The palace's great hall was hushed, so quiet you could hear a pin drop, even the distant servants sounded like a faint heartbeat. Under the shimmering glow of torches and the cold gleam of marble, the elite soldiers and attendants stood there, stunned speechless. Right in the middle of the room, surrounded by busted porcelain and flipped-over tables, stood Dran—a tough, battle-scarred elite soldier, his eyes locked on the gleaming Red Katana. His hands were shaking as he barely lifted the sacred blade, his mind totally blown by the damn thing talkin' just now. He whispered, barely audible, "Why the hell did you choose me?" like he was tryin' to figure out how a weapon could speak straight to his soul.
Before Dran could even process what the fuck was happening, that oppressive silence got ripped apart by cruel laughter. Dextin, the once-mighty tyrant who'd had this whole damn land under his thumb for so long, strode forward. His face was split with a wide grin that twisted into a sinister chuckle as he looked at his right-hand adviser. His voice, full of mockery and kinda old-school, declared,
"I don't have to look far, adviser. Can you believe this shit? The Red Katana—just as dumb as I figured—chose one of my elite soldiers. It could've picked any man, hidin' out in some distant land, but fate saw fit to favor me."
His words, meant to be scornful, somehow oozed with a weird pride. The adviser's eyes bugged out in alarm, but before he could say anything, Dextin stepped closer to Dran. With a nasty glint in his eyes, he went on,
"Look here, pal—I'll take it from here now. Hand it over!"
Dextin stuck out his hand toward Dran, both bossy and mockin'. Dran, still lost in his own head and tryin' to figure out the weight of destiny in that moment, hesitated. His hand trembled as it slowly reached out, the Red Katana hangin' between him and the tyrant. But then, like some inner alarm went off, Dran's eyes drifted to Dextin's back. There, he saw Aingo—his once-loyal buddy—shakin' his head, a silent "no." The gesture was subtle, but it screamed volumes. In that instant, Dran's eyes went wide with dawning horror as he realized the goddamn betrayal about to go down.
Before Dran could think twice, Dextin lunged. Reacting on pure instinct and a heart lit up by betrayal, Dran swung his Red Katana. In one swift, decisive move, he slashed at Dextin's face. The blade met flesh with a sickening crunch, sendin' the tyrant flyin' backward. Dextin's face twisted in pain and shock as blood stained his features; he stumbled over tables, collapsin' onto the cold stone floor with a resounding thud.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. The right-hand adviser's smug smile vanished as he darted to check on his master, while other elite soldiers just gawked in horror. Dran's own heart was poundin' in his chest—a furious drumbeat of regret and pure determination—realizin' in that instant there was no goddamn turnin' back from what he'd just done.
Dextin's roar of pain and rage filled the hall—a sound nobody'd ever heard from him before. The tyrant, now bleedin' and pissed as hell, shoved aside the adviser who'd rushed to his aid. The man toppled backward, knocked out cold by the sheer force of Dextin's anger. With the hall now in pandemonium, Dextin's eyes burned into Dran as he spat out, his voice heavy with venom,
"What the fuck are you doin'? After all I've done for you—I spared your life—and you repay me like this?!"
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? You killed my wife! You've turned this village into nothin' but a prison and used us as pawns in your vile game!" His words trembled with pain and unyielding anger as he stood defiant before Dextin's broken form.
The hall went silent again, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the onlookers. Dran's declaration, spoken with unwavering conviction, hit home with a lot of folks in the room. In that charged moment, he went on,
"But now—with this blade—I can fight back. I'm no longer afraid of you, you bastard!"
Dextin's eyes narrowed into slits of fury. Struggling to get up, he looked at the assembled elite soldiers, who'd once worshipped him as their master. "What the hell are you waitin' for, men? Seize him! You're my elite soldiers, ain't ya?" His voice, still carryin' a faint echo of his old, imperious tone, demanded attention.
Before his orders could fully take hold, a voice rose from among the soldiers—a clear, heartfelt interjection from Aingo. "Don't listen to him," Aingo cried, his tone resolute yet tinged with sorrow. "He'll use you like he always has. None of us truly love this tyrant. We've suffered under his yoke for too long, but lacked the strength to rise. Now, we've found our courage. Don't listen to his lies; let's reclaim our village and our goddamn dignity!"
