Chapter 15 Armour of the Divine Core

The dusk filters through a high canopy of pines, painting golden bars across the forest trail. The scent of resin and river wind drifts through the air as the company of Imperial Elite Riders slows to a trot.

They have ridden since sunrise, taking very few breaks. Now, as they reach a bend in the forest ridge, their leader, General Vanguard, raises his gauntleted hand.

“Rest formation,” he says.

His voice doesn’t need to carry far—the Elite Riders, the finest warriors of the Heartland Empire, follow with instinctive precision.

The alloy steeds hiss softly, their gleaming, articulated legs folded in patterns too precise for machinery, too smooth for nature. ‘CelestCore,’ as the people of Shen call it, allows mortal flesh and metal to harness Celestial power. The Elite Riders, wielding the finest craftsmanship with their hearts of bravery, are the paragons of CelestCore innovation. A few steeds flick their heads, releasing steam from pressure valves—exhalations like breathing oxen. Their CelestCore lines glow faintly beneath their plated skin—dormant but ready.

The men dismount in practiced rhythm. Some loosen saddlebags, pulling out ration packs or strips of dried plum. Others tend to their steeds, murmuring to them as if they were sacred animals, with quiet prayers revering these machines built from divine ore and intent.

Under a crooked pine, General Vanguard removes his helmet briefly. The interior is damp with sweat from the autumn heat. While his men rest, their young leader scans the woods with his trained eyes and instinct beyond his age.

“Need a rest, General?” a voice speaks behind him.

“You sound disappointed, Sworn Rider Jiang.” General Vanguard turns and smiles at one of his Riders—a lean young man with quick eyes and a halberd strapped to his back.

Beside him, another Rider approaches—older, broader-shouldered, with grey streaking his temples. “Give the General some breathing room, Young Jiang. We’ve been riding for days.”

“It’s okay, Captain Chen,” Vanguard says with a slight smile. “I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

“Negative, sir,” Jiang replies saluting, with a slight hint of nervousness, “it is an honour to serve you on this mission.”

“At ease,” the young general says, trying to ease the mood and build companionship with the Riders he just assembled, “I was hoping this mission would bring you more excitement than sightseeing—sorry to disappoint.”

Jiang and the Riders seem to have relaxed a bit—just enough to ease the tension, not enough to forget it.

“You’re in good company,” the general says after a moment, “what brought you to the Imperial Elite Riders?”

A crow caws in the distance—sharp, solitary. Vanguard’s eyes flick toward the sound before returning to Jiang.

“I trained hard.”

“Not just that. You believe in something. That’s rare these days.”

“Sir, your father’s a great prime minister, he inspired me to become an Elite Rider.” Jiang adds. “I wasn’t educated, so I started out as a standard-bearer when he was dispatched to the borderlands. He rebuilt the provinces—my hometown among them—despite ongoing threats from the eastern and southern continents, despite the yaoguai growing bolder. Citizens are safe and thriving, they do not hear our battles.”

Chen nods slowly. “The boy’s not wrong. Served under your father myself, ten years back. The Prime Minister’s no military official, but his will is stronger than ours. He earned our loyalty.”

“I’m humbled to hear your praises for my father,” General Vanguard says. “Yes, thanks to him the Heartlanders are safe, well… most of them.”

“Sir?” Jiang asks.

The forest feels too quiet. No birds, no rustling—just the soft hiss of their steeds and the men’s voices. Vanguard’s hand drifts closer to his sabre’s hilt.

“We’re heading towards Tiantan—the once glorious spiritual hub of the Heartland. One day the floods came and swallowed the entire town. Rumour has it the townsfolk were wicked, cursed, and so the mighty Celestials had forsaken them.”

Silence falls between the soldiers—not uncomfortable, just a familiar tale they have heard all too often.

The crows return, this time a full flock scattering from the trees ahead.

The wind shifts.

Not harshly—just enough to carry a new scent. Smoke. Jasmine. And something… sweet, almost cloying.

The Riders look up as one.

From between the trees, a woman stumbles onto the path. Her long robes are torn and splattered with mud, her hair clinging to her cheeks like silk, and her eyes wet with panic.

“Please!” she gasps as she runs toward the Riders. “The hills caved in! My family and my village are in danger… please rescue us!”

She falls to her knees right in the middle of the road, trembling.

Jiang steps forward instinctively, hand reaching for his water flask. Chen moves to follow, but General Vanguard raises a hand, signalling calm. Both Riders halt in their position.

“You’re safe now,” he says gently, slowly stepping forward with poise, “where is your family?”

She points down a narrow, overgrown trail to the east, where the trees grow thicker and the shadows run deeper.

