The secret passage shuddered from the fading blast. Dust clung to their boots as the captains and Oxel sprinted through the narrow tunnel, breaths ragged, hearts hammering. These were not ordinary soldiers—they were the kingdom's sharpest blades—but even they could feel the weight of what they had just witnessed.
When they emerged, Tukmis was unrecognizable.
Flames clawed at the night sky, swallowing rooftops, spitting smoke that choked the air. Screams cut through the roar of steel and horn, and shadows of enemy soldiers flickered in the firelight, cutting down guards and driving civilians into panic. The city was no longer a fortress. It was a battlefield.
At the heart of it, the nightmare was clear. Nearly a hundred enemy soldiers battered the gates of Tukmis Castle, axes swinging, rams pounding in unison. Torches arced through the air, some landing against the stone walls with a sharp crack. Ladders scraped against the ramparts as defenders clung desperately, hacking at attackers with sword and spear. Wooden hoardings burned, smoke spiraling into the night sky. Cries of the wounded and shouted orders blended with the roar of fire and steel.
The castle gates shuddered under the relentless assault. Shields splintered, stones cracked, and for every enemy that fell, two more surged forward. Tukmis's forces struggled to hold their ground, retreating only to regroup and strike again.
The scene was a maelstrom of fire, steel, and blood—a city teetering on the edge of collapse.
The captains froze. For warriors who had seen blood, fire, and loss before, even they could not hide the shock on their faces.
One voice cracked the silence.
"This… this isn't just a raid. It's the same as the capital. The very same."
The words hung heavy in the captain's mind, dragging the memory of that other night back—the fire, the slaughter, the helplessness. Tukmis now stood on the edge of the same abyss, and he knew too well what could follow if they faltered.
Oxel's voice was grim. "The guards are scattered. They're fighting, but they're too few. The city won't hold without us."
Smoke swirled around them. Fire roared. And slowly, as always, all eyes turned to the Captain.
He stood at the center of the chaos, calm and unflinching, surveying the battlefield. His gaze fixed on the castle gates where steel and fire clashed endlessly. The scar along his arm caught the firelight, a quiet reminder of battles past, while his expression radiated the resolve that made others trust and follow him.
At last, he spoke. His voice was calm, yet carried the weight of steel, cutting through the roar of battle around them.
"Now is not the time to hesitate. We scatter—each to the place where the fight rages fiercest. But remember this: Yoki may be here. And that man in white. Do not lower your guard. And if you face Yoki…" His eyes swept over them, sharp and unyielding. "…do not face him alone. You will not survive."
The words struck harder than the roar of battle around them.
The captains stared—not because of the order, but because of what he had admitted. For a man who had never feared death to speak so plainly of an enemy's power was no small thing. He was not the strongest man in the kingdom, nor invincible. But he had always faced every foe without fear. If he warned them now, it was truth.
Even Uzair and Titus, who only moments ago had been ready to tear the council apart for the title of General, lowered their gazes. The hunger for command was gone. In this moment, there was no rivalry, no politics—only Tukmis.
One by one, the captains nodded, a faint smile touching their lips.
"All right… let's go," they said, their voices steady.
In that moment, there was no doubt—no rivalry, no hesitation. They trusted him above all else.
Behind them, Tukmis screamed. A tower collapsed in the distance with a crash of stone, sparks rushing into the sky. The castle gates shook under the relentless pounding of rams.
And yet, in the midst of it, the elder captain lingered. His lips curved ever so slightly. Not cruel, not mocking, but the faint smile of a man who had thought long and deep about this moment—and now watched it unfold as he had foreseen. Without a word, he turned and made his way toward the city barracks, where the guard commander fought to rally what forces remained.
The others scattered.
Uzair surged west toward the granaries, where enemy torches already threatened to consume the stores. His blade sang through the night, sparks leaping as steel met steel. Each strike fell with extra force, precise and unyielding, as though the weight of the fight pressed on him from unseen hands. He moved not just to fight, but to protect… though what, or whom, remained hidden in the rhythm of his blows.
Titus stormed north into the market square. His greatsword tore a path through the enemy, sending stalls crashing, flames leaping higher with each clash. His movements were fierce, almost desperate, each blow landing heavier than necessity demanded. There was a care behind the ferocity, an invisible weight carried with every swing, guiding his fury beyond his own struggle.
On the eastern bridge, the Captain himself moved slower. His wounds dragged at him, each step heavier than he would admit. His sword still struck true, but every swing cost him dearly. Enemies sensed weakness and pressed in, eager for the kill. Yet Oxel was there—his shield taking the brunt, his axe cutting down those who dared to rush. Together they held the line, the Captain's precision and Oxel's strength covering one another against the tide.
And across the burning streets of Tukmis, the other captains fought in the same strange, fierce manner—each clashing with more desperation, more ferocity than their battles demanded. As though, unseen, they fought not only for the city, but to ease a burden that did not belong to them.
