As they walked, the mage leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You should know… the Red Fire Dragon isn't the only reason we're here. There's a man you might find interesting—Holy Knight Arthur. Justiceful, fearless… a symbol of order in these chaotic times."
Nyxarion's eyes narrowed. "Arthur?" His voice carried more curiosity than caution. "I've never heard of him. What did he do?"
They exchanged brief glances, sharing only fragments of the tale—a knight who stood against corruption, who fought monsters with valor unmatched. Nyxarion listened, intrigued. Somewhere in the stories, a spark lit in him—a fascination he didn't fully understand.
Soon, the jagged mouth of the volcano loomed before them, blackened stone and heat rising like a living wall. The party halted at the entrance, drawing breath and checking weapons.
"Here," the knight said, handing Nyxarion a small vial. "Potion for strength. Drink it—it'll help inside."
Nyxarion hesitated but eventually swallowed it. Within moments, a strange dizziness overwhelmed him. His vision blurred, the world tilting violently. The last thing he heard was laughter—mocking, sharp, familiar.
When Nyxarion awoke, the air was different—thick with sulfur, heat pressing down like a living weight. He was alone in the center of the dragon's lair. The cavern walls glowed red, molten veins snaking across the stone. His body was fine, but a cold realization struck him.
He wasn't betrayed by chance. He had been drugged.
Looking up, he saw them—his so-called allies—perched on a cliff above, laughing. The mage, the knight, the tank—all grinning, holding his armor as if it were already theirs.
Nyxarion felt a strange, explosive sensation coil in his chest. His hands clenched. The word came unbidden: anger.
"You… you're going to die here," the knight called down, voice dripping with satisfaction. "The dragon is strong, far beyond you. And once you're gone, the armor will be ours. Resisting is useless."
Nyxarion's pulse raced. Something deep inside him stirred—something that rejected their words, their mockery, their confidence. This wasn't fear. This wasn't confusion.
It was rage.
And for the first time, Nyxarion understood that the armor's power wasn't just a tool—it was a force that could answer to the emotion driving him.
The Red Fire Dragon slumbered nearby, its massive form rising and falling with the heat of the cave. The laughter of traitors above only fed Nyxarion's fury. He felt the black armor tighten around him as if sensing the awakening storm inside.
This was no longer about survival.
It was about retribution.