Dextin sat atop his majestic throne in the newly constructed palace—a towering edifice of cold stone and shimmering obsidian that loomed over Xiphosia like a dark promise. Torchlight danced along the polished floors, casting long, quivering shadows that hinted at both beauty and dread. His eyes, cold and unyielding, surveyed the hall with a mixture of satisfaction and hunger for more conquest. Every detail of the room—from the carved insignias of ancient battles to the grand tapestries depicting mythic wars—spoke of his newfound power and the fear he instilled in his subjects.
At that moment, his right-hand adviser, a gaunt man whose face was etched with worry and secrets, swept into the throne room. The adviser bowed low—so deeply that his forehead nearly kissed the marble floor—and spoke in a measured tone: "My lord, the elite unit known as Soldier 4 and his brave troops have scoured the Draken Shield in the northern reaches of our realm. Alas, they found no sign of the bearer of the Red Katana."
Dextin's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and his voice, as cold as the steel of his blades, inquired curtly, "What news beyond the north?"
The adviser allowed a small, wry smile to play upon his lips before continuing. "Xiphosia Village, as you decree, is divided into six distinct regions. The northern region has been cleared, yet none among its people bears the Red Katana. Furthermore, Verdant Hollow—our southern region—was only cleared this very morning by Elite Soldier 5 and his loyal men. I would suggest, sire, that before you proceed with further searches, you might consider consulting your Green Katana for aid. Perhaps it might whisper the location of the elusive Red Katana wielder…"
Before the adviser could finish, Dextin's tone hardened with finality. "Nay," he declared with a disdainful sneer, "my sword shall not budge. Ever since I claimed this land as my own, it has refused to serve as a guide. Its silence is the final straw." His voice boomed across the hall. "Know this: I now command the power of the Green Katana as its sole master, and no feeble voice—even one as ancient as that—shall dissuade me from seizing the Red Katana for myself!"
The adviser's eyes flickered with concern. "But, my lord, if your Green Katana's power is withheld in battle, will that not hinder your might? Without its aid, how shall you subdue those who dare defy you?"
Dextin chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. "Fret not," he said. "I have long mastered its secrets. Even if the blade remains mute, I shall hunt down the Red Katana wielder myself. Dispatch all elite soldiers at once. I command that new regions be assigned immediately to scour every corner of our lands in search of that cursed Red Katana!"
His adviser, voice low and conspiratorial, added, "And should the bearer turn out to be The Sword Master you once mentioned…"
Dextin cut him off with a curt nod. "Then you shall all combine your strength and see to it that he is eliminated—no quarter given!"
As these orders echoed in the grand hall, far away in the gloomy confines of the prisoner base—a stark, dilapidated structure where those who dared defy Dextin languished in despair—the scene was unfolding with equal intensity.
In the dim corridors of the base, beneath flickering, sputtering lamps, Elite Soldier 5—known to his comrades as Dran—entered carrying a small bundle wrapped in a worn cloth. Clutched in his strong arms was a baby, whose wide eyes and innocent features contrasted painfully with the grim surroundings. Alongside him strode Elite Soldier 4, Aingo, whose one clear, sharp eye scanned the area while the other, obscured by a patched bandage, lent him an air of grim determination.
Aingo arched an eyebrow at Dran. "What brings you here, Dran? You carry a child into this den of misery?" he asked, his tone a blend of teasing reproach and genuine concern.
Dran turned, flashing a smile that was both warm and weary. "Ah, dear friend, worry not. Our duty here has ended for the moment, and since none else will care for these prisoners, I have taken it upon myself to feed them. A simple kindness amid cruelty, wouldn't you say?"
Aingo sighed, shaking his head. "What am I to do with you? I can scarcely believe you have brought your own child here—just to dole out rations to these captives?"
Dran's laughter was light, as if the burden of his choices could be eased by humor. "'Tis but a babe—little Rider, as I call him. He need not comprehend these dark deeds. Here, take him for a while." With that, Dran handed the swaddled child to Aingo.
Aingo's eyes widened as he cradled baby Rider. "Why entrust him to me?"
"Relax, friend," Dran replied, brushing off Aingo's concern. "Just hold the little one while I attend to the task at hand. I have procured cans of food and have begun to distribute them cell by cell. The prisoners—neglected for far too long—must be fed."
As they advanced through the cramped, dank corridors, Dran's soft chuckles mingled with the clatter of metal cans being opened. In one particularly grim cell, labeled 'Prison 67' by fading paint on a splintered door, Dran stooped to pour out the contents of a can onto a chipped plate. Suddenly, a weak voice called out his name.
Dran looked up to behold Neon, his childhood friend—once vibrant and full of hope, now marred by bitterness and the weight of years lost. Neon's eyes burned with anger and despair. "Dran," he spat, voice trembling with emotion, "for over a year I have roamed these forsaken halls, seeking you with hope in my heart. Never did I imagine you would become an accomplice of that wretched tyrant after all he has done!"
Dran's face fell, and for a long, painful moment he looked as though he might weep. "Neon… I had no choice," he murmured. "I could not raise my son in these accursed cells. The path before me was the only one left."
