Aingo tore ass to the prisoner base, his heart poundin'. He burst through the heavy door and immediately got to work, unlockin' the cells one by one and settin' every damn prisoner free. As each door swung open, a small group of villagers emerged, lookin' confused by their sudden release. One by one, they stepped out, hesitant and bewildered.
But Aingo quickly noticed somethin' was off—there were way too many prisoners to just let 'em leave in a mess. With a firm voice that carried authority, he called out to his soldiers gathered nearby. "Hurry up! Get goin'; we gotta free 'em all!"
In immediate response, the soldiers rushed in. They worked quick, openin' more cells and usherin' the villagers out. The freed folks, still reelin' from their long confinement, crawled out in a daze. Amid the chaos, Aingo stepped forward and spoke to the assembled crowd. "People, gather up; you gotta flee as fast as you can from this place. Look behind you—you'll find swords hung at the back of this base. Grab 'em and get outta here, now!" His words resonated with a sense of dire urgency.
The villagers, their faces etched with confusion and hope at the taste of sudden freedom, obeyed. In a wild, frantic rush, they grabbed the swords and started to leave the compound. Amid the stampede, Neon lingered. His eyes locked onto Aingo, who paused and slowly bowed toward him. In a soft, measured tone that showed both respect and a touch of solemn tradition, Aingo said, "Neon, I entrust you with Dran's son. Please, take young Rider with you and leave."
Neon, shocked at Aingo's bow and the gravity in his words, could only stare for a moment before joinin' the fleein' crowd. Without another word, he disappeared into the throng.
A sudden, deafenin' bang echoed from the palace. The sound of battle had reached even the freed villagers. In that moment, the soldiers under Aingo's command exchanged fearful glances. One of 'em cried out, "We can't stay here, the entire building might collapse on us!" But Aingo's voice rang out resolutely as he responded, "I can't leave Dran to fight alone. Go on without me!"
Immediately, Aingo sprinted toward the palace room. His soldiers watched him from afar as the buildin' began to shake once more, and then—one by one—they all booked it outta there.
The Clash Continues
Inside the palace, the clash between Dextin and Dran raged on. The tyrant Dextin, his face contorted with grinnin' fury, and Dran, whose calm anger belied the pain in his eyes, locked their katanas together. The sound of their blades clashing echoed throughout the room like a mournful symphony of war. For a moment, both combatants stepped back to catch their breath, heavy and ragged, their breathin' fillin' the tense silence.
Dextin managed a weak smile as he spat out, in a voice with a faint lilt, "You're nothin' but a pain in the ass, Dran. Die, I say, and end this torment!" Yet Dran, summonin' every ounce of strength, raised his Red Katana until its blade caught wild, dancin' flames. The fire didn't go unnoticed—even as Dextin tried to maintain a calm face, the flames began to spread. Unbeknownst to them, the fire had crept along the walls of the palace, slowly settin' the buildin' ablaze. But neither warrior cared; their focus was singular: to destroy each other.
Dextin pointed his Green Katana at Dran, a faint green aura swirlin' about him as he charged once again. This time, their movements were quicker, more desperate. Steel collided with steel as they dodged, swung, and blocked with a ferocity born of years of pent-up hatred. In one savage moment, Dextin's strike sliced open Dran's stomach, leavin' a gapin' wound. Then came another brutal cut, this time slashin' deeply across Dran's chest. Yet, even as pain threatened to overwhelm him, Dran pressed on.
The struggle took a terrible toll. Dextin managed to drive his blade clean through Dran's right chest, forcin' Dran to cough up a torrent of blood. Still, Dran stood, defiance burnin' in his eyes. Dextin smirked and roared aloud, pressin' his Green Katana deeper. At that moment, Dran's vision turned nearly white as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, blood poolin' around him. But in that haze, a vision of the elite soldiers he had promised he would win flickered through his mind, fuelin' his resolve. With tremblin' hands, he gripped his Red Katana tighter.
