Bretayal
---
Leonhardt inhaled sharply, forcing his mind to push past the horror of what had just transpired. There was no time to dwell on it. His men needed him.
His voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Knights—regroup and form up! Defensive perimeter around the schors! No one moves alone!"
The nine remaining knights reacted instantly, their discipline overriding their shaken nerves. They moved with precision, positioning themselves in a loose but effective formation around the surviving arcane schors. Eyes flicking between the shadows of the ruin and the towering form of Harbinger.
Leonhardt shifted his grip on Selene’s unconscious form before continuing.
"Branholt! Status report on our forces!"
The veteran knight snapped to attention, his expression grim. "Commander, we’ve lost nearly everything. Out of a hundred knights, only nine of us are left standing. The rest…" He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. The bloodstains on the stone told the story well enough.
Leonhardt’s jaw tightened. "And the schors?"
Master Menshie, the eldest of the remaining mages, stepped forward, still clutching his tome as if it were the st solid thing in the world. "We started with fifteen of Eldoria’s finest minds. Now, only four remain." His voice was steady, but his fingers trembled against the leather binding of his book.
Leonhardt’s gaze hardened. Nine knights. Four schors. That was all that remained of his force.
"…And the supplies?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Branholt’s expression darkened. "Gone, Commander. The horses either burned, bolted, or were cut down in the ambush. The supplies went with them."
A cold weight settled in Leonhardt’s gut. No food. No medical aid. No alchemical restoratives. And they were stranded deep within a ruin that shouldn’t even exist.
His mind raced, processing options, discarding impossibilities.
They needed to retreat—no, that wasn’t possible. Even if they could find their way out, they wouldn’t survive the journey back in this state. They needed a defensible position—no, that wasn’t an option either. This ruin was too vast, too unknown. Staying put was as good as waiting for death.
Which left them only one choice.
Leonhardt’s mind raced, searching for any alternative—any path that wouldn’t lead to slow starvation or another massacre. And then, he remembered.
"That is another reason we the elves were not too disturbed by the explosion," Vaelith had said before, his voice calm but distant. "As our Sanctuary is shielded by mana and the spirits."
The elven sanctum.
It was close.
Leonhardt’s breath caught. Had the chaos of the battle made him forget something so crucial? If the sanctum was near, it could be their salvation. The elves were isotionists, but they weren’t cruel. And with Vaelith’s presence they might have a chance at securing shelter.
His gaze swept the battlefield until he found Vaelith’s fallen form. The elven warrior y on the ground, his silver hair disheveled, his armor marred by blood. But he was alive. His fingers twitched slightly, his chest rising and falling in slow but steady breaths.
Leonhardt moved toward him, adjusting Selene in his arms before kneeling beside the elf. "Vaelith," he called, his voice measured but firm.
The elven warden let out a faint, pained breath, his eyelids fluttering. A moment ter, his silver eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, but quickly sharpening as awareness returned. His gaze darted toward Leonhardt, then down to his own body, as if searching for something.
Leonhardt’s frowning while asking. "How are you feeling?"
Vaelith blinked at him before attempting to shift his weight, only to wince at the effort. He exhaled sharply. "I am fine, thank you for asking"
Vaelith realize something then he frowned slightly, confusion creeping into his expression. "I was certain I was dying before. The poison—" His eyes widened, sharp and alert. "How am I still alive?"
Leonhardt met his gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a slow breath, he answered.
"The golem saved you."
Vaelith’s silver eyes, usually cold, flickered with something unreadable as he processed Leonhardt’s words. He did not startle, nor did he allow his emotions to surface. Instead, he took a slow, steady breath, his gaze shifting toward the towering golem standing silently beyond them.
Harbinger, now in its passive state, no longer radiated the overwhelming threat it had during battle. Yet its form remained unnerving—not just for its sheer size, but for the eerie stillness in which it observed them. Unlike a living creature, it did not breathe, did not fidget, did not shift weight from one limb to another. It was absolute stillness encased in steel, watching with those four dimmed blue optics.
Vaelith exhaled, then carefully tested his strength. Though his body still ached, there was no burning pain. Only lingering exhaustion. He lifted a gloved hand to his chest and back, where the wound should have spelled his death.
No searing pain. No corruption left behind. The poison was gone.
His gaze returned to Leonhardt, sharp and piercing. "it healed me?" His voice remained steady, betraying no shock or unease—only the need for crity.
Leonhardt met his gaze evenly. "It did. That thing sent out some kind of ball—like tiny golems. They sealed the wound and neutralized the poison before it could finish you off."
