The Last Stand of the Red Blade

Dextin stood across from Aingo and Dran in the ruined remains of the palace, the air thick with tension and the bitter taste of impending fate. Between them, in the wavering light of the collapsing structure, lay the remnants of a once-mighty regime. The three men—each scarred by loss, burdened by duty, and driven by a fierce desire for retribution—assumed their positions in a silent standoff.

Dran's vision was fading; his eyes, clouded with pain and exhaustion, searched desperately for the familiar face of his comrade. With a rasp in his voice, he called out, "Aingo… my friend, my vision… it is failing. I fear I shall not endure much longer…" His words, though weak, carried the weight of a warrior who had seen too many battles and lost too much.

Aingo's face tightened with worried anger. "Dran, speak not of such despair in this hour," he admonished, his tone laced with both concern and a quiet determination. "Thou must not give in to these dark thoughts now."

Dran coughed out a weak chuckle, his lips twisting in both pain and defiance. "Aingo, listen well… I have but one technique left in me—a secret of the Red Katana. 'Tis a power that grants immense flame, a gift that I have barely tapped into. In my final moments, I intend to enhance it beyond its limit and strike down Dextin himself. Even if death comes swiftly, I will not let that tyrant live on." His words trembled as he admitted, "I am near my end, yet I shall take him down with me."

Aingo's eyes widened in disbelief and sorrow. "Nay, Dran," he protested, shaking his head as if to dispel the grim fate foretold. "Thou shalt not die tonight. I cannot—will not—see thee perish!"

Dran interrupted him, his voice gaining strength even as his body faltered. "Promise me, Aingo. Promise me that, no matter what comes to pass, thou wilt follow me to the bitter end." His gaze, though heavy with pain, burned with unyielding resolve.

Aingo gritted his teeth and wiped a tear from his weathered cheek. In that silent moment, with the ruins of their world crumbling around them, he made his vow. "I promise, Dran. I shall stand by thee, come what may."

Before either could savor this fragile bond, Dextin broke their solemn moment. Lifting his Green Katana across his shoulder with an air of disdain and dark amusement, he called out, his voice echoing off the shattered stone walls:

"Are ye done with thy futile discussion? Hasten, for ye both shall die—and I shall see to it with one final assault!"

Without waiting for a reply, Dextin charged. But fate intervened as the very foundation of the burning palace began to crumble beneath them. With a deafening roar, the structure shuddered and collapsed, sending cascading debris tumbling around the combatants. Dextin halted in his tracks, startled, as the building fell around him. In a desperate bid for survival, he shielded himself against the falling rubble.

Outside, the villagers looked on in stunned silence. The once-imposing palace now lay in ruin, its collapse a symbol of the crumbling regime. Among them, Neon cradled baby Rider gently in his arms; the child, nestled in a sleeping slumber, remained oblivious to the chaos unfolding inside.

Dextin, though bruised and momentarily halted by the falling debris, pushed aside a heavy beam of wood that had landed upon him. Casually, as if it were but a minor inconvenience, he rose to his feet. His right-hand adviser soon followed, hauling away the scattered timber and taking a seat amid the wreckage. Moments later, Aingo emerged from the rubble, his eyes scanning the carnage for any sign of Dran. Finding the battlefield disturbingly silent where Dran should be, he shouted, "Dran! Where art thou?"

At last, Dran emerged—the last to stagger free from the ruins. He pushed aside a fallen wooden beam with a great effort, forcing himself to stand. Seeing his friend, Aingo rushed forward with relief and worry etched across his face. "Dran, art thou well? Speak to me, friend!"

Dran, still catching his breath, looked up at Aingo with a grim expression. "you must hold off Dextin on your own for a few minutes," he said, his voice strained. "you cannot allow him to strike again, not while you can still fight." His tone left no room for argument, though it carried the heavy note of inevitability.

Aingo's eyes filled with conflict. Doubt and worry warred within him—could he truly bear the burden of fighting dextin? Yet Dran insisted, "This is our chance to do what is right, Aingo. I shall join thee soon; for now, you must engage him alone."

With the villagers and a few remaining soldiers watching in hushed anticipation, Aingo steeled himself and prepared for what was to come. Suddenly, from the gathered crowd outside, Neon's voice rang out as a warning: "Aingo, look out!" His shout cut through the tense air, urging caution.

Before Aingo could react, Dextin reappeared from the haze of falling debris. With a swift, savage motion, he landed a mortal slice across Aingo's body, sending him reeling backwards. As Aingo crumpled, Dextin's voice rang out in a cold, mocking tone:

"Do ye truly think I shall let thee prattle on? I am enraged that my palace lies in ruin at thy hands!"

Enraged, Dextin advanced toward the weakened Dran, who lay struggling on the rubble. In a moment of sheer instinct, Aingo lunged forward to intercept Dextin's lethal strike, blocking the blow with his own blade. Dextin paused in shock, staring at Aingo as he demanded, "How comest thou still alive?"

Aingo smirked despite the pain. "I protected mine vitals before thy slice could claim them," he retorted, his tone carrying both defiance and a subtle challenge. With newfound strength, he pushed Dextin away a few feet. "I will not allow thee to come near Dran," Aingo declared, positioning himself as a barrier between the tyrant and his injured friend.

Dextin laughed bitterly, sneering, "Thou art nothing but a nobody, Aingo! With thy pathetic sword, thou shalt fall like all the rest!" With that, Dextin surged forward, swinging his Green Katana with lightning speed toward Aingo. But Aingo, as if foreseeing the attack, dodged with remarkable agility. In one fluid motion, he swung his own blade in return, driving Dextin back. The clash of steel rang out, and the gathered onlookers—villagers and soldiers alike—watched in awe. They could scarce believe that someone dared to stand against Dextin's might.

