The great hall of the palace lay hushed in a shock so deep that even the low murmur of distant servants seemed to echo like a distant heartbeat. Under the shimmering glow of torches and the cold gleam of marble, the elite soldiers and attendants looked on in stunned silence. At the center of the room, amidst shattered porcelain and overturned tables, stood Dran—a battle-scarred elite soldier whose eyes were fixed upon the gleaming Red Katana. With trembling hands, he lifted the sacred blade ever so slightly, his mind reeling from the shock of its recent speech. He whispered almost inaudibly, "Why hast thou chosen me?" as if trying to comprehend the miracle of a weapon that had spoken directly to his soul.
Before Dran could fully process the magnitude of the moment, the oppressive silence was shattered by the sound of cruel laughter. Dextin, the once-mighty tyrant whose iron grip had oppressed this land for so long, strode forward. His face was split by a wide grin that soon twisted into a sinister chuckle as he addressed his right-hand adviser. In a voice that carried both derision and a hint of antiquity, Dextin declared,
> "I need not search far, adviser. Canst thou believe? The Red Katana—as foolish as I had suspected—hath chosen one of mine elite soldiers. It could have chosen any man, hidden away in distant lands, yet fate saw fit to bestow its favor upon thee."
His words, though meant to be scornful, dripped with a bizarre pride. The adviser's eyes widened in alarm, but before he could speak further, Dextin stepped closer to Dran. With a glint of malicious delight in his eyes, he continued,
> "Look here, friend—I'll take it from here now. Hand it over!"
Dextin stretched out his hand toward Dran in a manner that was both commanding and taunting. Dran, still lost in the storm of his thoughts and trying to decipher the weight of destiny in that moment, hesitated. His hand trembled as it slowly reached out, the Red Katana hovering between him and the tyrant. But then, as if guided by an inner warning, Dran's eyes drifted to the back of Dextin. There, he caught sight of Aingo—the once-loyal companion—shaking his head in silent protest. The gesture was subtle, yet it spoke volumes. In that instant, Dran's eyes widened in dawning horror as he realized the betrayal about to unfold.
Before Dran could reconsider, Dextin lunged forward. Reacting on pure instinct and a heart ignited by betrayal, Dran drew his side sword with lightning speed. In one swift, decisive motion, he slashed at Dextin's face. The blade met flesh with a sickening crunch, sending the tyrant reeling backward. Dextin's face contorted in pain and shock as crimson stained his features; he staggered over tables, collapsing onto the cold stone floor with a resounding thud.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. The right-hand adviser's haughty smile vanished as he dashed to check on his master, while other elite soldiers gaped in horror. Dran's own heart pounded in his chest—a furious drumbeat of regret and resolute determination—realizing in that instant that there was no turning back from the deed he had just done.
Dextin's roar of pain and rage filled the hall—a sound no one had heard from him before. The tyrant, now bleeding and enraged, pushed aside the adviser who had rushed to his aid. The man toppled backward, knocked unconscious by the sheer force of Dextin's anger. With the hall now in pandemonium, Dextin's eyes burned into Dran as he spat out, in a voice heavy with venom,
> "What art thou doing? After all I have done for thee—I spared thy life—and thou repayest me thus?"
Dran's voice, raw with fury and sorrow, rang out as he leveled the tip of the Red Katana at the fallen tyrant. "Done for me? Thou raped and slay my wife! Thou hast turned this village into nothing but a prison and used us as pawns in thy vile game!" His words trembled with pain and unyielding anger as he stood defiant before Dextin's broken form.
The hall fell into a heavy silence once more, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the onlookers. Dran's declaration, spoken with unwavering conviction, resonated deeply with many in the room. In that charged moment, he continued,
> "But now—with this blade—I can fight back. I am no longer afraid of thee!"
Dextin's eyes narrowed into slits of fury. Struggling to rise, he turned his gaze to the assembled elite soldiers, who had once revered him as their master. "What wait ye for, men? Seize him! Ye are my precious elite soldiers, art thou not?" His voice, still carrying a faint echo of his old, imperious cadence, commanded attention.
Before his orders could fully take hold, a voice rose from among the soldiers—a clear, heartfelt interjection from Aingo. "Do not heed him," Aingo cried, his tone resolute yet tinged with sorrow. "He will use thee as he always has. None of us truly loveth this tyrant. We have suffered under his yoke for too long, yet lacked the strength to rise. Now, we have found our courage. Listen not to his lies; let us reclaim our village and our dignity!"
The tension in the hall soared as Dextin's countenance twisted in anger. "Cease thy prattle, commoner! What knowest thou of power? Any soldier who defies me shall meet death. Yet if ye seize him as I command, I promise thou shalt live—and thy kin, held captive, shall be freed!" His words thundered out, desperate to reclaim control.
For a long moment, the elite soldiers stood paralyzed by indecision. Their faces reflected inner turmoil—a battle between fear and hope. Then, from among them, Elite Soldier One stepped forward, tears streaming down his face. In a trembling voice, he declared to Dran, "I will follow thee now. But should thou fail, and Dextin slay us, I swear I shall never forgive thee."
Dran met the soldier's tearful gaze with a solemn nod, silently vowing that this path, however treacherous, was the only path to freedom. At once, Elite Soldier One turned and fled from the hall, and one by one, the other elite soldiers followed, abandoning Dextin's side. Dextin roared after them, desperate to rally his forces, "Return here at once!" But his command fell upon ears that had finally found their courage.
In the midst of the mounting chaos, Aingo approached Dran with concern. "Dran, might I be of assistance?" he asked quietly.
Dran, still locked in the moment, replied, "It is too perilous here, Aingo. Thou must go and free the prisoners in the base—I cannot risk thy life here."
