The demonic horde below had a name whispered by refugees: the Black Phalanx. They were not born; they were rendered —corrupted code given iron flesh. Their leader, a warlock-engineer named Malachar, had spent decades reverse-engineering humanity’s own war-forges. Now his legions marched in perfect, silent lockstep, each carrying a blade that could shear through reinforced bunker walls.
Ariane sat down against the giant’s neck, watching the sun fully clear the mountains. "For the next time." Panzer Paladin
"Save your strength."
The warlock-engineer stood at the rear of the Phalanx, surrounded by a rotating shield of hexed plates. He wasn’t fighting. He was observing . Recording. Ariane realized with cold horror that this wasn’t a battle—it was a field test. He was learning how the Paladin fought. The demonic horde below had a name whispered