The severed skulls lining General Vakor’s breastplate began to wail in unison.
A foul crimson mist boiled off his spiked armor, filling the canyon with the stench of copper and burnt marrow. The ten-foot halberd in his iron grip hummed with malevolent power, dripping thick drops of arterial blood onto the platform.
“Ten thousand cultivators died to forge this dread-plate,” Vakor roared, his voice rattling the sandstone cliffs. “Ten thousand souls scream within my breastplate to fuel my immortal flesh.”
He pointed the black bone spear-tip directly at Elder Sterling’s chest.
“You broke my iron golems,” Vakor sneered. “Now you will take their place in the boiling lake. Chancellor Vaelen promised me thirty provinces as my private feeding ground, and your vanguard will serve as my first harvest.”
His Nascent Soul Peak spiritual pressure descended like a collapsing mountain.
The vanguard shock-troopers fell to their knees on the frozen riverbed, their iron breastplates groaning under the suffocating weight. Several men coughed blood onto the black ice.
“Your armor looks ridiculous,” Sterling called out, leaning casually on his greatsword. “It looks as though a drunken butcher glued chipped teacups to a blacksmith’s apron.”