Aingo paused, his chest heaving with exertion, and addressed Dextin with a steady, resolute tone: "I may not possess a special katana, but I will not yield even if it costs me my life." Dextin, incensed by this defiance, sneered and landed a vicious slice across Aingo's chest, tripping him over. "Thou shalt end up like the rest—dead!" he spat. Yet Aingo, refusing to surrender, rose once more, pressing his sword into the ground for support as he fought on.

Dextin's anger grew as he watched Aingo's indomitable fighting spirit. But then, amid the chaos, a familiar voice echoed softly, cutting through the clamor: "Do not kill thyself, hero." Aingo turned to see Dran, now standing upright despite his wounds, gripping the Red Katana which glowed with a deep crimson brilliance. "Thanks, my friend," Dran murmured, his voice low yet determined, "but I shall take it from here." Without further words, Dran moved with a speed that seemed almost superhuman. In a single, breathtaking motion, he lunged forward, the Red Katana raised high and ablaze with full power, aimed straight for Dextin's heart.

Dextin, realizing he could not dodge this final assault, shifted his stance. Yet the blazing strike came true—though not to his heart, it instead tore through the side of his ribs. A roar of pain and fury erupted from Dextin as a torrent of flames surged through his body. In retaliation, he thrust his Green Katana forward, its blade plunging into Dran's stomach. The aura of the green blade enveloped Dran for a brief, terrible moment, as both warriors pressed their advantage in a climactic standoff.

All around them, the right-hand adviser, Aingo, and the remaining villagers watched in horrified awe as a burst of green and red light exploded from the two blades. In an instant, the brilliant radiance was replaced by a violent gust of wind that swept through the shattered palace hall, forcing everyone to steady themselves against the sudden onslaught.

When the wind finally subsided, the scene that remained was one of devastation and finality. Before them lay a wounded Dextin, barely clinging to life, and an unconscious Dran, collapsed to the stone floor. The Red Katana—its fiery glow dimmed yet still pulsating with raw power—rested between them, unmoving and silent.

Dextin, clutching his broken left side, attempted to rise and staggered toward the gleaming red katana blade. But before he could claim it, a crowd of villagers surged forward, brandishing their own swords in anger. Their eyes burned with righteous fury as they advanced upon the wounded tyrant. In a final act of defiance, Dextin produced his Green Katana once more, raising it as if to challenge them, and bellowed, "Bring it on then!" However, his right-hand adviser rushed to his side, urgently whispering, "Master, thou art too weak! Escape, now, and save what remains of thyself!"

Dextin, his face contorted with both rage and reluctant acceptance, knowing that would be back. Yet the villagers would not allow him to flee; they charged him under the command of Neon, who now led the rebellion from the outskirts of the ruin. In a desperate bid, Dextin's adviser hurled a smoke bomb from beneath his sleeve, and within seconds, Dextin and his adviser vanished into a cloud of swirling smoke.

Amid the chaos, Aingo sprinted back to Dran's side. Dran, barely clinging to life, forced himself to breathe as he lay motionless on the cold floor. Tears streamed down Aingo's face as he cradled his fallen friend, pleading, "Dran, it is over. We have lost too much." But even as Aingo begged, Dran managed a weak, sorrowful smile. In a rasping whisper, he recalled words from days past: "Thou always did say if I kept acting careless, I'd be the one to die—and now, friend, thou art right." His voice trembled with both regret and resignation. "I am a failure…I could not stop Dextin. He will return, mark my words. But promise me, Aingo—promise that thou wilt train my son, that thou wilt give him the life and strength I could not. Let him grow to be a warrior, as noble as thee. Promise me, I beg thee."

Aingo hesitated, his heart aching with grief and duty. After a long, painful pause, he whispered, "I promise, Dran. I shall raise thy son as my own, and he shall one day wield the power of the Red Katana." At once, Dran managed a final, faint smile and murmured, "Then thank Neon for me…" His words faded as his eyes closed, and he slipped away into eternal silence.

Aingo cradled Dran's lifeless body, tears mingling with dust and blood on the ruined floor. In the midst of his sorrow, he noticed something unusual—the Red Katana did not soar away as it had so many times before. Instead, it remained, suspended in a quiet glow. Neon, who had rejoined the crowd outside, informed Aingo in a hushed tone that a villager had just declared the weapon could now be wielded by anyone—it no longer required a chosen one.

A moment later, a villager emerged from the throng, holding aloft the Red Katana with a look of exuberant joy. "Now, anyone may claim this blade!" he shouted, then immediately he was faced with instant death. But Aingo bellowed, "Step back, all of ye!" The villagers obeyed in a trembling rush, understanding that the Red Katana had lost the energy to fly on its own after Dran's final desperate attack but still can't be wielded by just anyone and needs the Sword Master for it to regain its lost strength again. Its power now lay dormant, waiting only for the true Sword Master to reclaim it and restore its glory.

Aingo looked upon Dran's still form, his face hardening into a mask of resolve. In that moment of grief and determination, he made his decision. Though his heart was heavy with sorrow, he would raise young Rider—Dran's son—and prepare him to become the next wielder of the Red Katana. He would ensure that the legacy of Dran's sacrifice would live on in the form of a new champion, one who might one day fulfill the promise of freedom that had been so dearly paid for.

The air grew quiet as the ruined palace and scattered villagers bore witness to this solemn vow. Aingo, with steeled determination and a heart full of both grief and hope, gathered what remained of the broken swords and the shattered remnants of a fallen regime.

Fifteen years later…