Titus pressed through the market square, each swing of his greatsword sending enemies staggering and stalls collapsing. Flames leapt higher with the force of his blows, blood steaming on the cobblestones. His chest heaved, but still he drove forward, fighting as if to push back the tide itself
Then the air shifted.
A scream tore through the square—then another. Titus's eyes snapped up just as a figure carved through the Tukmis guards like a scythe through wheat. Ten men fell in moments, their bodies scattered across the blood-soaked stone.
From the smoke stepped a man with gray hair, matted with sweat and soot. His face was ordinary at first glance, yet something cruel lingered in the ease of his movements.
In his right hand, he gripped a severed head, its lifeless eyes rolling as he walked. His left hand held a sword, still dripping with blood. The blade caught the firelight, gleaming like a predator's grin.
He stopped before Titus, the smile widening.
"So… you're not just another rat in this burning nest." His voice was calm, almost amused. "You carry yourself different. Stronger. Tell me—" his eyes narrowed, studying Titus as though measuring his worth—"are you one of the kingdom's captains?"
The severed head swung lazily at his side. The challenge in his gaze needed no words.
The gray-haired man sprang forward, his sword raised high. With a roar he came down in a leaping strike, steel cutting straight for Titus's skull.
Titus swung his greatsword up just in time. The impact cracked like thunder, jarring his arms. His knees bent under the weight, boots scraping back across the stone. The sheer speed of the blow stunned him. A heartbeat slower, and he would have been in two pieces. His heart pounded, but he refused to falter.
The enemy's smile widened. He pressed harder, forcing Titus to brace with both hands. Sparks showered between their blades. Then, with sudden force, the enemy shoved off and slashed sideways. The tip of his blade grazed Titus's cheek, opening a shallow cut that stung and bled. Titus gritted his teeth, tasting iron, and readied himself for the next strike.
Titus steadied himself, chest heaving. His eyes narrowed. Fast. Too fast. No common soldier could move like this…
The truth struck him like a cold blade—this was no ordinary foe. This must be one of their captains. One of the men commanding this very attack.
"Damn…" Titus muttered, tightening his grip.
With a roar, he swung, his greatsword carving a brutal arc aimed at splitting the man from collar to hip. But the enemy captain slid aside with fluid grace, his blade snapping out in a counter. Steel bit across Titus's shoulder before he could fully turn, the pain hot and sharp.
Titus staggered, blood dripping down his arm. He forced himself back into stance, but the gray-haired captain was already moving again, each step measured, predatory.
Their blades clashed once more—Titus's strikes heavy, crushing, meant to break through by sheer force. But the enemy captain was faster, slipping just beyond reach, answering with cuts that nicked, sliced, and bled Titus bit by bit.
With every exchange, Titus gave more ground. His strength was great, but the speed and precision of the gray-haired man carved him down piece by piece.
And for the first time in years, Titus felt the weight of inevitability pressing against his chest.
Their blades rang again, sparks scattering in the firelit square. Titus's chest burned, his breath ragged, yet his eyes never left the enemy's. He searched for an opening—any flaw, any hesitation.
And then he saw it.
The gray-haired captain shifted his weight, just slightly, leaving his side bare. A gap, clean and tempting.
Titus seized it with a roar, driving his great sword forward—
—but the smile on the enemy's face told him the truth too late.
Steel flashed. The man twisted, his blade thrusting like a viper. Titus's chest exploded in pain as cold iron punched through flesh and muscle, the tip bursting from his back. His breath caught, blood flooding his mouth.
The gray-haired captain leaned close, whispering against his ear, "Too slow."
But even as his vision blurred, Titus did not fall. With a defiant roar, he brought his greatsword crashing down in a desperate counter. The sheer force of the blow knocked the enemy captain off balance, driving him back several paces.
The gray-haired man wiped blood from his cheek where the blade had grazed him, his grin fading into something sharper wariness.
Titus staggered, one hand pressed against the wound in his chest, blood soaking through his tunic. His greatsword trembled in his other hand, the weight now unbearable. The square spun around him, the fire and screams blurring into shadow.
He stood alone. No allies near, no voices to answer. Only the ring of steel and the taste of iron on his tongue.
And he knew, with grim certainty, that he was at his limit.
The enemy captain steadied himself, blood glistening faintly on his cheek where Titus's blade had grazed him. A cruel smile twisted across his face.
"So this is the strength of a captain?" he said, laughter rolling from his chest. "Too easy to defeat."
He raised his sword high, then leapt forward with a predator's grace, his shadow falling over the wounded Titus.
Titus's vision blurred, the world narrowing to the enemy's advancing blade. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, yet his grip on his great sword did not falter. He drew a shallow breath, his voice a low murmur, meant for no ears but his own.
"I… did not want to use it."