“There,” she whispers, “they’re stuck in the landslide, please help them quickly…”

Her voice cracks, her shoulders shake, she does not look up. The Riders murmur among themselves. The young general watches more closely. His gaze narrows—the angle of her hands, the way her knees aren’t sinking fully into the mud—

SWOOSH!

He swings his sabre.

The Riders freeze.

The woman is nowhere to be seen. The Riders look up—she leaps high into the air, then lands on a tall tree nearby. Her limbs cling to branches, posture animalistic, long dark hair cascading down her face. She slowly lifts her head, eyes glowing faintly amber, and her face cracking open with a wide smile full of fangs.

“Tch! You’re a smart one,” she snarls, voice suddenly smooth as silk, “but it’s already too late.”

YIP! YIP! YIIIP!

“Shapeshifter!” Jiang shouts, dropping his flask and reaching for his halberd. “She’s a Fox Spirit!”

Leaves explode around her as she vanishes in a blur of foxfire and echoing yips. The trap has been sprung. The Riders are being covered in dense smog. They look around—moving shadows lurk in every direction. More yips answer from the forest—a chorus of fox voices hunting as a pack.

“Well, gentlemen,” General Vanguard speaks calmly as their steeds and gauntlets hum, glowing brighter with amber light, “sightseeing’s cancelled, let’s head straight to the main attraction.”

The forest bursts into motion the moment the Fox Spirit woman yips.

A flare of silver-green light shimmers in the treetops—and from the shadows comes the first wave of Black Husk Soldiers. Their skin appears carved from obsidian, lacquered with fragments of bone. Hollow-eyed. Movements jerky and twisted, like marionettes controlled by malice.

They rain down from the trees, and another wave surges forward from the dark woods, with their jagged blades of iron and hideous mouths opened in silent war cries.

General Vanguard’s arms snap up, gauntlets flaring to life.

“Release the Core!”

“Yes, General!”

The alloy steeds pulse.

Each Rider places one palm over the sigil embedded in their steed’s neck—a perfect circle glowing with five-point harmony lines. The sigils hum, then burst in radiant light. The steeds unfold.

It happens in heartbeats. Plates of blessed alloy separate and reform, swirling through the air like fragments of scripture. Each piece clicks into place on its Rider, forming seamless suits of CelestCore armour, shimmering with ancient motifs: dragons etched in bronze, tiger pauldrons, layered lamellar glowing faintly with internal scripture, symbolizing the mortals’ hope against supernatural beasts.

Helmets form last—sculpted like guardian spirits, with eye slits that shimmer gold.

Then, the halos appear.

Behind each Rider, a luminous disc of light materialises—radiant circles that float just beyond their shoulders, like the sacred aureoles in ancient paintings of Celestials and enlightened beings. Each halo pulses with inner fire, its brightness and intricacy a mirror to the warrior’s power and purity of heart. The more formidable the warrior, the more brilliant the halo burns—etched with patterns that shift like living scripture, telling tales of valour and divine favour.

To any onlooker, they look like gods suiting up for war. The CelestCore was forged not merely to armor the warriors. It measured them. Judged them. Only the pure hearted could forge them. Only the worthy could wield them.

General Vanguard’s armour flares brightest with his Imperial halo crest—shaped like a raging tiger, fierce eyes staring wide. Behind him, his halo blazes like a second sun, so ornate and resplendent that it seems to command the very light around it, a testament to his power and the weight of his station. Then, he draws his twin sabres in one smooth motion.

“Engage!”

The Riders meet the Black Husks head-on—a silent clash of purpose against chaos.

The Husks hiss and snarl, each strike cruelly unpredictable. But the Elite Riders move like a single mind. Their armours anticipate impacts, shift weight, and counter with fluid grace. Sparks dance. Metal shrieks. The Riders’ movements are half ritual, half war.

General Vanguard side-steps a strike and drives his sabres through a group of Husk Soldiers—shadow vapour bursts from the falling mass.

Jiang vaults over him, catching two Husks mid-leap with his spinning halberd. “Still too easy, General!” he shouts, youth and adrenaline sharpening his voice.

Chen fights nearby, methodical and efficient, his maces moving in practiced arcs. “Save your breath, boy.”

But the Husks keep coming. The Riders’ breathing grows heavier beneath their helmets. Around them, armour plates scrape and buckle. General Vanguard’s CelestCore gauntlets burn brighter. His men are holding formation, but their movements are sharper now, less fluid. More furious.

The forest echoes with the sound of hope.

Then the ground begins to shake.

A low rumble rolls beneath the soil, followed by cracking roots and splitting stone.

