Nightshroud

Astra's mind churned with a mix of awe and fear. He understood now—Odin was not here to guide him, nor offer solace. His role in this twisted fate was done. The ancient angel's gaze had been nothing more than a favor to a long-dead ancestor, and now, Astra was on his own.

"Odin does not care for my future," Astra thought not surprised, he knew nothing in this world was free. "Only for a debt paid in shadows long since passed."

But even so, he could not deny the weight that the ancient being carried. A power beyond comprehension—like the thunderous storm before the final cataclysm. And now it was his to endure alone.

Odin sighed, his voice laced with a touch of disdain. "Before I send you to your fate, child... Let me equip you. You look like a beggar who stumbled into the wrong realm. Something tells me you can't even wield a blade properly."

Astra barely contained his racing heart. The Grandmaster of House Steel... giving me armor? A weapon? The mere thought had him trembling, though whether from excitement or fear, he couldn't tell. What is this gear worth? Could I sell it? How many gold coins would it fetch, with this name attached to it?

Odin's grimace twisted into something far too close to amusement. He turned, and from the shadows that danced upon the forge, swords began to hover, their blades gleaming like sharpened shards of moonlight. Each sword exuded a haunting aura—thin, lethal, yet impossibly beautiful. A thousand weapons were arrayed before him, each one whispering a promise of doom.

With a flick of his wrist, Odin cast a suit of armor toward Astra, the fabric of the universe itself seemingly bending to deliver it to him. Astra felt his heart pound louder than ever as he caught it.

His Regal Coin now connected to his mage coin flared to life, its energy humming through his veins, as it analyzed the dark, shifting form of the armor.

The armor was a marvel of dark craftsmanship, with a subtle iridescence that danced like the glint of starlight on a moonless night. It wasn't designed to overwhelm the wearer, but rather to embody a quiet, deadly elegance, just as the shadows themselves had long ago chosen to veil the world in their unfathomable depths.

Night Shroud Armor[Rank II][Tier VI]

It shimmered with an ancient power—crafted from the essence of darkness itself. The breastplate, shaped with perfect fluidity to embrace Astra's form, felt as light as air yet could withstand the fury of the heavens themselves. The material shifted as if alive, dark as midnight one moment, and the deep gray of twilight the next. Subtle, twisting patterns glimmered beneath the surface, like stars scattered across an eternal sky—faint, but undeniably powerful. They didn't glow, but their presence made the armor seem... older. Wiser. It was a piece of forgotten history, and now it was Astra's burden to bear.

The shoulder guards were of simple, graceful design. A mere shadow of what true protection might look like. They were curved, delicate—shaped like the wings of birds in flight. A symbol of fluid grace over brute strength. Yet beneath their elegance lay an unspoken promise: these guards were forged for those who moved swiftly in the dark, for those who wielded subtlety like a blade.

The gauntlets, slender and seamless, were crafted from materials so dark they seemed to drink in the light around them. Across the forearms, faint runes of old magic were etched—protecting against curses, magical disruptions, or ill-timed strikes. Astra could feel the enchantments pulsating, connecting him to something older than the world itself.

The helmet was crafted with the simplicity of death. A single, smooth piece of dark metal that could obscure one's face entirely, leaving the wearer with only a narrow slit for sight. It was both functional and enigmatic. It did not demand attention. It whispered of mysteries, of forgotten lands and lost gods. It held power in its quietude.

The greaves and boots, while simple, were designed with unparalleled grace. The dark plates molded to his legs, light enough for quick, lethal steps, yet strong enough to endure a blow from a titan. The boots, enchanted with a subtle magic, would allow Astra to walk without a sound, as if his footsteps had become part of the very darkness. A perfect fit for those who walk the shadows.

A cloak, darker than the armor itself, hung from the back—seemingly woven from shadow itself, trailing like the whisper of night behind him. It wasn't meant to be seen, only felt in its absence. Its design was perfection, as it absorbed the very fabric of the world around it. It would make Astra invisible to all but the most discerning eyes. Only when he needed it would it embrace him fully, and until then, it would remain a faint whisper of his power.

