Smoke choked the streets of Tukmis, curling around crumbling walls and burning market stalls.
The wails of the injured mixed with the clash of steel and the roar of the enemy, creating a symphony of chaos.
Amid the fray, Uzair's eyes scanned the battlefield, sharp and calculating, searching for any sign of strategy behind the enemy's movements.
Something's wrong… His stomach tightened.
They're moving somewhere, but not toward the captains or the city guard…
Then he noticed it—a cluster of soldiers moving with unnerving coordination toward a narrow, shadowed alley where the screams of terrified women and children barely reached the main battlefield.
Uzair's hands tightened on his sword.
"Keep fighting!" he barked to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Hold your ground!"
Without waiting for orders, he pushed forward, weaving through the fallen and the dying.
The closer he got, the more horrifying the scene became. The enemy had no interest in soldiers—they were hunting the defenseless. Young men who tried to resist were slaughtered immediately. Women clutched their children, trembling, while elders were dragged away, too weak to fight back.
Rage ignited in Uzair's chest, hot and blinding. His hands gripped his sword tighter.
"How dare you!" he growled under his breath, though the enemy couldn't hear him over the screams. Every instinct, every ounce of discipline, was overridden by fury.
He launched himself at the nearest attacker, swinging without hesitation, letting the rage guide his strikes.
As he surged forward, his mind raced with contempt for the enemy. Weaklings. Only weak men prey on those who cannot defend themselves. They will die by my hands.
The clanging of steel rang sharply as Uzair tore through the first line of foes. He didn't pause to think, didn't wait for strategy—only the burning need to stop the monsters before they could harm another innocent soul.
Smoke and dust filled the streets, mingling with the screams of the dying and the clash of weapons. Uzair's eyes were locked on the small group of helpless people—women, children, and elders—huddled in the alley.
From the shadows behind him, two massive figures emerged, stepping silently over the rubble. Both were bald, their double-handed axes gleaming faintly in the firelight, muscles coiled and ready.
The taller one let out a low, mocking laugh, glancing at his companion.
"So your plan worked—someone will fall for this trap," he said, a cruel grin twisting his face.
The other tightened his grip on his axe, his eyes glinting with cold amusement.
"Yes," he replied, chuckling softly. "Some men… they cannot resist being heroes. Let him bleed."
They moved in perfect synchrony, but Uzair's eyes narrowed. Something about them was different… dangerous.
But…
A surge of fury shot through Uzair. "Cowards!" he yelled, but he didn't stop. His focus was on the innocents scattered at the far end of the alley. He sprinted toward them, weaving through debris and fallen bodies.
From behind, the axe men struck again, their blades slicing in perfect tandem. Uzair barely dodged the first, the haft grazing his shoulder. The second came so close it could have ended him.
"Where are you running?" one sneered. "We are your opponents!"
Uzair's eyes flicked to the terrified captives. He couldn't abandon them.
The attackers pressed relentlessly, cutting off space and forcing him to twist, parry, and leap with every step. Each strike tested his reflexes, each movement a desperate dance in the narrow alley.
Despite the pressure, Uzair's resolve hardened. Every glance at the innocents reminded him what was at stake.
He gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance, ready to turn their trap against them. The clash of steel echoed around the alley, but it only fueled his determination.
The fight pressed in tight. Uzair was forced to move with precision; the alley offered little room to maneuver, and the two worked as a coordinated duo, each swing cutting off escape routes. Every glance at the helpless captives drove him forward, but every dodge and parry reminded him just how dangerous his opponents were.
The clash of steel rang through the alley, the smell of smoke and iron thick around him. He could not stop—not until the innocents were safe. The duel continued, each strike testing his skill, endurance, and resolve, with the fate of the defenseless weighing heavily on him.
Uzair twisted and dodged, every movement precise, but slowly a chilling realization crept into his mind. This isn't random—they planned this. They wanted me here… this narrow alley is their battlefield, and they know every advantage.
The axe men moved with deadly precision, forcing him toward the alley walls with every swing."
