Chapter:18 The Final Confrontation

As Michael and his military arrived at the overwhelming doors of the Rritin Palace, the figure of Lenin Rritin stood tall and resistant on the towers, his look fixed upon the coming armed force with steely assurance.

"Get ready for protection!" Lenin's voice reverberated through the palace patio, revitalizing his fighters to activity. " Hang tight no matter what!"

As the palace doors moaned under the heaviness of the oncoming attack, bowmen lined the defenses, their bows drawn tight as they trusted that the ideal second will release a hail of destructive bolts upon the foe beneath.

"Consistent, men!" one of the toxophilite called out, his voice touched with expectation. " Hang tight for my order."

In any case, even as the bowmen arranged to rain demise upon their adversaries, Michael had different plans. With an influx of his hand, he motioned for his military to fall back, withdrawing to a protected separation from the palace walls.

"We'll not be brought into their snare," Michael announced, his voice persisting the noise of fight. " Spread out and encompass the palace. We'll hang tight for them to take the main action."

His officers gestured in understanding, their countenances set in horrid assurance as they spread out around the palace edge, prepared to strike immediately.

In the interim, inside the bounds of the blockaded palace, bedlam ruled as provisions dwindled and pressures ran intense among the occupants.

"We can't hold out significantly longer," one of the watchmen bemoaned, his voice loaded up with despair. " The food stores are almost drained, and new water is scant."

Lenin Rritin's forehead wrinkled with worry as he studied the dreary scene unfurling before him. The once strong fort presently remained near the very edge of breakdown, its protectors tired and hungry, their spirits hailing under the heaviness of the steady attack.

"We should hang tight, my companions," Lenin pronounced, his voice ringing out with power. " Our endurance relies upon it."

Be that as it may, even as he talked, the sound of cannon fire reverberated through the air, the dangerous shots pouring downward on the palace walls with decimating force.

"We're enduring an onslaught!" one of the watchmen shouted out, his voice touched with alarm as he dodged for cover.

Lenin's eyes restricted with assurance as he reviewed the bloodletting unfurling around him. As time passes, the circumstance developed more critical, and he realize that frantic measures would be expected to reverse the situation of fight in support of themselves.

As the days extended on, the palace turned into a scene of urgency and depression, its occupants confronting the troubling truth of starvation and disorder.

"We can't go on this way," one of the palace cooks mourned, her voice loaded up with torment. " We want food and water, or we'll all die."

Lenin gestured dismally, his brain hustling with contemplations of how to ease the enduring of his kin. In any case, with their provisions decreasing and not a single alleviation to be found, he realize that their main expectation lay in figuring out how to break the attack and secure truly necessary arrangements.

Outside the palace walls, Michael and his military watched and paused, their determination relentless as they kept on fixing their hold on the attacked post. As time passes, the Rritin Realm developed more vulnerable, their safeguards disintegrating under the persistent attack of Michael's powers.

Yet, much to their dismay that inside the palace walls, an alternate sort of fight was being pursued a fight for endurance notwithstanding overpowering chances. Furthermore, as the days transformed into weeks, the destiny of the Rritin Realm remained in a critical state, its future unsure amidst the Fallen Conflict.

As the residue settled from the wild fight outside the entryways of the Rritin Palace, Michael and Lenin Rritin stood confronting one another, the heaviness of their particular predeterminations hanging weighty in the air.

Michael, his protective layer stained with blood and sweat, grasped his blade firmly, his look immovable as he gazed intently at his enemy. Adjacent to him, his dedicated warriors remained good to go, their weapons drawn and their purpose unfaltering.

Lenin Rritin, his once pleased disposition currently damaged by rout, met Michael's look with a combination of resistance and renunciation. However his military had battled fearlessly, they had been no counterpart for the staggering could of Michael's powers.

"You've battled well, Michael Rose," Lenin surrendered, his voice touched with sharpness. " In any case, triumph is passing, and eventually, it is generally major areas of strength for the win."

Michael's jaw fixed at Lenin's words, his heart weighty with the information on the penances that had been made chasing after triumph. In any case, even as uncertainty took steps to crawl into his brain, he shoved it to the side, zeroing in rather on the job that needs to be done.

"It's finished, Lenin," Michael answered, his voice cold and enduring. " Your rule of oppression closes here."

With a disobedient thunder, Lenin lurched forward, his blade blazing in the daylight as he looked to strike a deadly blow. However, Michael was prepared, his reflexes sharpened by long periods of preparing and fight solidified insight.

With a quick development, Michael parried Lenin's assault, his own blade singing through the air as he countered with his very own overwhelming blow. The conflict of steel reverberated through the yard, an ensemble of savagery and passing as the two foes battled for matchless quality.

However, even as their blades conflicted and ignites flew, Michael could see the exhaustion in Lenin's eyes, the indications of rout carved upon his face. As time passes, Michael took advantage of his upper hand, his blows developing all the more remarkable and tireless as he tried to get through Lenin's guards.

"You can't overcome me, Michael," Lenin growled, his voice loaded up with toxin. " I'm the legitimate leader of the Rritin Realm, and I won't be dominated by a simple upstart like you."

In any case, Michael ignored Lenin's words, his center steadfast as he kept on pushing forward. With a last, conclusive strike, he incapacitated his rival, sending Lenin's sword rattling to the ground.

"It's finished, Lenin," Michael announced, his voice ringing out with power. " You've lost."

Lenin staggered in reverse, his eyes wide with shock as he understood the gravity of his loss. With a crushed murmur, he sank to his knees, his soul broken and his expectations ran.

"I...I have fizzled," Lenin murmured, his voice scarcely discernible over the racket of fight. " Pardon me, father, for I have disrespected our name."

With overwhelming sadness, Michael moved toward his fallen adversary, his blade held primed and ready. In any case, as he raised his sharp edge to convey the last blow, Lenin's words left him speechless.

"Pause," Lenin wheezed, his voice powerless and stressed. " There is something you should be aware."

Michael wavered, his forehead wrinkling with disarray. " What is it?"

"Your folks," Lenin started, his voice vacillating as he attempted to talk. " They...they are dead."

Michael's blood ran cold at Lenin's words, his heart beating in his chest as he attempted to appreciate the greatness of what he had recently heard.

"Your meaning could be a little clearer." Michael requested, his voice shaking with rage. " What have you done?"

Lenin's lips twisted into a harsh grin as he talked, his words dribbling with vindictiveness. " I killed them," he admitted, his voice scarcely in excess of a murmur. " I guillotined them, similarly as I will be decapitated by you."

The disclosure hit Michael like a thunderclap, sending shockwaves of torment and outrage flowing through his veins. With a cry of fury, he raised his blade high, his hand shudder with wrath as he arranged to strike the last blow.

Be that as it may, even as he swung his cutting edge descending, a voice inside him murmured a solitary word: mercy.

With crushing sadness, Michael brought down his blade, his eyes loaded up with distress as he viewed his fallen foe. " You don't merit a fast demise, Lenin," he proclaimed, his voice touched with harshness. " However, I will give you the benevolence you denied my folks."

With a quick, conclusive movement, Michael brought his blade downward on Lenin's neck, taking his existence with a solitary, clean stroke. As the head moved to the ground, a quiet fell over the patio, the reverberations of fight blurring into the tranquility of death.

For Michael, the fight was finished, yet the scars it had left behind would wait for a lifetime. As he peered out over the front line, his heart weighty with misery and lament, he realize that the Fallen Conflict had negatively affected him in additional ways than one.

In any case, even as he grieved the deficiency of his folks and the endless lives lost in the contention, he realize that their penances had not been to no end. With Lenin