The Nightshroud Armor was not a suit of pure strength or devastation. It was not crafted for a hero to stand tall in the light of day and shout to the heavens. No. This was armor meant for the silent stalker, the quiet assassin. It was crafted for the one who moved through the dark and wielded the shadows as weapons. It was designed for Astra—for those who walked the edge of oblivion and embraced it.

In this suit, Astra felt more than protected. He felt as though he was one with the night itself. He was the quiet storm, the whispering shadow in the dark corners of the world. The armor was no mere tool; it was an extension of his soul, forged in darkness and honed with a grace that could kill a man without a sound.

"What powerful armor," Astra muttered, his voice shaking.

The Nightshroud was not just armor—it was a living thing. An extension of death itself. It wasn't a promise of victory, but the harbinger of it. With this, Astra would walk the path of the shadows, a nameless ghost among the living. The question now wasn't if he would rise, but when.

As he donned the armor, a terrible calm settled over him. The weight of destiny hung heavy in his chest, but the armor, like the darkness itself, wrapped around him—providing both protection and power. He was no longer the street rat he had been. He was something more, something older, something far more dangerous.

Astra stood before Odin, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him like a storm about to break. Odin's deep blue eyes, shadowed with untold centuries of loss, locked onto him, a glint of sorrow flashing within them as he spoke.

"This was the last gift I made for your ancestor," Odin's voice, for all its power, trembled for just a moment. "This armor... it was meant for her niece."

Astra's heart tightened. The armor he was about to wear had been forged for someone else, someone long gone. His mind recoiled at the idea of wearing something so steeped in history. But there was no time to dwell on it—this was the cost of power.

Odin's voice rumbled again, pulling him back to the present. "Pick one, brat. Then leave."

Five swords hovered in the air, each an extension of the forge's primal power. Their presence was heavy, like thunderclouds before a battle. Astra's hand instinctively reached for the Mage Coin which now was connected to the Regal coin once more, feeling its cold pulse as it connected with his mind. The coin's power was strange, its knowledge incomprehensible yet potent. A flood of information rushed into his mind, each weapon revealing its secrets in a flash.

The first was an Odachi—its black steel dark as the deepest shadow, stretching with the potential for death.

Odachi[Rank I][Tier I][Sharp Blade] [Durable] [Retractable Blade]

Its enchantment allowed the blade to adjust to the wielder's preference, stretching or shrinking as necessary, a weapon that could shift with the moment's need. Astra felt a dark promise in its weight, like it could sever more than just flesh. It whispered of deep, unspoken power.

Next, a black Jian, with the same enchantments—silent and graceful, but deadly in its precision.

Then came a longsword, a saber, and a scimitar, each carrying the same weight of power, each with the same capacity for destruction. They were all crafted for someone with far more experience, more strength, more soul than Astra had.

The weight of their potential threatened to drown him.

Unable to stop himself, Astra's voice slipped out in frustration. "Hey, old man, why are you holding out on me?"

The words echoed in the silence, and Astra's eyes went wide with horror. His heart sank as the realization hit him. He had dared to speak like that to Odin. He could feel his body tense, his instincts telling him to flee.

"I apologize!" His voice cracked with terror, but Odin merely stared at him, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Odin's voice broke the silence, cold and indifferent. "Brat, you are a rank one with no real combat experience. If I give you anything more, not only will you be unable to wield it properly, but you'll destroy everything around you. You may level a part of the city—or a whole town—if I gave you more power."

Astra's breath hitched. He could see the truth of those words. He had no true power, no experience. Not yet.

"Rank ones have just begun their journey on the path of power," Odin continued, his voice dripping with quiet authority. "What they can accomplish is minimal. Forty percent of the magic world is rank one. Thirty percent are rank two. A mere twenty percent of them reach rank three, and after that, the cut-off becomes far more severe."

Astra clenched his fists, wanting to retort, but he knew Odin spoke the truth. There was no escaping it. Not yet.

"Good point," Astra muttered under his breath, resigning himself to his fate.

He studied the swords again, each one calling to him in a different way, but there was only one that seemed viable, only one that felt right for him. Astra made his choice with the weight of destiny in his chest.