Before he could fully adjust, a blur of motion struck him from the side. One of the axe‑men's massive blade sliced across his arm with terrifying force. Pain exploded through his shoulder and down his arm; his weapon hand went useless instantly. He staggered, the sword nearly slipping from his grip.
The punishing strike sent pain searing through Uzair's arm, leaving it heavy and unresponsive. Rage burned hotter, but there was little time to retaliate; he managed only a shallow slash across the attacker's face—barely denting their armored brutality.
Yet his eyes stayed locked on the innocents at the far end of the alley. Their helplessness, at the mercy of the remaining enemies, fueled his resolve. Pain, blood, and exhaustion pressed down on him, but he could not—would not—allow himself to falter.
The duel continued, more perilous than ever. Uzair now had to rely on agility, wits, and his remaining strength, knowing that every misstep could be fatal—not just for him, but for those he was sworn to protect.
Uzair staggered back, feeling the searing pain in his useless arm, but his gaze hardened. "What arrogance," he spat through gritted teeth, voice low but deadly. "You strike me, thinking it will stop me. I gave you the courtesy of knowing you are strong… but strength alone will not let you win against me."
A cold fire ignited in his eyes. They no longer held just anger or worry—they shifted, sharp and calculating, the eyes of a man who had already marked his prey for death. Every muscle tensed, his mind racing to calculate the danger, the angles, the weaknesses in their coordination.
He moved back slowly, measuring distance, feeling the narrow alley's walls press against him but refusing to be cornered.
His injured arm throbbed, yet he adjusted his stance, ready to turn this trap against them.
The axe men sneered at his retreat, sensing fear—but Uzair's eyes betrayed none.
They only reflected the promise of retribution, the awareness that he had already accepted the risk and would make them pay for every moment they dared threaten the helpless.
They attacked again, this time in a relentless, coordinated flurry. One swung low, aiming to crush his legs, while the other arced high, axes cleaving the air with deadly precision.
Uzair twisted, dodging one strike, parried the other with a desperate slash. Sparks flew as steel met steel, echoing in the narrow alley.
He countered with a strike to the taller man's shoulder, but the axe barely scratched him. The shorter one lunged from the side, forcing Uzair to leap back, his injured arm dragging uselessly. Pain shot through him, but he could not hesitate.
Each movement now was a delicate balance between attack, defense, and protecting the innocents at the alley's end.
Minutes—or was it seconds?—blurred together. Uzair's breath came in ragged gasps, each swing and parry pushing his body to the limit.
The axe men roared, their attacks becoming more furious and desperate. Steel whined, wood splintered, and the alley walls seemed to close in as the deadly dance continued.
Uzair feinted, baiting one of them into overcommitting. With a burst of speed, he struck a glancing blow across the taller man's chest, drawing blood but not ending him. The other swung wildly, and Uzair narrowly avoided a killing strike, rolling across the alley floor to regain his footing.
Sweat, blood, and dust coated his face. Every glance at the innocents fueled his resolve—they had to survive. He forced himself to focus, letting instinct guide him.
Another leap, another parry, and finally, he saw an opening: the taller axe man had exposed a side, the coordination breaking under the relentless pace of Uzair's attacks.
He moved faster than thought, striking first the taller man across the chest. The axe man screamed, staggering but not yet down. The shorter one's rage gave him reckless strength, swinging blindly. Uzair ducked, rolled, and used the wall for momentum, his remaining arm lashing out with precision.
A final, perfectly timed strike—quick, brutal, and unstoppable—and the shorter man's head fell. The taller one collapsed moments later, bloodied, stunned, and defeated. Both lay motionless, the alley finally quiet except for Uzair's labored breaths.
Uzair stood in the alley, every movement controlled, almost graceful despite the blood on his clothes and the pounding ache in his injured arm. His eyes swept over the fallen enemies, chest heaving, voice low but cold:
"Who's next?"
The surviving foes froze, fear flickering in their eyes as they saw the calm, lethal precision in his stance. One by one, their confidence crumbled, and they bolted, scattering like leaves in the wind.
