"The Bear’s Fall"

Cold sweat trickled down Roland's face, the exhaustion from the fight with Garrick and the escape from the forest weighing on him like stones on his shoulders.

"Damn it... not now...," Roland thought. Apprehension squeezed his chest, worry gnawing at him about what was to come.

Gerard, the newly appointed supreme commander of the royal army, was no joke. And to make matters worse, two of his Neumond lackeys were waiting for him, blocking any escape route, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of malice and triumph.

The deserted street, once vibrant with the bustle of daily life, was now a silent arena for the impending confrontation. The surrounding houses, with their closed windows and doors, seemed to hold the breath of their inhabitants, watching the scene with a silent tension. ,

The wind blew through the alleys, carrying the scent of dust and fear, while the leaves on the trees rustled like whispers, foretelling the storm of blows that was about to break.

Gerard, with a cruel, mocking smile that didn't reach his cold eyes, drew his sword, the sharp blade glinting under the dim light of the torches like a sliver of ice.

"Come on, old man Roland," Gerard taunted, his voice laced with sarcasm, each word dripping like poison. "If you don't draw your sword... you'll die in the first strike." He said, slinging his own sword over his shoulders.

Roland knew it wasn't a bluff.

Gerard hadn't earned the title of supreme commander by chance; his reputation as a ruthless warrior preceded him. In years, he was one of the few commanders capable of rivaling legendary Leirions.

With a heavy sigh that carried the weight of a thousand battles, he drew his greatsword, the black steel blade contrasting with the paleness of his fingers. "It's now or never..." Roland thought.

It was extremely fast as the two launched themselves at each other, their superhuman speed defying the limits of physics, turning them into blurs in the eyes of any spectator.

The clash of swords was deafening, the shockwaves reverberating through the walls of the houses like an earthquake, shattering windows and throwing dust and debris into the air. The street trembled beneath their feet, the raw power of the veteran Neumonds distorting the reality around them, transforming the familiar scenery of Lumeria into a chaotic nightmare.

"Looks like you're in shape, old man Roland," Gerard commented, his voice dripping with irony, as he delivered a blow that Roland barely managed to block, the impact reverberating through his weary bones.

Roland didn't answer.

His mind focused on the fight, every thought as sharp as his blade. Exhaustion was eating away at his strength, each movement a battle against the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. But he couldn't afford to falter.

It was no longer the reason to protect who he wanted; it was only self-protection, an imminent risk of death.

The fight continued at a frantic pace, a deadly dance under the flickering light of the torches. Swift and powerful blows clashed, creating explosions of energy that lit up the night, turning the street into a whirlwind of colors and shadows. With each clash, the scene transformed, houses collapsing, the ground cracking, dust and debris obscuring their vision.

"Phew... they're going to destroy the city, hehe," said one of the Neumonds, Gerard's henchman.

Gerard, tired of playing around, released his battle aura, a Neumond skill from the physical branch. A dense, whitish energy enveloped his body like a second skin, pulsing with latent power.

His eyes gleamed with a malevolent intensity, and a cruel smile spread across his lips, revealing snow-white teeth. "How about we get serious, old friend?"

Roland felt Gerard's energy and a tightening in his chest, adrenaline battling against exhaustion. He had no choice.

"I don't want to die here," he thought as he released his own aura, an explosion of intense red light that enveloped him like a burning embrace.

A thick, hot vapor began to dance around him, the flames of the crimson battle burning in his eyes.

The battle intensified, the power of the blows increasing exponentially, each clash an explosion of brute force. The surrounding houses trembled, the walls cracking as if they were made of paper, the roof tiles flying through the air like frightened birds.

The ground opened up beneath their feet, the deep fissures swallowing the street, transforming it into a pathway of chaos. The sound of the clashes reverberated for miles, each roar an explosion of war in the silent night.

One of Roland's abilities was knight's cognition. He could telegraph Gerard's movements, his mind working at a frighteningly high speed. But exhaustion prevented him from reacting with the necessary speed, every muscle screaming in protest.

Gerard, on the other hand, was enjoying the situation, delivering increasingly powerful blows, testing the limits of Roland's endurance. The pleasure of cruelty shone in his eyes.

But Roland's body was already at its limit, his strength draining away like sand in an hourglass. His labored breathing and aching muscles made each movement a new battle, his vision blurred by sweat and dust.

"Come on, Master Roland, show me that!" Gerard mocked.

"I have no choice..." Roland thought.

Roland backed away, panting, the exhaustion growing worse with each passing second. Gerard laughed, his voice echoing through the deserted street. "Are you afraid, old man Roland? If you don't surrender now, you'll die right here!"

Ignoring the taunt, Roland raised his greatsword above his head, the red aura pulsing with power, and crimson lightning forming on his blade.

The sword began to contort, its shape altering, taking on a grotesque and menacing appearance. Sharp teeth emerged from the sides, black grooves opened up on the blade, and gothic adornments formed on the guard.

"Finally! There it is, the famous Deathend!" exclaimed Gerard, clapping his hands with a sadistic smile. "Too bad your artifact sword won't be able to save you!"

