragon Warrior. I’m saved. Haha.”

“Good morning, Little Detective,” Qinglong replied with an easy smile, as though they had encountered each other during an ordinary stroll instead of a raid.

Before Croft could respond, a bandit emerged from behind a broken wall and lunged at Qinglong from the rear. The criminal barely had time to raise his weapon. Qinglong’s spear flashed through the air in a smooth arc, so fast that Croft almost failed to see the movement. A moment later, the bandit’s head separated from his shoulders and tumbled across the floor while his body remained standing for a brief second before collapsing.

Qinglong did not even bother looking at the corpse.

For someone of his caliber, low-level hoodlums like the Iron Bandits were little more than flies. Irritating, perhaps, but utterly incapable of threatening him.

“Let’s head out,” Qinglong said casually. “I have already cleared the southern courtyard.”

“Thanks!” Croft replied.

Together, they made their way through the academy grounds. The southern courtyard was eerily quiet compared to the rest of the campus. The open field looked less like a schoolyard and more like the aftermath of a massacre. Corpses of Iron Bandits littered the grass in every direction. 

Some had been pierced clean through by Qinglong’s lance, while others lay twisted in unnatural positions. The few survivors who remained alive were already bleeding out, groaning weakly as they awaited death. The scent of blood hung heavily in the air, carried by the afternoon breeze.

Qinglong escorted Croft all the way to the academy gates. Beyond them, the streets were relatively safe, far removed from the violence occurring within the campus.

Once she felt secure, Croft turned toward him.

“Thank you for your escort, Qinglong.”

“Don’t mention it,” Qinglong replied. “Lireina’s friend is my friend as well.”

Croft blinked before a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

“Well, that was flattering.” She scratched her cheek awkwardly. “Makes me feel so bad for antagonizing you.”

“You mean the reopened investigation into that professor’s death?” Qinglong asked.

Croft stiffened slightly.

“It irritates me a little,” Qinglong continued with a shrug, “but you’re just doing your job. Right?”

“R-Right.” Croft bowed her head. “Thank you again!”

For a moment, everything seemed normal. Qinglong stretched his neck, producing several audible pops as he loosened his muscles. Then his expression shifted ever so slightly.

“Say,” he said, “don’t you think this was a perfect opportunity?”

Croft frowned.

“Huh?”

“I mean, the Iron Bandits are attacking this place.” Qinglong’s voice remained calm and conversational. “If your lifeless body were found here, everyone would assume it was the Iron Bandits’ doing. Right?”

The words took a second to register.

Then Croft felt her blood turn cold.

Without warning, Qinglong moved.

His dragon lance shot forward like a bolt of green lightning.

The distance between them vanished instantly.

Croft’s eyes widened as death rushed toward her. Her instincts screamed at her to dodge, to move, to run, but her body refused to respond. Everything happened too quickly. One moment she had been speaking with an ally, and the next a legendary warrior was trying to kill her. Her life flashed before her eyes in fragmented images—her investigations, her friendships, her unfinished work, her memories with Lireina. She could not even muster a scream.

Then a black-and-gold blur descended from above.

A thunderous metallic crash erupted between them.

The incoming lance was intercepted by an energy shield, sparks exploding outward as the two forces collided. The impact generated a shockwave powerful enough to scatter dust and loose debris across the ground.

Croft stumbled backward, her heart hammering violently in her chest.

Standing between her and certain death was a fallen angel clad in black-and-gold armor. Massive mechanical wings extended behind him, casting long shadows across the ground. Crimson eyes burned beneath his helmet, glowing like embers in the darkness.

Everything had happened so suddenly that Croft struggled to process it.

Then recognition struck her.

“Azazel!?” she muttered.

The Halochassis did not answer. Its crimson eyes remained fixed on Qinglong, blazing with unmistakable rage as the Dragon Warrior slowly withdrew his lance and regarded the unexpected protector with interest. The atmosphere between the two monsters instantly became suffocating, as though the air itself feared what would happen next.