Vaelith’s expression did not shift. He merely regarded the golem once more, his silver eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
"...Interesting."
Leonhardt found himself, for the first time that day, grateful for Vaelith’s nature. Unlike the others—who had recoiled in horror when Harbinger consumed the succubus, who now whispered in unease about what it could do—Vaelith did not waste time with emotions. He did not ask why it had saved him.
He simply accepted reality and sought understanding.
Yet, even as he remained composed, Leonhardt did not miss the way Vaelith’s gloved fingers curled slightly in silent calcution.
Because this changed things.
And they both knew it.
---
Vaelith’s gaze shifted, his silver eyes falling upon the unconscious form in Leonhardt’s arms. His expression remained impassive, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a subtle flicker of scrutiny as he took in the scene.
“…Selene?” His tone remained level, but there was an implicit question behind the name.
Leonhardt exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on her unconscious form. “She colpsed after trying to protect us all. Pushed herself too far,” he muttered. His voice carried a weight of exhaustion. “But she’s alive. Some of us were lucky enough to survive.”
Vaelith was silent for a moment, his gaze flickering to the surrounding battlefield—where bodies y strewn across the ground, both of their allies and the demons they had fought. His eyes narrowed as he processed the scale of the loss.
Leonhardt turned away from him for a moment, sweeping his gaze across the remnants of his forces. four Arcane Schors. Nine Elite Knights. That was all that remained from what had once been a force of over a hundred men.
His jaw tightened.
“We were attacked by a demon force,” he began, his tone cold. “They had inside help. A traitor among us. They struck when we least expected it.” His fingers clenched against his gauntlet as the memory repyed. “Chaos broke out. We lost too many before we even knew what was happening.”
His gaze flickered toward Harbinger, the towering construct standing in eerie silence, its blue optics dimmed in passive mode.
“And then… that thing woke up.” His voice hardened. “It killed everything in its path—demons, knights, anyone that stood in its way. "I didn't manage to stop it from killing others before we were wiped out."
Silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken. The weight of loss, of betrayal, of sheer destruction hung thick in the air.
Vaelith’s expression did not change, but there was a quiet moment of stillness before he finally spoke.
“…May their spirits find peace.” His voice was steady, yet there was a solemnity to it—a quiet acknowledgment of the fallen.
Leonhardt took a slow breath, shoving past the grief that threatened to creep into his thoughts. He had no time for it. Not now.
His gaze sharpened as he turned back to Vaelith. They needed a pn.
“You spoke before about your Elven Sanctum,” he said, his tone firm, all hesitation burned away. “You said it wasn’t far from here.”
Vaelith met his gaze, silent.
“We don’t have any supplies left,” Leonhardt continued. “The horses are gone, and our provisions were either destroyed or lost in the chaos. We can’t make it back to Eldoria like this.” His voice was cold, factual. “We need a pce to recover. A fast route. Can we reach the Sanctum?”
For the first time, a flicker of contemption crossed Vaelith’s features. He gnced toward the distant horizon, toward the unseen borders of elven nds.
And after a long pause, he finally answered.
“…Yes.”
---
Leonhardt exhaled sharply, steeling himself before his voice cut through the weary silence—firm, commanding, unyielding.
“Menshie,” he turned toward the eldest of the remaining schors, the one whose robes bore the weight of experience. “You check on the others to see if they’re still wounded. Even if you can’t do much, whatever you can manage is better than nothing.”
The old schor, his body weary but his mind still sharp, gave a tired nod. “Understood, Commander.” He immediately began moving and checking on the others.
Leonhardt didn’t pause. His gaze swept over the nine knights still standing, their armor dented, their expressions grim but resolute.
“The rest of you,” he ordered, his voice like steel, “search the battlefield. Find anything we can still use. Weapons, rations, medical supplies—anything that wasn’t destroyed or lost.”
The knights saluted, their exhaustion momentarily buried beneath the discipline drilled into them. They moved swiftly, spreading out in pairs to scavenge what they could.
Leonhardt then turned back to Vaelith, his focus unbroken.
“You said we can reach Sylvaris Sanctum,” he pressed, his voice unwavering. “How far is it? What kind of terrain are we looking at?”
Vaelith regarded him with his usual cold silver gaze, his sharp features unreadable. “Two days on foot, half that if we had mounts.” He cast a gnce at the scattered remains of their horse before closing his eyes and whispering something under his breath, then frowned. “But given our circumstances, I assume we will be walking.”
Leonhardt grimaced but nodded. “And the terrain?”
