The entrance of the Rusted Kings was nothing short of epic. As they made their way into the halls of the Skeleton King, the air was thick with electricity, almost as if the very atmosphere was being charged by their presence. The post-apocalyptic wasteland from which they hailed seemed to follow them, as scrap metal clattered and the sound of gears grinding echoed through the halls.

The warriors were a sight to behold. Some wore asymmetric rusted armor pieced together from scrap, others donned hoodies that seemed to be made from scrap. But the real show-stoppers were the ones who strode in with giant mechanical suits of armor that rumbled and clanked as they moved. These power armors boosted their speed and strength, making them nearly invincible as they made their way to the front of the hall.

And then there was the small group of Samurai wastelanders, their armor gleaming in the dim light. They moved with a grace and precision that was unmatched, their skills honed to perfection through years of battling the frogmen in the rusted skeleton realms.

As the Rusted Kings reached their destination, the air was charged with energy, and Geiger counters began to go haywire. It was as if the very power of their presence was almost too much for the instruments to handle. The crowds gasped in awe, knowing that they were in the presence of true power, a power that would stop at nothing to protect the skeleton realm from the threats of the frogmen. This was the Rusted Kings, and they were not to be trifled with.