Korga threw his head back and laughed, a cruel, deranged sound that grated on the ears. "Nneoma?" he spat, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. He then paused, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "No, Naomi," he said, using her real name, the one that had been discarded when she was welcomed into the village. "This is all her fault!" he roared, pointing a finger at Thabo's wife. "She charmed Thabo, our greatest warrior, and now he holds a sword against the very chief he should be protecting. And she's also the one who birthed a r*pist who took my daughters innocence!"
The crowd's gasps turned to murmurs of disbelief and shock. Thabo's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white.
"Thabo will always be forgiven," he continued, his voice dripping with false pity. "He is of our tribe's pure blood. But Naomi and her children will not be spared. This is their punishment."
Just as the words left Korga's mouth, Thabo's expression hardened. Without taking his eyes off the chief, he used a silent, whispering technique to ommunicate with his son. "The moment I make my move," he whispered, his voice resonating only in Kofi's mind, "you take your mother and sister and get out of this village." Thabo's face, a mask of fury just moments before, now held a deep, unwavering sadness. "None of this is your fault, Kofi. Korga has always hated that the late chief favored me more. When I asked for Naomi to stay in this village as my wife fifteen years ago, that's when he began to change."
The unspoken weight of the past settled between father and son. Thabo, with his sword still pointed at the chief, was ready to fight for his family's honor, even if it meant sacrificing himself. And Kofi, with the terrifying truth of Korga's hatred now laid bare, knew he had no choice but to listen to his father's final command.
Thabo's voice, cold and laced with menace, cut through the tension. "Are those your last words?" Before Korga could respond, Thabo unleashed a hellish wave of Prana. The air crackled with raw, concussive energy, a silent explosion that threw dust and debris into the air. The force of it knocked a few onlookers to the ground, but it was a warning shot aimed directly at Korga's pride.
Kofi didn't hesitate.
That wave of Prana was the signal. He immediately used the Khula's footwork, a lightning-fast shuffle taught to him by his father. He grabbed his mother's arm with one hand and his sister's with the other, pulling them along as he bolted toward the village's edge. Korga, now enraged, screamed orders at his warriors. "After them! Bring them back!" Twenty warriors, the most elite of the tribe, took off after Kofi and his family. But in an instant, Thabo moved. He was a blur of motion, a phantom among the charging men. He didn't engage in a full battle; he simply disabled them. A precise strike to the temple of one, a swift kick to the knee of another, a palm strike to the chest of a third. In a flash, all twenty warriors were on the ground, groaning in pain, but not dead.
Thabo turned back to Korga, his face a chilling mask of calm fury. He held his sword in a reverse grip, the blade gleaming in the sun. "Since I haven't kicked your ass in over a decade," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "you must have forgotten who I am, old friend."
Korga's face contorted in a mix of fury and disbelief. "Kill him!" he shrieked, his voice raw with rage. "I said, kill him!" In an instant, the remaining 300 warriors of the village, a sea of bronze and steel, charged. They surged forward, a tidal wave of fury and ancestral duty, their war cries a deafening chorus. Thabo, still standing alone in the center of the clearing, met them with a cold resolve.
He didn't kill. His sword was a blur of motion, a dance of steel and precision. He moved like a storm, disarming his opponents with strikes that rang off their blades and sent spears flying from their grasp. He was a force of nature, a legend brought back to life. He parried, dodged, and sidestepped, his body a whirlwind of power and grace. But the sheer number of warriors was overwhelming. A spear grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. A sword nicked his shoulder. Another nicked his thigh. Each scratch was a testament to the impossible odds he faced. Thabo's movements began to lose their flawless fluidity as the wounds began to sting. His breathing became more ragged, his parries slightly less precise. The red of his blood stood out in stark contrast against his dark skin. The crowd, once a murmuring mass, was now silent, mesmerized by the desperate battle of a single man against an entire tribe.
Thabo parried another strike, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at Korga, the chief's face twisted in a sneer of victory. "This is my final act of mercy," Thabo rasped, his voice raw. "As the chief warrior of this clan, I warn you. If any of you follow me, you will lose your lives." He tried to take a step, to unleash the lightning-fast Khula's footwork and vanish, but his body ignited with a searing, internal fire. His muscles seized, and he stumbled, his sword clattering to the ground.