Dextin sneered, his voice low and menacing as he said, "Yield now, Dran, or you're doomed to die." In a swift, ruthless motion, he yanked his Green Katana from Dran's already bleedin' chest, the movement spillin' more blood onto the cold floor. Yet even then, Dran remained standin'. With shakin', vibratin' hands, he slowly lifted his Red Katana; its blade glowed with an intense crimson light, reminiscent of a polished, burnin' stone.
Without hesitation, Dextin charged again, and Dran met him in a flurry of motion. Dran swung his burnin' katana at Dextin with the intent to slice his neck clean. But Dextin was quick; he dodged just in time. In the ensuin' clash, Dran's burnin' strike caught Dextin off guard—cuttin' clean through the tyrant's left hand, severin' the palm entirely. Dextin flew back from the impact, his gaze fixed in horror upon his mangled hand. A piercin' scream erupted from him, the sound echoin' in the tumultuous chamber.
Escape and Return
Elsewhere in the palace, Neon scoured the corridors in search of young Rider—Dran's son. Amid the smoke and risin' heat in the elite soldiers' chamber, Neon's heart pounded as he finally found Rider cryin' on a small baby bed. Without a moment's hesitation, Neon scooped the terrified child into his arms and bolted out of the collapsin' chamber. He left the buildin', glancin' back only once at the burnin' edifice, worry etched deep into his features for Dran's fate.
Back in the midst of the fray, Dextin bellowed curses from the floor, his voice raw with pain. Dran, seizin' the moment, advanced slowly as he raised his Red Katana high, intent on endin' Dextin once and for all. But then, unexpectedly, Dextin's right-hand adviser appeared. Grippin' Dran's leg firmly, the adviser shouted, "Get off my master!" in a tone that betrayed shock and duty. Dran struggled and tried to shake him off, but the adviser's grip only tightened.
"Get off me," Dran snarled, his voice edged with pain and fury. "You don't know what the fuck you're doin'!"
At that moment, Dextin, glancin' at the only man who had not yet betrayed him, offered a small, almost ironic thanks. Then, without warnin', he plunged his blade into Dran once more—this time, a swift thrust that pierced Dran's stomach. The blow was fatal. Dran crumpled to the floor, gaspin' for breath as his life began to fade.
The balance of power shifted instantly. Just then, Dextin's severed left hand automatically regenerated, the Green Katana seemin' to mend his wound. Dextin smiled, starin' at his healed hand. "Healin' of lost limbs? You never cease to amaze me," he said, preparin' to deliver the final blow when a sudden flash interrupted the deadly scene. Aingo's sword flew through the air, strikin' Dextin on the shoulder. In a heartbeat, Aingo rushed forward, draggin' Dran's motionless body out of harm's reach as he coughed from the thick, chokin' smoke. The flames around them grew ever stronger, their heat a constant, brutal reminder of the palace's impendin' collapse.
Aingo knelt beside the fallen Dran, desperately tryin' to rouse him from unconsciousness. Dran's eyes fluttered open slowly. Through a haze of pain and blood, he saw Aingo leanin' close, urgin' him, "Run, Aingo—flee while you can!" But Aingo's tone quickly shifted, firm and resolute. "No, I will not run away. Stop your foolish words, for I will take out Dextin myself!"
At that moment, Dextin, still reelin' from the earlier blow, staggered and yanked Aingo's sword from his shoulder, flin' it aside with a disdainful snort. "It doesn't matter," Dextin declared with a bitter sneer. "I'll kill you both together."
From opposite sides, Dran and Aingo struggled to rise. Dran, leanin' on Aingo for support, managed to steady himself despite the overwhelmng pain. Together, they prepared to shift the tide of battle once more.
The clash of steel, the roar of flames, and the cries of battle filled the collapsin' palace as the struggle between Dextin and those who defied him reached a fever pitch. Every moment was charged with desperation and defiance. Dran's eyes, though dimmin' with pain, burned with a determination forged in the crucible of loss and betrayal. Aingo's presence was a silent vow—a promise that they would not let tyranny reign unchecked.