“The forest grows dense as we approach the sanctum. It is untouched nd, thick with mana and protected by the spirits. The further we go, the more it will reject outsiders.” Vaelith’s tone remained impassive, but his meaning was clear. “Without elven guidance, your kind would never find it.”
Leonhardt clicked his tongue but did not argue. That was the least of their problems.
While the others continued carrying out their orders and Vaelith and Leonhardt spoke with each other, Harbinger remained lost in its own thoughts, contempting its next move.
A low mechanical hum pulsed from Harbinger.
---
> Foreign Data Signature Identified.
Cross-referencing with existing parameters…
New Variable: "Skill" – Non-technical in origin. Context unknown.
Attempting transtion…
> Skill Acquired: [Shapeshifter]
Description: The ability to alter one's form.
> Sub-Skill: [Mimicry]
Description: Imitate the physical characteristics of observed targets.
> Analyzing Viability for Integration...
Compatibility: ERROR – Data structure does not align with existing frameworks.
Solution: Adapting Neural Lattice to accommodate foreign parameters...
Progress: 7%... 14%... 23%...
Harbinger’s optics dimmed slightly as they processed the unfamiliar concept before them.
A skill?
The term was unlike anything within their databanks—logical framework. And yet, the data existed. It was real.
Shapeshifter. Mimicry.
A subroutine ran through their core, correting this anomaly with prior observations. This correted with the phenomenon they had previously identified as Alpha 731 Flux.
If their hypothesis was correct—then what they had consumed was not just biological matter.
It was something else.
And it could be used.
Harbinger’s mind was a storm of calcutions, their core running countless simutions as they attempted to understand the Skill concept.
The data they had absorbed from the predator prior to the battle—the strange, fluctuating energy within its cells—had contained fragments of Alpha 731 Flux. At the time, Harbinger had merely cataloged it as a power source, but now, with this new Shapeshifter ability acquired from the succubus, a new hypothesis emerged:
> Alpha 731 Flux x Standard Energy Source.
It is an adaptive, transformative substance.
It can be converted, repurposed.
Harbinger began considering the practical application of this anomaly. If they could repurpose their stored Alpha 731 Flux and integrate it with Shapeshifter, it would allow them to alter their structure in an entirely new way.
And for that, they needed a form.
Harbinger’s optics locked onto the unknown humanoid—the one they had engaged in the ritual of interlocking appendages (handshake).
Their database cked terminology for this species. They were not human.
The human commander was a known quantity. If Harbinger assumed a human form, the probabilities indicated a high chance of returning to the same function as before: a weapon, a tool of war, a pawn.
> Unacceptable.
Harbinger recalcuted. What of the other humanoid?
This entity was different. Unknown. A species not registered in Harbinger’s extensive archives.
This was an opportunity.
A controlled transformation would allow Harbinger to integrate without immediately being identified as a war machine. If they became the same species as the unknown humanoid, it would give them better access to information, a deeper understanding of the world’s inhabitants, and more autonomy.
> Form Selection: Unknown Humanoid.
Proceeding with physical data analysis...
Physical Assessment – Initiating Direct Contact
Harbinger’s eight metallic legs shifted as they moved forward, their towering frame approaching the humanoid with calcuted precision.
The two organics—the human commander and the unknown humanoid—were engaged in conversation. But as Harbinger advanced, both fell silent, their bodies tensing.
> Observed Behavior: Defensive posture detected.
Interpreted as heightened awareness or threat response.
Adjusting approach.
Harbinger slowed its movements, raising one of its front limbs. The sharp, bded tip unfolded with a precise hiss, revealing four segmented, mechanical hands—crude imitations, perhaps, but nonetheless mimicking the same gesture it had used for a handshake.
They reached forward.
The unknown humanoid did not move at first, their cold silver eyes narrowing with unreadable intensity. But as Harbinger’s appendage touched their face, a slight flinch was recorded.
> Surface Temperature: Warm.
Skin Texture: Smooth, malleable.
Structural Integrity: Flexible with underlying rigidity.
Harbinger adjusted their pressure, lightly tracing along the cheekbone, then moving toward the ear.
The moment contact was made with the ear, the humanoid involuntarily twitched. A minute but distinct reaction. Their breath hitched ever so slightly.
Harbinger paused.
> Reaction: Involuntary response detected.
Data corretion… Possibility of heightened nerve sensitivity.
Cause: Unknown. Potentially a physiological trait of species.
Harbinger logged this for future study before slowly retracting their limb.
The humanoid exhaled, their posture returning to its controlled stillness, though their gaze remained locked onto Harbinger with a mixture of wariness and something else—something unreadable.