Korga's laugh was a triumphant, venomous sound. "The poison finally took effect!"
Thabo stared at him, bewildered. "I didn't sense any poison from their weapons," he said, his voice laced with confusion and pain.
Korga's grin widened. "Maybe not their weapons, old friend," he sneered, "but what about the sake we drank yesterday at the council meeting?"
"Impossible!" Thabo countered, his eyes widening in realization. "You drank it, too! You should be the same as me!"
Korga threw his head back, his laughter echoing across the clearing. He used the silent, whispering technique—to deliver his chilling confession. "Years ago, after our last sparring match, I went into 'isolated training.' I put my whole body through different poisons, making myself immune to every single one out there." His eyes, filled with a crazed mixture of hatred and respect, locked onto Thabo's. "I know the gap between us can never be closed," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But thanks to the poison, it's a fair fight now."
With that, Korga let out a primal roar and charged toward Thabo, a vengeful demon closing in on his prey. His charge was a blur of rage, his sword a lethal extension of his hatred. Thabo, with his body burning from the inside, met the attack with a grim determination. Steel rang against steel, the clash echoing across the silent clearing.
Korga was a whirlwind of strikes, a flurry of thrusts and slashes aimed to exploit Thabo's weakened state. Thabo, despite the fire in his veins, parried and deflected with the muscle memory of a true master. He moved with a practiced grace that defied his pain, his sword a blur of silver, a defensive shield against Korga's onslaught.
But as the seconds bled into minutes, the poison's grip tightened. Thabo's movements became slower, his parries heavier. Each clang of their swords was a testament to his fading strength. A bead of sweat, mixed with a thin line of blood, trickled down his temple. His breathing became a harsh, rattling sound, each exhalation a struggle.
Korga saw his opening. He pushed harder, his eyes alight with a vicious glee. He was no longer just fighting for victory; he was savoring the destruction of his rival. He parried a sluggish thrust from Thabo and delivered a swift, brutal kick to his stomach. Thabo stumbled back, clutching his abdomen, his face a mask of agony.
"The greatest warrior of our tribe," Korga spat, pressing his advantage. "Reduced to a crawling beast by a little poison." He raised his sword for a final, killing blow. As Korga's sword descended, a flicker of memory flashed in Thabo's mind: the terrified faces of his wife and children as they fled, the hope in Kofi's eyes. It was enough. He twisted his body, his muscles screaming in protest, and with a guttural roar, he blocked the killing blow. The sound of steel on steel was deafening, the force of the impact sending shockwaves that destroyed neat by huts.
Korga stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. How could Thabo, weakened and poisoned, still possess such immense strength? Thabo's body was a furnace, his Prana core burning brightly. In a desperate, final act, he had shattered it, unleashing the entirety of his life's energy in one final, explosive surge. It was a temporary solution, a last defiance against the encroaching darkness. He knew the Prana would soon run out, and his heart, unable to bear the strain, would give out His thoughts raced, filled with a profound sorrow. He saw the years he had spent ignoring Korga's growing envy, dismissing it as a childish rivalry. He should have known better. He should have done more to protect his family from this inevitable hatred. He closed his eyes for a moment, an image of his family's faces etched behind his eyelids, and whispered a silent plea for their forgiveness.
Five hours later, after an endless, brutal battle that had left both men bruised and bloodied, Korga finally found his opening. Thabo, his movements a fraction of a second too slow, stumbled. Korga lunged, his sword finding its mark. The blade plunged into Thabo's heart, ending the fight, and the legendary warrior's life, in an instant.
Korga pulled the sword free, and Thabo's body remained standing for a moment, a defiant sentinel with his sword still in hand. The warrior's pride held him upright even in death.
"You're one stubborn bastard, Thabo. I'vealways hated how a tribe could have a chief and "Chief warrior. " Korga said, his voice a mix of grudging respect and exhaustion as he looked at the lifeless corpse of the man who was once his friend.