Between the strange patterns, something extremely mottled and decayed knelt with its back to them. Reddish-brown, mosslike rust had spread across every inch of it, giving it a softened, crumbly texture.
Judging by its shape, it was a full suit of armor—and a valuable one at that.
Its former appearance was long past recognition. The patterns and ornaments had become indistinct, raised bands beneath the reddish-brown rust. Only an inverted sword emblem remained, twisted and warped where the rust had squeezed it.
It should have been kept by some once-prominent family, carefully cleaned and maintained every day as a symbol of their ancestors' military achievements. Its significance far outweighed its practical value, and it would not have been worn except in extraordinary circumstances.
Yet there it was, right in the middle of the waterway, standing in the intruders' path.
The helmet bore bulbous protrusions of unknown origin. Its head hung low as faint sounds issued from it, like a clamshell opening and closing or paste being stirred.
They noticed something beneath the armor's feet that they had initially taken for silt. It was a Cultivator Robe, soaked through, wrapped around a shrunken, withered form that gave off a pungent, iron-rust-like stench.
Green said nothing. Holding his breath, he drew his sword and approached slowly.
Its crouched posture made it look like a giant snail shell, stranded there after its contents had died. Before long, some creature would take up residence inside and make the shell part of itself.
When it moved, it gave the momentary illusion that its original occupant was still alive.
The armor plates, stripped of their fasteners and hinges, shifted and scraped against each other in ways that should once have been impossible. As they drew closer, the strange rustling beneath the rust grew more distinct, mingling