The room was quiet. Trafalgar flexed his fingers once, the dull ache in his ribs a fading reminder of the night before.
He stood slowly and exhaled. Then, without a word, he called it.
The air shifted — pressure folding inward for a heartbeat before a dark shimmer rippled across his skin. In an instant, the armor materialized, forming over him as if it had always been there.
Black plates of obsidian wrapped around his frame, fitting with impossible precision. The surface absorbed light rather than reflecting it.
The helmet sealed last — a sharp, winged silhouette that curved backward like twin feathers of carved stone. The visor was narrow, almost predatory, the faint glint of gold tracing its edges.
Trafalgar rolled his shoulders experimentally. To his surprise, the armor didn't feel heavy. It clung close, light and responsive, following his movements as if it were an extension of his body.
He turned toward the mirror across the room.
For a moment, he just stared.
