The Ironrend colosseum was alive again—its towering walls vibrating with roars of excitement, echoing off stone and steel. Fires blazed from enchanted braziers spaced along the arena's edge, casting flickering light on the iron-soaked sands below. The crowd was a swirling masquerade of nobles, officers, investors, and drunks—each more animated than the last.
But up in the observation box nestled in the shadowed upper tiers, one figure remained utterly still.
Fornos Dag sat behind the cover of his black mask, dressed sharply in tailored charcoal robes that gave no hint of wealth or allegiance. Brassheart stood just behind him, disguised again as a mute servant, hands clasped and masked face blank. A thin band on Fornos' right hand—the golem controller—glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his thoughts.
He was not here to enjoy the spectacle. He was here to study war.
[Mental Remarks — Match One]
A pair of mid-tier melee golems fought in the sand: both humanoid, roughly fifteen feet tall, bronze-armored with magisteel joints. One was dual-wielding blades, the other had a shield arm and a morning star.
Clumsy... both of them. Too much weight in the arms, not enough in the legs. They're compensating for weak codex balancing by brute-forcing the limbs. Predictable swing patterns.
The dual-blade golem lunged, its swords arcing in a cross-pattern. The other blocked, staggered back, and countered with a wide swing of its mace—barely missing. Sparks flew.
Who built these? Artillery codex running melee routines... idiocy. These are meant for synchronized formations, not solo combat. No feints, no sensory baiting, not even delayed rotations.
He watched the bout end when the dual-blade golem collapsed from a twisted knee joint. The crowd cheered. Fornos did not.
[Match Two]
A larger match. Four versus four. Team battles—perfect for testing coordination.
Formation golems. Standard twenty-foot chassis. Too slow to be scouts, too fragile to be tanks. They're using them for skirmishing? Interesting.
One golem on the left team emitted a pulse of blue light—a signal. Two allies broke formation to flank, while the third launched an explosive spike from its shoulder.
Ah. That one's carrying an upgraded command codex. They're testing tactical response relay in real time. Risky, but effective.
The opposing team failed to respond in time. One golem was torn apart by the spike; another lost balance and fell onto its side. The survivors attempted to regroup but were too slow. The crowd roared as the winning team stomped the sand in celebration.
Fornos's fingers twitched. He whispered to himself.
The pulse command. I could integrate a similar feature into Brassheart's auxiliary systems. Let it communicate without verbal prompts.
He jotted the idea down mentally. Later, he'd sketch the runework.
[Match Three]
The next match was different. It was silent.
Two golems entered the field—completely cloaked in fabric. Mystery contenders. The announcer gave no names. No house crests. Just "Exhibition Match." The audience leaned forward. Even the air felt heavier.
The fabric dropped.
One was built from obsidian plates with deep-red runes glowing across its limbs. Its head was wolf-like, its spine segmented and sleek. The other was silver and white, humanoid but built with heavy armor plating—its arms had elongated barrels that looked like embedded cannons.
They moved fast. Too fast.
Wait... that's a reinforced codex. That obsidian one... it's using a fifth-layer reaction matrix. Impossible for standard operators. Whoever's behind that—
The obsidian golem charged, ducking beneath the cannon-fire. It used its entire body like a whip, twisting mid-sprint to slam the cannon-arm with a reinforced leg. A dent. Not a scratch—a dent.
Smart. Strike the elbow joint, not the barrel. Whoever designed that knew weapon dependencies. That kind of targeting requires instinct-level codex reflex.
The silver golem recovered, launching a volley of mana-charged bursts that carved furrows into the arena. The obsidian golem dodged again—narrowly. It didn't win through raw power. It won by outmaneuvering its opponent, striking from blind angles, using terrain, faking damage patterns.
This isn't just about parts or magic reserves. It's the operator. Someone capable of real-time adaptation. Probably has relay nodes hidden in the arena, feeding telemetry to the ring. Or... they're inside the golem?
He paused, considering.
No, impossible. Human bodies can't survive that much mana radiation. But… what if they're testing the next step?
He felt his pulse quicken, the controller ring growing warm. Brassheart shifted behind him subtly, responding to his thoughts.
That match ended with the obsidian golem disabling both arms of the silver one, then freezing its legs in place with some kind of fast-spreading magical resin. The crowd had no idea how to react. Some booed. Others sat in stunned silence.
Fornos smiled behind his mask.
[Later – Intermission]
He walked the outer corridors of the colosseum, quiet spaces lined with statues and soft light. Brassheart followed.
Too many are focused on making stronger golems. Heavier plating, louder explosions, more mana channels. But no one's optimizing the link. The mental relay between golem and operator—that's where the future lies.
He stopped at a small balcony overlooking the staging area. Dozens of golems stood there, in silence, awaiting repairs or transport. Broken arms. Scorched faces. Split torsos.
They're tools. But they could be more. If the codex is seen not as a control script, but as a second mind... a mirror of the operator...
He imagined a future where golems moved not just by command, but by instinct. Where they fought as extensions of the self—not puppets.
And I will build that future.
[Final Match of the Night]
The last bout was between two noble house champions. One represented House Relthein, known for their cruel efficiency. The other—a new house rising from the border cities—had introduced a strange serpentine golem with six limbs and a split torso.
It twisted and coiled in unnatural ways.
Fornos tilted his head, intrigued.
They're experimenting with modular bodies. Reconfigurable limbs. That would require a dynamic codex capable of adjusting its logic tree on the fly.
The Relthein golem, a standard knight-style unit, tried to crush it in a head-on charge. The serpent golem split at the waist—literally detaching its upper body—and used its tail to whip the knight's leg.
The knight stumbled. The serpent wrapped around it and activated some kind of internal discharge. The crowd shrieked as sparks exploded from within the knight's core. Then silence.
Crude... but effective. No elegance. But the intent is clear.
Fornos stood up quietly.
He had seen all he needed tonight.
The arena's thunder echoed behind him as he walked through the colosseum corridors once more—Brassheart at his heels, a silent sentinel of polished brass and hidden blades.
In the distance, fireworks bloomed in the night sky—celebrating blood, iron, and the spectacle of power.
But in the shadows of Ironrend, a mind sharper than any blade was already at work.
Not just preparing for war.
Planning to redefine it.