The Aegis Suit was an absolute masterpiece of digital engineering.
It was not just a piece of armor. It was a walking heavily armed fortress.
The sheer radiating pressure of the Level 85 mechanical monstrosity forced the huddled
crowd of aristocratic players to press themselves flat against the locked blast doors.
Guild Master Regis stood in the center of the ruined ballroom, the massive hydraulic servos in his legs hissing as he adjusted his stance. The twin rotary cannons mounted on his broad titanium shoulders whined aggressively, tracking the silent black-clad figure standing on the balcony above.
"You have made a catastrophic miscalculation, Drifter," Regis's magically
amplified voice boomed from the suit's external speakers.
The sound was so loud it rattled the remaining glass in the empty wine fountains.
"You think because you killed a few low-level grunts in the slums that you are a god? You think your little spatial glitches mean anything in the Inner Spire?"