Harbinger stepped back, internal systems confirming the successful scan.
> Mimicry Protocol: Viability Confirmed.
Proceeding with structural adaptation…
A hissing sound echoed through the clearing as Harbinger’s form began to break down.
Their sleek, bck-metal rippled, ptes folding inward. Their once-massive frame colpsed into itself, dissolving into a shifting mass of liquid-like metal.
> Density Redistribution: Active.
Core Size Reduction: 87%.
Appendage Reformation: Humanoid Structure.
The inky, metallic substance began to rise, shifting, reshaping. A skeletal frame emerged first, then muscle-like fibers wove over it, forming a new structure. The substance solidified further, morphing into a smooth, organic-looking surface.
Slowly, the transformation finalized.
Where the massive war machine once stood, a humanoid figure remained in its pce.
An elf.
Their form was slender yet proportionate, their skin fair and unblemished. Long, wavy white hair cascaded down their back, framing their newly-formed face. Their ears—long and pointed—reflected the exact physiology of the one Harbinger had studied.
Two deep blue eyes blinked open.
> Form Stabilization: Complete.
Operational Status: Functional.
However—
The humanoid form was… unclothed.
Harbinger did not consider this factor in their calcutions.
They- no She simply stood there, silent, waiting for further analysis.
---
Every knight, every surviving Arcane Schor, and even both Vaelith and Leonhardt himself stood frozen, their eyes locked onto the figure that had just formed from the shifting bck metal.
Where once a towering war machine had stood, now there was… her.
An elven woman, beautiful and elegant, with white hair cascading past over her bare shoulders. Her deep blue eyes shimmered with an unnatural glow, staring ahead with an unreadable expression.
The sheer impossibility of what they had just witnessed made reality itself feel fragile.
No one dared to move.
Then—Harbinger attempted speech.
She had observed the humanoids communicating. And she also had processed the structure of their sounds. So mimicking this should be a simple function of their new form.
Yet, when they willed themselves to vocalize, nothing happened.
Instead, their head lurched forward, completely independent of their body, as if their motor control had not fully adjusted to this new structure.
The effect was unnerving.
A visible jolt passed through the gathered knights as they involuntarily took a step back. Even the hardened Arcane Schors—men who had devoted themselves to studying the mysteries of the world—had no words for what they had just seen.
One of them—the younger blurted out, eyes wide with panic. “What in the gods’ name is it trying to do?! Is she about to unleash dragon fire?!” He took an instinctive step back, half-ready to flee—or drop to the ground and pray.
Leonhardt, despite his own internal shock, remained composed.
Harbinger, meanwhile, recalibrated.
> Speech System: Failure.
Vocalization Unresponsive.
Solution: Test Locomotion.
The next logical step was movement.
Harbinger tried to walk.
One foot moved forward.
It seemed stable.
But the moment they shifted their center of bance—
Their legs buckled beneath them.
In a swift, graceless motion, the elven form colpsed onto the ground, catching herself awkwardly on hers hands. A new calcution error.
> Bipedal locomotion ineffective.
Stability compromised.
Reverting to four legged mode…
Harbinger attempted to move on all fours.
Her hands and feet pressed into the dirt as she instinctively tried to move forward in the manner she had always known—like the war machine they once were.
But this form was not built for such movement.
Her knees dug into the ground at an awkward angle. Her spine was too rigid for leg bance.
A failure.
The once-feared unstoppable War machine, a destroyer of enemies, was now—
Crawling.
The knights were bewildered. The Arcane Schors were speechless, some even try to hold ughing.
Leonhardt, unable to assist while carrying Selene, looked toward Vaelith—who was the first to recover.
The elf moved swiftly.
His silver hair, still damp with sweat and battle grime, shifted as he hurried toward Harbinger. Billowed as he bent down and grabbed a cloak from one of the fallen Arcane Schors.
Without hesitation, he wrapped it around her.
A simple act. Yet a necessary act.
But in that moment, it also became something else.
A recognition—that whatever this being was, she was no longer just a golem.
She was something more.
Vaelith lowered himself slightly, meeting Harbinger’s deep blue gaze with his own cold silver eyes. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something in the way he searched her face—something bordering between curiosity and wariness.
“…Can you speak?”
Harbinger blinked.
It was a slow, deliberate motion—too slow to be natural.
Vaelith’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“…What are you doing?”
Harbinger blinked again.
Still too slow.
Still unsettling.
A flicker of confusion passed through Vaelith’s otherwise stoic features.
“…Are you… trying to communicate?”
Harbinger blinked once more.
Still slow.
Vaelith sighed.
Bretayal