Roland brought the sword down in a single movement, unleashing a wave of devastating black energy that ripped through the ground, opening a deep fissure in the street.

Gerard was shocked. He lost his mocking smile and dodged at the last instant, yet the energy lightly touched his cloak, destroying it. The wave of energy split a nearby building in half, turning it into rubble.

"That was close..." Gerard hadn't expected the voracity and fatality of this blow. For the first time, he frowned and became irritated. "Let's end this."

Gerard used his Angelic Steps ability, and with a movement that seemed more like a teleport, he reached Roland. A dull thud from the pommel of his sword hit Roland's ELEV and disarmed him.

Roland's greatsword flew away, spinning in the air before falling, clattering to the ground, and losing its grotesque shape. Roland was thrown several meters forward against a wall, the force of the impact knocking the wind out of him.

Again, with the same movement, Gerard advanced, and his sword touched Roland's throat, already leaning against the wall. The cold blade reminded him of the present death.

"It's over, old man Roland," said Gerard, his voice cold and triumphant; the satirical smile returned to his face.

The defeat was bitter; his stomach turned acidic. Worry for Leonard and Elizabeth gnawed at his core, guilt and fear intertwining in a suffocating knot in his throat.

Gerard ordered them to take him away. The Neumonds put him in Frosteel shackles—the unbreakable metal of Humbra.

Roland, without resistance, was dragged to the dungeon prison, each step a humiliation. Darkness enveloped him, cold and oppressive, and the sound of the bars closing echoed like the end of an era, of a hope.

In the cold, damp cell, Roland huddled in the corner, his mind tormented by doubts and fears. The humiliation of defeat added to the physical exhaustion and worry for the future, painting a bleak picture in his mind.

"Forgive me, I failed, Leonard... forgive me, forgive me, Leah..." he whispered in delirium.

Two guards approached, their faces impassive, their armor gleaming menacingly in the dim light of the torches. They forced him to stand, their rough hands grabbing his arms and dragging him out of the cell.

"We're sorry, Sir Roland," the voice of one of the guards trembled in disbelief, clearly showing that they were there against their will.

"Are you going to execute me already?" Roland asked, his voice hoarse and weak, his throat dry as a parchment.

The guards didn't answer; they just pushed him through the dark and humid corridors of the dungeon, the echo of their footsteps reverberating off the stone walls.

The smell of mold and the decay of corpses that had died forgotten there permeated the air, suffocating and nauseating, and the silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps and the clinking of the chains that now bound him.

They arrived at a torture chamber, a place of nightmares. The walls were stained with blood, and the floor was covered with dark stains that told stories of suffering. Torture instruments, of sinister and cruel shapes were arranged around, and the little light present was like a macabre invitation.

Roland felt a shiver run down his spine, but without a drop of fear, only his anger mixing with frustration.

The guards threw him to the ground, the impact of his knees reverberating through his aching bones. One of them approached, his face sad and without light, his eyes shining as if he were going to shed a tear.

"The king wants to have a conversation with you," said the guard, his voice heavy with sorrow, each word a blow.

Roland spat on the ground, his saliva tinged with blood. "So be it," he replied, his voice firm and still convictive, determination burning in his eyes like an ember.

"Forgive us, Sir Roland, please." And then the guards beat him, the cruel and relentless blows raining down on his body like a storm. Roland cowered, trying to protect his vital organs, the searing pain coursing through his being like fire. But he didn't scream, didn't beg for mercy. He wouldn't give his captors that satisfaction.

When they finally stopped, Roland was lying on the ground, his breathing ragged, his body covered in bruises and wounds.

The guards left, the sound of their footsteps fading away, leaving him alone in the darkness, the pain throbbing in every part of his being, each wound a testament to the humiliation and defeat.

Hours passed, each hour an eternity. Roland remained there, prostrate, his mind wandering between reality and delirium, the boundaries blurring like watercolor in water. Every time he closed his eyes, the images appeared, vivid and cruel: Leonard's face, Elizabeth's smile, the memory of Leah.

It was these images that kept him alive, that prevented him from succumbing to pain and despair, that ignited a flame of resistance in his weary heart.

Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridors, breaking the oppressive silence. The door to the chamber opened, the light of the torches invading the darkness like an intruder. An imposing silhouette, with a cruel smile on his lips, entered, the shadow of his cape projecting onto Roland's dejected face, each step a thunderclap.

"Hello, Roland," said the person, his voice laden with sarcasm, each word a poisoned dart. "Miss me?"

Roland raised his gaze, his eyes meeting his, full of anger and despair, the flame of resistance burning bright. He would never forget that voice, that face, that horrible sensation. "Edward..." whispered Roland.

"We have a lot to talk about, my old friend," continued the king, with a cruel smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "About the past... and about the future."

Edward crouched down, his gaze level with Roland's. Wearing a white royal cotton glove, he ran his index finger through one of the strands of Roland's gray hair that was on his forehead.

"Poor thing, you're finished. Did you like my VIP treatment?" Edward said, then immediately removed the glove and threw it into the back of the room with a look of disgust.

Roland prepared himself for the confrontation, his mind sharp as a blade, his body aching, but his spirit unyielding. Roland's fate was on a knife's edge.