BOOM.

From the hillside, something massive bursts into view.

Its body is carved from rock—no, grown from it. Covered in moss, soil-stained stone, and violet crystal veins. A face barely visible under layers of jagged shale. Its fists are boulders. Its breath smells of forgotten centuries.

The Rock Guai has come.

It lets out a thunderous bellow and charges.

“Rock Guai!” Vanguard shouts, slashing through a Husk as he spins towards his men. “Formation Thunderstorm—now!”

The Riders scramble to disengage. One tears his halberd free from the carapace of an evaporating Husk. Another stumbles back, narrowly dodging another Husk’s clawed hands. They snap into formation—not perfectly, but fast enough.

The front line drops into a low stance, locks their gauntlets and boots with magnetic seals. The second line raises shields etched with glowing geomantic runes. The third prepares ranged weapons—spirit bolts, and chain-whips, cracking with lightning charge. They are well-trained in this formation meant for titanic beasts.

The Rock Guai crashes through the trees like an avalanche made of fists. It swats a fallen tree aside, crushes the Husks that are in its way, and barrels straight toward the formation with a roar that shakes the pine needles from above.

“Steel yourselves,” General Vanguard orders over his breath, “this one’s refined.”

The Rock Guai’s joints glow with flickering runes—not natural corruption. Controlled. Deliberate. Someone has shaped this one with precision.

Then, the Rock Guai leaps, like a boulder that learned grace.

The shockwave on impact shatters the outer line. Shields splinter.

Chen is thrown backwards, body spinning like a ragdoll. He crashes into a large tree with a sickening crack. His armour sparks and flickers.

“Captain Chen!” Jiang’s scream cuts through the chaos.

Another Rider catches the beast’s backswing and slams hard into a tree, armour dented deep, warning seals flashing red. Jiang struggles to his knees, his gauntlets flickering weakly.

Vanguard’s chest tightens. “Formation’s compromised.”

But there’s no time for doubt.

He rushes forward, twin glyph-plated hawk wings flaring open on his armour, boosting his leap through the air in a burst of golden fire.

He lands hard on the Rock Guai’s shoulder and thrusts a crackling baton into a glowing rune at the base of its neck.

“Now!” he shouts.

Three Riders fire spirit anchors into its legs—they crackle with celestial charge. Jiang forces himself to his feet, limping, and fires a chain to bind its arm. His movements are jerky, pained. The beast roars, stumbling.

“Bring it down!”

The Riders pull with everything they have, and the Rock Guai tumbles down, crushing a few Husks as it crumbles. Jiang staggers forward, breathing ragged, one arm hanging weakly, and drives his blade into the glowing runes between the Rock Guai’s joints with his good hand.

Jiang sways, glancing back towards where Chen fell. His voice cracks. “Captain Chen?”

Vanguard glances at his men. Chen gets back up. “Pipe down, boy. It’s just a tickle.”

Chen draws his mace, charges at the beast and impales the runestone deep in its chest. The runes dim. The rock beast falls, hits the ground shaking, then lies flat like listless boulders.

The Riders are breathing hard, armour cracked and flickering. Yet they regain their composure and return to their combat stance staring back at the shadowy horde. The Husks stop their advance, slowly stepping back into the smoke, away from the intensity of the Riders’ prowess.

Just for a moment, the tide shifts back.

Then, from the smoke—a silhouette, floating.

Masked, black CelestCore armour, green glow. The aura colder than stone.

The masked assailant raises a bone flute—a blow, no note rings out. Vanguard instinctively dodges—the projectile forces him to release his sabres. He lands hard. Behind him, where the projectile struck—the tree trunk blooms with fluorescent colours, then hisses as it melts away.

The glow is so bright that it reveals the assailant’s mask—carved with grotesque patterns, twisted colours, hungry fangs, and its bulging eyes staring down every opponent. The Riders suddenly lose their balance. One by one, their grips on the chains weaken. They start coughing uncontrollably, as the smog gets denser.

Jiang collapses to one knee, his good hand clutching his throat, gasping for air. “General—”

The assailant leaps onto the collapsed Rock Guai, reaches into the pile of rocks and grasps a runestone. An ominous green glow lights up like veins pumping back into the Rock Guai, as it surges with new force—smashing its arm free, slamming a Rider many feet away into the woods.

Vanguard’s hands find his sabres in the dirt, fingers closing around familiar grips despite the poison clouding his vision. He scans behind the Rock Guai—more Husks march from the dense smog, hungry, readying a second strike. The Fox Spirits’ yips echo louder, menacing and deafening, above the smog.

“We can’t win this. Not like this.”