The alley grew eerily quiet, broken only by the crackle of distant fires and the labored breathing of those who had survived.
Uzair sank to the ground, leaning against the rough stone wall for support. Pain throbbed in his arm, but it was nothing compared to the tension in his chest.
Around him, the women, children, and elders who were still alive slowly approached, their faces pale but alight with gratitude. Their trembling steps became a quiet, hesitant circle around him.
One by one, they reached out, some with tears streaking their soot-covered cheeks, others clasping their hands in silent thanks.
"Thank you… thank you, sir," whispered a young mother, holding her child close.
A small elderly man bowed his head, voice cracking: "We… we are alive because of you."
Uzair's heart tightened. Despite the exhaustion, despite the searing pain in his arm, a warmth spread through him—a deep, quiet pride that no praise could match. He had saved them.
At that moment, Uzair thought, "Thank the gods… if they had any more experience in that deadly duo, this alley could have become my grave."
At that moment, five guards arrived, their armor dented, faces lined with worry. They quickly assessed the scene, eyes flicking between the captives and Uzair.
"Sir! Are you injured? Let us take you to safety!" one of them called, concern in his voice.
Uzair shook his head slightly, grim and focused. "My work is not done here. Take the people to safety," he ordered firmly.
The soldiers hesitated for a heartbeat, then started guiding the women, children, and elders toward the main street. Tears and whispered thanks followed them as they went.
Then, from the crowd, a small hand reached out. Uzair looked down to see a little girl, no more than eight, holding a small, folded cloth. She stepped forward bravely, her eyes wide and earnest.
"You can have this," she said softly. "You're hurt… it must hurt a lot. Mommy says if I get hurt, it feels very bad. So… this is mine, but you can keep it."
Her tiny hand pressed the cloth into his, then she darted back to her parents, disappearing into the growing line of survivors. Uzair looked down at the gift, a smile breaking across his blood-streaked, tired face.
For a moment, the chaos of Tukmis faded. He felt relief, gratitude, and the quiet joy of having protected the innocent, even if just for now.
"I… I'm glad I was able to save them," he whispered, his voice low but full, as the little girl's gift rested against his chest.
The weight of pain, duty, and hope pressed together, and for the first time in hours, Uzair allowed himself a breath of quiet satisfaction.
On the castle's scorched side, the Captain and Oxel moved as a single, deadly unit. Steel sang through the air, sparks flew as weapons clashed, and the dust of shattered stone rose around them like a storm.
Oxel remained in perfect defense, every parry calculated, every block precise, while the Captain pressed the assault relentlessly, striking with unmatched speed and power. Together, they were a whirlwind of controlled chaos—unbeatable in the heart of the battle.
Even amid the fighting, the Captain's mind raced. Are the other captains holding their ground? Is Uzair safe? Cedric? Titus…? Every thought of his comrades was laced with worry.
Then, through the haze of smoke and flying debris, a shadow moved—slow, deliberate, and heavy. At first, it was just a shape, blurred by the swirling dust, almost blending into the ruins around them. But its size and the way it moved made the Captain's heart skip a beat.
Could it be… Yoki?
Oxel's eyes narrowed, a flash of recognition in his gaze. He stiffened beside the Captain, sensing the same silent threat, though the other guards seemed oblivious, busy with their own battles.
The shadow advanced, and every step stirred unease. Dust swirled around it, hiding the details, but the Captain gripped his sword tighter, muscles tensed. He didn't speak—words would be useless.
For them, at that moment, it felt like a storm was approaching. Every instinct screamed danger, every muscle tensed. The shadow moved closer through the swirling dust, deliberate and heavy. Its presence alone sent a ripple of fear through the Captain and Oxel—was it Yoki?
The soldiers behind them dared not move, frozen by the tension. Every step the figure took made the ground seem heavier, the air thicker, as if the first strike would decide everything.
The Captain's grip on his sword tightened. Oxel's stance sharpened. The shadow advanced.
…Could it be Yoki? Or something far worse?