"But our people need us!" insisted Aingo, his eyes burning with determination.
"Go then," Dran ordered firmly, "and ensure that every captive is set free. I shall remain to settle this score with Dextin."
Without further words, Aingo bowed his head and rushed from the hall, leaving Dran alone with his foe.
Dran circled the wounded tyrant like a lion circling its prey. His grip on the Red Katana tightened as he drew his old, cherished sword from its scabbard in his left hand—a weapon symbolic of a time when honor still held sway. Dextin, his pride and power diminished but not yet extinguished, struggled to rise. Slowly, he drew his Green Katana, its blade catching the flickering torchlight as if mocking Dran with its cold brilliance. With a voice that dripped both menace and defiance, Dextin spoke,
> "Dran, I grant thee one final chance: hand over the Red Katana and I shall let this transgression pass. Refuse, and I shall have no choice but to end thy life. Then I shall await another wielder"
Dran's eyes burned with unwavering conviction. He did not lower the blade. Instead, he met Dextin's challenge with a calm resolve that belied the turmoil in his chest. Dextin closed his eyes momentarily, as if steeling himself, and then, with a bitter snarl, said,
> "So be it!"
At once, a sickly green aura began to pulse about Dextin, casting eerie shadows and making the very walls tremble as though shaken by the power of his wrath.
Though fear raced through every fiber of his being, Dran did not waver. He leaned in slightly and addressed the Red Katana in a hushed tone,
> "Great blade, thou hast aided me before. Lend thy strength once more, for I need thy power to vanquish this tyrant!"
Yet the ancient weapon remained silent, its mystical voice hidden behind a veil of inscrutability.
Dextin wasted no time. He charged at Dran with a mighty swing of his Green Katana. In a desperate bid to block the assault, Dran raised his left-hand sword. The force of the impact was so tremendous that it shattered the old blade into splinters, sending Dran sprawling backward across the cold marble floor. The sound of breaking steel mingled with the clash of fury in the air.
Dextin advanced swiftly, closing the gap until he stood but inches away from Dran. Despite the searing pain and disorientation, Dran managed to raise his head and swing the Red Katana in a wide, defiant arc. Dextin, however, dodged with preternatural agility. The ensuing exchange was a blur of motion—Dran's impressive sword skills honed through years of hardship, countered by Dextin's overwhelming power augmented by his dark aura.
Blow after blow was traded in the chaos. Dextin, like a predator toying with its prey, knocked Dran across the room time and again, as if he were nothing more than a ragdoll. On the sixteenth strike, Dextin paused, his expression one of bitter disappointment. He looked down at Dran, who now lay on the floor, blood streaming from his split lip and eyes fixed in a mixture of pain and defiance.
> "Just hand it over, Dran," Dextin growled, "and I shall grant thee a death free of agony. Persist in thy defiance, and thou shalt know the fires of hell—twice!"
The tyrant's words echoed as Dran, battered and bleeding, crawled slowly along the stone floor.
In that moment, memories surged through Dran's mind—the tearful plea of Elite Soldier One, the image of his son, and the countless faces of those oppressed by Dextin's cruelty. Fueled by a potent mixture of sorrow and righteous anger, Dran refused to yield. His silence was a declaration in itself.
Enraged by Dran's unspoken defiance, Dextin roared and charged again—this time with the sole intent to end the rebellion for good. As he surged forward, an intense heat seemed to radiate from the Red Katana in Dran's grasp. Flames leapt along its edge, transforming the sacred blade into a blazing symbol of vengeance. In a single, breathtaking moment, Dran swung the fiery sword with all his remaining strength. The flaming arc carved a deep, diagonal wound across Dextin's chest, and with a force that defied belief, the tyrant was sent crashing backwards. He collided with a massive pillar, his body thrown against the wall as if struck by divine retribution.
Gasping in shock and pain, Dextin stared up at Dran with wide, incredulous eyes. "This is the second time thou hast wounded me," he gasped, his voice a mix of disbelief and terror. In his desperation, he cried out to his Green Katana,
> "Explain, Green blade—what sorcery is at work! Could it be that thou proclaimest Dran as the Sword Master you once spoke of?"
His words, laced with fear and uncertainty, trembled in the charged air.
For several agonizing moments, the Green Katana offered no reply. Then, in a voice that was measured and laden with ancient wisdom—yet not as heavy as before—it spoke softly:
> "Nay, thou art not the Sword Master. Know this, mortal: the Red Katana is an ancient God—a God of emotion and of purpose, especially of the burning anger that fuels the soul. It answereth only to those whose hearts burn with true determination, and it cannot be wielded by just anyone, especially any who fight in fear or for selfish gain. Its power is meant for those who fight for every soul in this village. Therefore, Dran, thou art not the Sword Master, yet thou hast awakened enough of its spirit to challenge you."
For a fleeting moment, a pained smile tugged at Dextin's lips as if the revelation might save him. "Great," he muttered in a grudging tone, "thou almost had me there for a moment, I will end this now." With that, he summoned every ounce of energy from his Green Katana and charged at Dran once more, his movements a blur of fury and desperate ambition.
As Dextin advanced, the voice of the Red Katana whispered gently within Dran's mind,
> "Fight with thy heart and not merely with thy steel, and then shalt my power be thine."
Those words, neither overblown nor excessively archaic, rang clear and true. They filled Dran with a quiet, determined courage that seemed to steady his battered form.
Closing his eyes for a split second, Dran focused all his might. When he reopened them, his gaze was locked onto Dextin's with unwavering intensity. In that instant, Dran met the tyrant's next strike with a perfectly timed block. Steel clashed with steel, and for a long, breathless moment, the hall itself seemed to hold its breath.
What will follow is a battle that transcended mere physical combat—a contest of wills, of honor, and of the desire for liberation.