The tension in the hall soared as Dextin's face twisted in anger. "Stop your prattle, commoner! What do you know of power? Any soldier who defies me will meet death. But if you seize him as I command, I promise you'll live—and your kin, held captive, will be freed!" His words thundered out, desperate to get back control.
For a long moment, the elite soldiers stood frozen, unable to decide. Their faces showed their inner turmoil—a battle between fear and hope. Then, from among them, Elite Soldier One stepped forward, tears streamin' down his face. In a trembling voice, he declared to Dran, "I'll follow you now. But if you screw this up, and Dextin kills us, I swear I'll never forgive you, damn it."
Dran met the soldier's tearful gaze with a solemn nod, silently vowin' that this path, no matter how treacherous, was the only way to freedom. Right then, Elite Soldier One turned and bolted from the hall, and one by one, the other elite soldiers followed, ditchin' Dextin's side. Dextin roared after them, desperate to rally his forces, "Get back here at once!" But his command fell on ears that had finally found their courage.
In the middle of the mountin' chaos, Aingo approached Dran with concern. "Dran, can I help?" he asked quietly.
Dran, still locked in the moment, replied, "It's too dangerous here, Aingo. You gotta go free the prisoners in the base—I can't risk your life here."
"But our people need us!" insisted Aingo, his eyes burnin' with determination.
"Go then," Dran ordered firmly, "and make sure every captive is set free. I'll stay to settle this score with Dextin."
Without another word, Aingo bowed his head and rushed from the hall, leavin' Dran alone with his foe.
Dran circled the wounded tyrant like a lion stalkin' 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 meant somethin'. Dextin, his pride and power diminished but not yet extinguished, struggled to get up. Slowly, he drew his Green Katana, its blade catchin' the flickering torchlight as if mockin' Dran with its cold brilliance. With a voice that dripped both menace and defiance, Dextin spoke,
"Dran, I'm givin' you one final chance: hand over the Red Katana and I'll let this transgression pass. Refuse, and I'll have no choice but to end your life. Then I'll await another wielder."
Dran's eyes burned with unwavering conviction. He didn't lower the blade. Instead, he met Dextin's challenge with a calm resolve that hid the turmoil in his chest. Dextin closed his eyes for a second, like he was steelin' himself, and then, with a bitter snarl, said,
"So be it!"
Right then, a sickly green aura began to pulse around Dextin, castin' eerie shadows and makin' the very walls tremble like they were shaken by the power of his wrath.
Though fear raced through every fiber of his bein', Dran didn't waver. He leaned in slightly and spoke to the Red Katana in a hushed tone,
"Great blade, you've helped me before. Lend your strength once more, 'cause I need your power to vanquish this tyrant, for Christ's sake!"
But the ancient weapon stayed 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, sendin' Dran sprawlin' backward across the cold marble floor. The sound of breakin' steel mingled with the clash of fury in the air.
Dextin advanced swiftly, closin' the gap until he stood just inches 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 unnatural agility. The fight that followed was a blur of motion—Dran's impressive sword skills honed through years of hardship, countered by Dextin's overwhelmng power augmented by his dark aura.
Blow after blow was traded in the chaos. Dextin, like a predator messin' with its prey, knocked Dran across the room time and again, like he was just 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 streamin' from his busted lip and eyes fixed in a mix of pain and defiance.
"Just hand it over, Dran," Dextin growled, "and I'll grant you a death free of agony. Keep fightin', and you'll know the fires of hell"
The tyrant's words echoed as Dran, battered and bleedin', 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 mix 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, transformin' the sacred blade into a blazin' symbol of vengeance. In a single, breathtaking moment, Dran swung the fiery sword with all his remainin' strength. The flamin' arc carved a deep, diagonal wound across Dextin's chest, and with a force that defied belief, the tyrant was sent crashin' backwards. He collided with a massive pillar, his body thrown against the wall like he was struck by divine retribution.
Gasping in shock and pain, Dextin stared up at Dran with wide, incredulous eyes. "This is the second time you've wounded me," he gasped, his voice a mix of disbelief and terror. In his desperation, he cried out to his Green Katana through his mind,
"Explain, Green blade—what the hell is this! Could it be that Dran is 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:
"No, he is 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 answers 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, is not the Sword Master, yet he has 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, "you 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 your heart and not merely with your steel, and then my power will be yours."
Those words, neither overblown nor overly 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.