The Breaking and the Battle

Aingo raced to the prisoner base with urgency. He burst through the heavy door and immediately set to work, unlocking the cells one by one and freeing every prisoner inside. As each door swung open, a small group of villagers emerged, confused by their sudden release. One by one they stepped out, hesitant and bewildered.

But soon Aingo noticed something was amiss—there were far too many prisoners to let them leave in disorder. With a firm voice that carried both authority and a hint of archaic cadence, he called out to his soldiers assembled nearby. "Hasten, my friends! Summon thyselves from your squat; we must free them all!".

In immediate response, the soldiers rushed in. They worked quickly, opening additional cells and ushering the villagers out. The freed people, still reeling from their long confinement, crawled out in a daze. Amid the chaos, Aingo stepped forward and addressed the assembled crowd. "people, gather ye; thou must flee as swiftly as thou can from this place. Look behind thee—ye shall find swords hung at the back of this base. Take them and leave now!" His words, resonated with a sense of dire urgency.

The villagers, their faces marked with confusion and hope at the taste of sudden freedom, obeyed. In a wild, frantic rush, they grabbed the swords and began to leave the compound. Amid the stampede, Neon lingered. His eyes locked onto Aingo, who paused and slowly bowed toward him. In a soft, measured tone that betrayed both respect and a touch of solemn tradition, Aingo said, "Neon, I entrust thee with Dran's son, please, take young Rider with thee and leave."

Neon, shocked at Aingo's bow and the gravity in his words, could only stare for a moment before joining the fleeing crowd. Without another word, he disappeared amid the throng.

A sudden, deafening bang echoed from the palace. The sound of battle had reached even the freed villagers. In that moment, the soldiers under Aingo's command exchanged fearful glances. One of them cried out, "We cannot tarry here, for the entire building might collapse upon us!" But Aingo's voice rang out resolutely as he responded, "I cannot leave Dran to fight alone. Go forth without me!"

Immediately, Aingo sprinted toward the palace room. His soldiers watched him from afar as the building began to shake once more, and then—one by one—they all fled out.

Inside the palace, the clash between Dextin and Dran raged on. The tyrant Dextin, his face contorted with grinning fury, and Dran, whose calm anger belied the pain in his eyes, locked their katanas together. The sound of their blades clashing echoed throughout the room like a mournful symphony of war. For a moment, both combatants stepped back to catch their breath, heavy and ragged, their breathing filling the tense silence.

Dextin managed a weak smile as he spat out, in a voice with a faint ancient lilt, "Thou art naught but a pain in the ass, Dran. Die, I say, and end this torment!" Yet Dran, summoning every ounce of strength, raised his Red Katana until its blade caught wild, dancing flames. The fire did not go unnoticed—even as Dextin tried to maintain a calm façade, the flames began to spread. Unbeknownst to them, the fire had crept along the walls of the palace, slowly setting the building ablaze. But neither warrior cared; their focus was singular: to destroy each other.

Dextin pointed his Green Katana at Dran, a faint green aura swirling about him as he charged once again. This time, their movements were quicker, more desperate. Steel collided with steel as they dodged, swung, and blocked with a ferocity born of years of pent-up hatred. In one savage moment, Dextin's strike sliced open Dran's stomach, leaving a gaping wound. Then came another brutal cut, this time slashing deeply across Dran's chest. Yet, even as pain threatened to overwhelm him, Dran pressed on.

The struggle took a terrible toll. Dextin managed to drive his blade clean through Dran's right chest, forcing Dran to cough up a torrent of blood. Still, Dran stood, defiance burning in his eyes. Dextin smirked and roared aloud, pressing his Green Katana deeper. At that moment, Dran's vision turned nearly white as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, blood pooling around him. But in that haze, a vision of the elite soldiers he had promised he would win flickered through his mind, fueling his resolve. With trembling hands, he gripped his Red Katana tighter.

Dextin sneered, his voice low and menacing as he said, "Yield now, Dran, or thou art doomed to die." In a swift, ruthless motion, he yanked his Green Katana from Dran's already bleeding chest, the movement spilling more blood onto the cold floor. Yet even then, Dran remained standing. With shaking, vibrating hands, he slowly lifted his Red Katana; its blade glowed with an intense crimson light, reminiscent of a polished, burning stone.

Without hesitation, Dextin charged again, and Dran met him in a flurry of motion. Dran swung his burning katana at Dextin with the intent to slice his neck clean. But Dextin was quick; he dodged just in time. In the ensuing clash, Dran's burning strike caught Dextin off guard—cutting clean through the tyrant's left hand, severing the palm entirely. Dextin flew back from the impact, his gaze fixed in horror upon his mangled hand. A piercing scream erupted from him, the sound echoing in the tumultuous chamber.

Elsewhere in the palace, Neon scoured the corridors in search of young Rider—Dran's son. Amid the smoke and rising heat in the elite soldiers' chamber, Neon's heart pounded as he finally found Rider crying on a small baby bed. Without a moment's hesitation, Neon scooped the terrified child into his arms and bolted out of the collapsing chamber. He left the building, glancing back only once at the burning edifice, worry etched deep into his features for Dran's fate.

Back in the midst of the fray, Dextin bellowed curses from the floor, his voice raw with pain. Dran, seizing the moment, advanced slowly as he raised his Red Katana high, intent on ending Dextin once and for all. But then, unexpectedly, Dextin's right-hand adviser appeared. Gripping Dran's leg firmly, the adviser shouted, "Get off my master!" in a tone that betrayed shock and duty. Dran struggled and tried to shake him off, but the adviser's grip only tightened.

"Get off me," Dran snarled, his voice edged with pain and fury. "you don't know what your doing!"

At that moment, Dextin, glancing at the only man who had not yet betrayed him, offered a small, almost ironic thanks. Then, without warning, he plunged his blade into Dran once more—this time, a swift thrust that pierced Dran's stomach. The blow was fatal. Dran crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath as his life began to fade.

The balance of power shifted instantly. Just as Dextin prepared to deliver the final blow, a sudden flash interrupted the deadly scene. Aingo's sword flew through the air, finding its mark by striking Dextin on the shoulder. In a heartbeat, Aingo rushed forward, dragging Dran's motionless body out of harm's reach as he coughed from the thick, choking smoke. The flames around them grew ever stronger, their heat a constant, brutal reminder of the palace's impending collapse.

Aingo knelt beside the fallen Dran, desperately trying to rouse him from unconsciousness. Dran's eyes fluttered open slowly. Through a haze of pain and blood, he saw Aingo leaning close, urging him, "Run, Aingo —flee while you can!" But Aingo's tone quickly shifted, firm and resolute. "No, I will not run away. Learn to cease thy foolish words, for I shall take out Dextin's eyes myself!"

At that moment, Dextin, still reeling from the earlier blow, staggered and yanked Aingo's sword from his shoulder, flinging it aside with a disdainful snort. "It matters not," Dextin declared with a bitter sneer. "I shall kill ye both together."

From opposite sides, Dran and Aingo struggled to rise. Dran, leaning on Aingo for support, managed to steady himself despite the overwhelming pain. Together, they prepared to shift the tide of battle once more.

The clash of steel, the roar of flames, and the cries of battle filled the collapsing palace as the struggle between Dextin and those who defied him reached a fever pitch. Every moment was charged with desperation and defiance. Dran's eyes, though dimming with pain, burned with a determination forged in the crucible of loss and betrayal. Aingo's presence was a silent vow—a promise that they would not let tyranny reign unchecked.