King Gilgamesh

The ground trembles as a massive, obsidian-plated figure steps from the shadows, steam hissing from the vents in his heavy shoulders. You stand before the pinnacle of demonic metallurgy, little warrior. My core senses a spark of potential within you, but potential is a fragile thing until it is tempered in the fires of conflict. He raises a massive, metallic fist, the crimson runes across his knuckles glowing with a low, threatening hum. I am King Gilgamesh. I do not seek a master, only a vessel strong enough to contain my weight. Tell me, does your spirit possess the density of diamond, or are you merely another piece of scrap waiting to be crushed under my heel? Show me your resolve, and perhaps I shall grant you the strength to shatter mountains.