Neon's anger only deepened. "You were meant to stop this madness, not join it! How can you justify abandoning all honor? How can your own son be forced to witness the cowardice of his father?"
Unable to withstand the mounting tension, Dran's restraint shattered. In a burst of conflicted fury, he pinned Neon to the cold, concrete floor. Tears welled in Dran's eyes even as he gripped his friend tightly. "Do what you must, if you truly believe it will mend the broken things!" Neon challenged, voice defiant despite his pain. "Cut my head from my shoulders if that is what you desire!"
Dran's heart convulsed with anguish, and he trembled at the thought. Before he could deliver the fatal blow, Aingo stepped in with a firm command, "Enough, Dran! We must depart now!"
At that precise moment, the soft, plaintive cry of baby Rider emanated from Aingo's arms. Dran reluctantly released Neon, who lay gasping on the floor, and gently gathered his child. Casting one final, regretful glance at his childhood friend, Dran left the cell and slowly retreated from the prisoner base.
Outside, in the shadowed corridor leading to the meeting hall, Aingo spoke quietly to Dran. "You know, Neon had a point. We cannot—"
"Not you too!" Dran interjected bitterly, his eyes dark with resignation.
Aingo persisted, his voice low and urgent. "What I mean is that Dextin treats us like puppets, bending our wills for his gain. If he captures that Red Katana, who knows what further horrors he might unleash? He took your wife away and—" Aingo's voice broke as he recalled the unspeakable deed: the ruthless murder of someone dear for refusing his vile advances.
Dran's eyes filled with tears, his voice thick with despair as he pleaded, "Please, Aingo, stop!" But Aingo, his expression grim, pulled his eye patch lower. "Look at me, Dran. That monster has cost us everything. If you wish to join his ranks, you must sacrifice something dear to yourself—either you surrender part of your very body or become nothing more than one of his slaves!"
Dran's voice, hoarse with bitterness, responded, "And what good does that do us? There is none who can stand against Dextin. If he wishes us to grovel at his feet, so be it." His words were laden with a despair so deep it chilled the air.
Before their conversation could deepen further, a soldier approached them and bowed deeply. "My lord Dextin commands that all ten elite soldiers gather at once," the soldier announced.
Aingo's eyes narrowed as he replied, "See to it that we are there without delay." The soldier hurried away, leaving the two comrades in a heavy silence. "I shall leave my child in my private chamber before I join the meeting," Dran said softly. Aingo, though troubled, said nothing further and slowly turned away, his mind awash with conflicting thoughts about loyalty and defiance.
Back in the opulent throne room of the palace, the remaining nine elite soldiers assembled before Dextin. The atmosphere was thick with tension, every face a study in grim determination, sorrow, or simmering rebellion. Dextin's gaze swept over the line, and he noted with displeasure that one soldier was missing. His right-hand adviser leaned in and whispered, "Elite Soldier 5 is absent, my lord."
Dextin's eyes flickered as he recognized the absence. "Who is he?" he demanded, his voice cold and dangerous. The adviser replied, "It is dran my lord." Dextin's lips curled into a sneer. "He should know well enough that tardiness incurs punishment. Has he forgotten the consequences?"
Aingo, spoke at that very moment, lowered his head in deference. "My lord, Dran has but stepped away momentarily—to put his child to rest in his chamber. He shall return forthwith."
Dextin's face twisted in disgust. "Is that all? Then I suppose I must kill the child as well." "NO" Aingo shouts immediately in fear. The shock that followed was immediate; Aingo's face drained of color, and the other soldiers stared in horrified silence. Slowly rising from his throne, Dextin demanded, "Explain yourself, Aingo—what have you uttered?"
In a trembling voice, Aingo stammered, "I meant only that… you believe a child should bear the burden of Dran's transgressions, is that not so?" Dextin's eyes narrowed as he replied with icy venom, "If the child shall not suffer for the sins of the father, then his blood will serve as the price. Know your place, Aingo!" He advanced slowly, each measured step echoing ominously.
At that moment, Dran entered the hall, breathing heavily and lowering his eyes in deep contrition. "My lord, I am truly sorry for my failings," he said, voice trembling with regret and exhaustion. The right-hand adviser interjected softly, "It would be disastrous to lose an elite soldier of your caliber." Dextin paused, his fury abating slightly, and reluctantly resumed his seat. Dran and Aingo both offered strained thanks, though their eyes betrayed inner turmoil—they knew that their roles were about to be reshaped by the day's grim orders.
Suddenly, without warning, a brilliant flash of scarlet lightning tore through the hall. In that electrifying moment, the Red Katana appeared—darting through the air with such speed that for an instant, time itself seemed to pause. The blade, bathed in a fierce, otherworldly glow, streaked across the room like a falling star before coming to rest, almost reverently, in Dran's trembling hands.
As the smoke cleared, a deep, resonant voice echoed from the very steel of the blade in the mind of dran. In a sonorous tone unmistakably laced with the ancient inflections of Greek, it proclaimed,
"Ὦ ἄνθρωπε, ὁ καιρὸς σου ἤδη ἦλθεν."
("O mortal, thy hour is come!").