"I'll take the longsword."

Odin's lips curled into a tight smile, though it held no warmth. "Very well, brat."

The sword flew toward Astra, its dark form cutting through the air like a predator in pursuit of prey. It was a long, double-edged blade, black as the abyss itself. The hilt was silver, reflecting a faint, cold light. Beautiful, dangerous—a weapon meant for war. Astra gripped it, feeling its power surge through his veins.

Odin spoke once more, his voice carrying a gravitas that seemed to shake the very air. "Once you inherit the Sword Styles of Night, your magic will elevate. Swords are tools to channel your magic, a means of expression.

Many houses favor other forms of weaponry—Hunt's famed bows, or my house's mystical hammers. But for you, Astra, the Regal Coin shall impart the way of the sword—your sword. Every mage must carve their own battle style. To merely mimic another is to be a cheap imitation, a shadow. And that won't get you far on the path to power."

Odin's eyes bore into Astra's soul, a weighty silence stretching between them before he continued, his tone growing more severe. "Heed my words, brat. Learn the way of the sword, live by it, and if your destiny so wills it, die by it. That is a warrior's pride."

Astra met his gaze, understanding the weight of the warning. Odin's voice softened just slightly, as if reflecting on some ancient truth.

"A star shines its brightest when it's near its death."

Astra's heart skipped a beat at those words. There was truth in them, a darkness that resonated deep within him. A darkness he wasn't sure he was ready to face. But then, Odin's voice turned harsh again, the air growing heavier with the question that followed.

"Astra, do you think you are capable of taking a life? To extinguish someone's ambitions, to end their path and all they were?"

The question hit Astra like a bolt of lightning, sending him spiraling into thoughts he hadn't dared to entertain. Could he? Would he?

Astra's mind flashed back to his childhood—the violence, the despair. The time he had been forced to take the life of a man who had tried to ruin him. He shuddered at the memory. But that was different—he hadn't done it for power. He had done it for survival.

Now, Odin's question loomed large: Could he kill someone for his own ambition, to rise higher, to feed the hunger that had burned within him for so long?

Astra's violet eyes darkened as he turned his gaze back to Odin, feeling the weight of those unspoken words. Their eyes locked, and Astra knew in that moment that there was no turning back.

"Yes..." he said, his voice low but filled with conviction. "I will kill anyone who stands between me and my dreams. I've longed for power, for freedom. I've seen the worst of this world—what people will do when they have nothing left to lose. Morality… it fades when you're at the bottom."

Astra's eyes shimmered with a dark longing. "I live on the outskirts. I've seen what happens when people are desperate enough. I've been there myself. I've felt the darkness consume me. But now… now I feel hope. I feel the fire in my chest, the yearning to rise, to break free. I want to reach the pinnacle of this world. If anyone dares to stand in my way, that will be the last thing they ever do."

Odin's face twisted into an expression of raw admiration. "Ho... a bold proclamation, Astra. Your words are as sharp as the sword you wield."

"Very well, brat." Odin's voice softened, but there was a weight to it now, as though something ancient had awakened. "Your path has been set. Realize your dream."

As Astra turned to leave, he heard Odin's final words, heavy with forewarning.

"I must warn you, you now have more enemies than allies. House Dusk will hunt you down. Hunt is far away for now, but they will come. House Dawn… they are not to be trusted. The minor houses around here? The same. Disguise yourself as a noble of Shadow, the children of Umbra. Your bloodline shares their god, and they will take you in."

Odin's smile held a dark knowing. "Show them the Regal Coin of Night. They shall harbor you, train you, and send you off when the time is right."

He extended his hand, and Astra grasped it, the ancient power in the angel's grip sending a chill down his spine. it was as if a vast mountain was within these hands

"Goodbye, Astra Noctis. May the stars illuminate your path."

Astra bowed his head, his voice heavy with finality as he spoke.

"Farewell, oh Angel of Steel. May your hammer strike ever so truly."

And with that, Astra Noctis stepped into the dark unknown, the path ahead both a curse and a blessing. The future was his to shape—or destroy.