The heavy armor lay forgotten in the corner of the storage room, a relic of Kerry's past. Made of basic black iron, it was designed to encase the entire body, its weight a cumbersome 20 pounds. Kerry had only worn it for a few months before pleading with his father for something lighter and more aesthetically pleasing—a white iron armor that fit him better. Now, this old suit was nearly worthless, rusting away in the warehouse, its value reduced to mere copper coins, barely stronger than scrap metal. Even Busca, who had been tasked with cleaning the storage, had left the helmet untouched, allowing it to gather dust.
The armor was hardly functional; its joints creaked and groaned, and it was ill-suited for a frail magician. Yet, unexpectedly, it began to move, drawing a startled look from Quinn.
Inside the rusted armor stood Martin, struggling to fit into the oversized shell. The armor was grotesquely adorned with tattered animal skins that were riddled with wormholes, giving it an absurd appearance, almost as if a jester had donned it for a performance. The thin strips of fabric barely held the armor together, and the porcelain bottle strapped to his arm added to the ridiculousness of his ensemble.
Quinn, momentarily taken aback, quickly masked his surprise with a smirk. He pointed his sword at Martin, who was struggling to maintain his balance. "Really? You think you can fight me in that hunk of scrap metal?" he taunted.
Martin's voice echoed from within the armor, muffled yet resolute. "I'd appreciate it if you kept the taunts to a minimum. Right now, I'm just trying not to suffocate in this thing." He took a deep breath, feeling the heat build up inside. "Let's skip the pleasantries and get on with it."
Quinn chuckled, confidence swelling within him as he prepared to charge. He underestimated Martin, viewing him as nothing more than a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. With a swift motion, he lunged forward, blade at the ready.
In that split second, Martin activated the mechanism he had devised. He flexed his little finger, igniting the porcelain bottle strapped to his arm.
Flames erupted instantly, engulfing Quinn in a fiery embrace. The intense heat washed over him, catching his clothes ablaze and turning his skin a bright crimson. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning fabric and flesh as he shrieked in agony, his hair and beard turning to ash in moments.
Quinn staggered back, panic flooding his senses. He attempted to wield his sword against Martin, a desperate and futile gesture as he fought against the flames consuming him.
The fire was no ordinary flame; it was a newly crafted spell Martin had spent weeks developing, one far more potent than anything Quinn had anticipated. In the confined space of the storage room, the flames swelled, scorching everything in their path. Martin's finger moved again, activating a second scroll within the bottle. The flames erupted once more, intensifying the inferno that engulfed Quinn.
"Stop! Please!" Quinn gasped, his voice hoarse and desperate as he flailed about, but Martin was relentless. The flames danced around him, a manifestation of his anger and frustration at being underestimated.
With one final flick of his fingers, Martin unleashed the third scroll. The room was now a furnace, and the heat was unbearable. Quinn's screams echoed off the walls, punctuated by the crackling flames that consumed him.
As the fire died down, Martin stepped forward, his heart pounding. He approached the charred remains of Quinn, who lay motionless and blackened, the once gleaming sword now a twisted, glowing red piece of metal.
Martin hesitated for a moment, contemplating the life that had just ended. But he was not here for mercy; he was here for survival. He reached down and retrieved the now molten sword, knowing it was a trophy of his victory, but also a reminder of the lengths he had to go to protect himself.
With urgency, he moved toward the doorway just as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from above. Locke was on his way down, alerted by the commotion. Martin needed to leave before anyone else arrived to witness the aftermath of his desperate struggle.
As he stepped out of the room, still encased in the heavy armor, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of triumph and dread. He had survived, but at what cost? The weight of the armor felt heavier than ever as he disappeared into the shadows, aware that this was only the beginning of the challenges ahead.