Dextin sat atop his throne, carved from stone darker than night and trimmed with veins of polished obsidian. The newly built palace towered over the city of Xiphosia like a giant's fortress—a cold monument to his rule. Torchlight flickered across marble floors, casting long, ghostly shadows that moved with each passing breath of wind.
The air itself felt heavy in the grand hall, as if it bowed to him too.
He didn't speak. Not yet. His sharp eyes studied the room, sweeping over every detail—the jagged banners depicting his rise to power, the carvings of wars he never fought but now claimed as his legacy. Every inch of the hall was built to remind all who entered that Dextin was not just a ruler—he was a force.
Then came footsteps—soft but quick. His adviser entered, his frame thin as a reed, eyes sunken from sleepless nights spent serving a master who never rested.
The adviser didn't speak immediately. He bowed, slow and deep, until his forehead nearly grazed the cold floor.
Only when Dextin finally moved—just slightly, shifting his gaze—did the man dare speak.
"My lord," the adviser began, voice cautious, "Soldier Four and his unit have returned from the Draken Shield. They've combed through one part of the northern region… but found nothing."
Dextin's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes darkened.
"And what of the rest?" he asked, his voice calm, yet cold enough to chill bone. "What news beyond that part of the north?"
The adviser straightened slightly, hands folded tightly behind his back.
"Xiphosia Village remains divided into six districts. One part of the north is clear, and we've found no bearer of the Red Katana. As for Verdant Hollow—the southern region—it was searched just this morning. Elite Soldier Five handled the sweep personally."
There was a pause.
"Shall I suggest, my lord," the adviser continued carefully, "that you consult the Green Katana once more? Perhaps it may finally offer a clue."
Dextin scoffed, his breath sharp as a knife.
"No."
The word echoed like a slap across the marble.
"My blade," he growled, "refuses to speak. Ever since I took this land, it's remained silent. That silence is betrayal enough."
He rose, his voice climbing with each word.
"I own the Green Katana. It bends to me. And if it dares stay quiet, then I shall find the Red Katana without it."
The adviser blinked, trying to read his master's fury.
"But, sire… if its power refuses to awaken, won't that leave you—"
"Weak?" Dextin finished for him, his voice now venom. "No. I have studied its power. Even without its whispers, I can wield it. And I will."
He waved a dismissive hand.
"Send word. Every elite soldier is to be reassigned. I want the remaining territories searched from end to end. Leave no stone unturned."
There was a breath of silence. Then the adviser leaned in with lowered voice.
"And what if the wielder is him… the one you once called the Sword Master?"
Dextin's lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"Then gather every soldier we have. If it's him… he dies. No second chances."
Far from the throne's reach, in the decaying lower grounds of Dextin's rule, the prisoner base stood like a scar on the land. Its walls were cracked, its ceilings dripping, and the only light came from flickering lamps that barely clung to life.
It was here, among cold stone and forgotten screams, that Elite Soldier 5—Dran—walked with something strange in his arms.
Wrapped in a faded cloth was a baby.
His boots echoed down the corridor as he stepped carefully, avoiding puddles of rainwater and rat droppings. Cradled in his arms, the child stirred slightly but did not cry.
Beside him walked Aingo—Elite Soldier 4—his presence quiet, his eye patch freshly wrapped, his one good eye focused ahead.
Finally, Aingo broke the silence.
"Dran… what the hell are you doing?" His voice was low, but sharp. "You brought a baby here?"
Dran offered a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Relax, brother. The mission's done for now. I figured I'd feed the prisoners while we wait."
"With your kid in your arms?"
"No one else was gonna do it," Dran said. "They've been starving for days. Somebody has to care—even if it's just me."
Aingo muttered under his breath, "You're insane."
Dran chuckled softly, shifting the baby—Rider—into a more comfortable position. "Maybe. But at least I'm still human."
Aingo hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he held out his arms. "Give him here. I'll watch him while you do your thing."
Dran nodded, gently placing Rider into Aingo's arms. "Thanks."
He pulled a small bag from his belt—cans of food. Nothing fancy. But it was more than the prisoners had seen in weeks.
As they moved down the hall, the sound of metal lids opening echoed softly. One cell at a time, Dran fed those inside—placing food on cracked plates and ignoring the curses and stares. He didn't blame them.
In front of Cell 67, something made him stop.
From the shadows behind the bars, a weak voice called out.
"…Dran?"
He looked up.
There, chained and broken, stood Neon—his oldest friend. The boy he'd once grown up with. The one he thought long dead.
But Neon's eyes were alive with fury.
"You?" Neon spat. "I looked for you. I believed in you. And here you are… feeding scraps to prisoners like some loyal mutt."
Dran froze, the can slipping slightly in his hand.
"…Neon?"
Neon's voice shook. "You were supposed to fight Dextin. Not serve him."
"I had no choice," Dran said softly. "I have a son. I couldn't raise him here. Not in a cage."
"You think this is better?" Neon hissed. "You think he won't take your son, too? He already took your wife!"
Dran dropped the can.
Tears brimmed in his eyes as he stepped forward. "Don't talk about her."
"Then make a choice!" Neon roared. "Be a man—or a coward!"
The rage finally snapped. Dran lunged, slamming Neon to the ground. His hands trembled as he pinned him, eyes wide and filled with fire.
"Then kill me!" Neon growled. "Cut me down if that's what you want!"
"Dran!" Aingo shouted from behind. "Enough!"
The cry of baby Rider followed—soft, afraid.
Dran gasped, stumbling back, suddenly aware of what he'd nearly done. He rushed to his child, held him close, and said nothing more. Neon lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes.
As they left the prison, Aingo spoke quietly.
"You know he's right."
Dran didn't look at him. "Not now."
"I mean it. Dextin's no king. He's a butcher. He already took your family. If he gets the Red Katana—"
Dran whispered, "Please. Don't say it."
But Aingo continued, voice rising just a bit.
"If you wanna stay in his favor, you'll need to give up more. An arm. An eye. Maybe worse."
Dran stopped walking.
"…And what if that's the only way to survive?"
Aingo said nothing. Neither did Dran.
Then in that moment Aingo turned to Leave
"I'm heading for the Meeting, We are already late, drop baby Rider in your room and meet me their. Aingo said as he walked out Leaving Dran Alone, Dran Watching Aingo leave, Then he headed out to his room
The throne room was filled with soldiers.
Nine elites stood in formation, tension thick in the air.
The tenth—Dran—was missing.
The adviser leaned close to Dextin.
"Elite Soldier 5 is not present, my lord."
Dextin's lips curled.
"Who is he?"
"Dran."
The name soured Dextin's mood. "He dares show up late?"
He stood abruptly.
"Perhaps I should kill the child too."
"NO!"
All eyes turned to Aingo. His voice had exploded from him before he realized.
Dextin turned slowly.
"…What did you just say?"
Aingo bowed quickly, his voice shaking.
"I—I meant no offense, my lord. I simply thought… it would be unjust to punish a child for a father's mistake."
Dextin stepped down from his throne, one boot thudding after another.
"I decide what justice is."
Just then, Dran burst in, eyes wide, sweat on his brow.
"My lord," he said, kneeling. "Forgive me. I was only—"
"It would be unwise to lose him," the adviser cut in smoothly. "His skill is rare."
Dextin glared… then slowly returned to his throne.
He said nothing.
Then—
A flash of red lightning.
The entire hall gasped as the Red Katana appeared—blazing with power, hurling through the air like a comet—
—and landed in Dran's hands.
Smoke curled around him. Time seemed to freeze.
And in the depths of his mind, a voice rang clear.
"Mortal… your hour has come."