While Prince Balek clashed with the endless pawns of the Emperor, another storm was brewing in a different corner of the battlefield—within the shattered colosseum that had become a graveyard of steel and flesh. There, Adolph Li and Darke Dean were locked in a brutal struggle, drenched in sweat and blood, their bodies screaming with fatigue.
The clash of blades rang out like war bells, echoing against the crumbling stone walls. They had carved through waves of soldiers, their weapons gleaming with crimson, yet the tide never ceased. For every enemy felled, two more seemed to emerge from the smoke and dust. There was no respite, no moment to breathe—their strength, once a raging inferno, was now flickering like a candle in the wind.
Darke's chest heaved as he split another soldier down the middle, only for three more to charge forward. Adolph's arms burned as he parried a spear thrust, his knuckles white against his blade. The endless onslaught was becoming more than bothersome—it was draining them, piece by piece, second by second.
And then… the air shifted.
When they expected another disposable pawn to appear, the battlefield parted like the sea before a storm. The soldiers pulled back in eerie silence, their eyes gleaming with something between fear and reverence. From their ranks stepped a man with an aura that crushed the air around him—broad shoulders, a predator's gait, and two gleaming machetes, one in each hand. Five silver stars blazed on the side of his black cloak.
General Vance Hermit.
The name alone sent ripples through the enemy ranks, for he was no ordinary commander—he was one of Emperor Cailan Gravis's eight generals, each commanding fifty thousand men in the vast machine of war.
Emperor Cailan Gravis has a highly organized army of 400,000 which has 8 generals leading 50,000 troops each. Within this 50,000 troops there are captains over 10,000 troops, and within each 10,000 troops, there are Legional leaders over 1000 troops.
Behind him lay the structure of an army that dwarfed kingdoms. It was an empire of order, a symphony of slaughter conducted by the Emperor himself.
Darke Dean's grip tightened on his blade, his jaw locking. Adolph Li exchanged a glance with him—no words, just the silent acknowledgment that this man was nothing like the fodder they had been cutting down. His presence was heavy, suffocating, like a cat eyeing two exhausted rats.
And yet, in that breathless pause, something unexpected happened. For the first time in what felt like eternity, they could breathe. Just a moment—a fleeting second to fill their lungs and feel the weight of their battered bodies.
Vance tilted his head, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as he twirled one machete in a lazy arc, the steel catching the dim light. His voice was calm, almost amused when he finally spoke:
"You've lasted longer than most. That makes this… entertaining."
The silence before the storm broke like glass.
General Vance Hermit surged forward like a hurricane unleashed on a stormy coast, his twin machetes flashing arcs of steel that caught the dim light of the bloodstained colosseum. His steps were silent but swift, each stride radiating lethal intent.
Darke Dean didn't hesitate. Fear was a luxury he could not afford. With a roar that tore from his chest like a battle horn, he lunged to meet the oncoming tempest. His saber gleamed, cutting a clean arc as it rose to intercept the crushing blow descending from Vance's right hand.
Steel met steel.
The collision rang out like thunder, the force of it hurling shockwaves through the air. Both men were thrown back, boots skidding across the cracked stone floor. The sound echoed through the colosseum—a single note of violence, sharp and unforgiving.
They landed almost in unison, but the difference was clear. Darke's knees bent too deep, his breathing ragged, the tremor in his grip betraying the strain in his arms. Vance, by contrast, stood tall—composed, unbroken, his machetes spinning lazily in his hands as if mocking the effort it took to block him. His calm was the calm of a predator certain of the kill.
A thin line of crimson traced its way from the corner of Darke's mouth, dripping down his chin. He spat blood to the ground, his jaw tight with rage. The pain meant nothing. He would not bow. With a guttural growl, he charged again, blade raised high in defiance.
Vance's smirk widened. He met Darke's fury with effortless precision, his machete slicing forward in a brutal arc. Steel shrieked against steel—then snapped.
Darke's saber shattered in two.
The momentum carried through, merciless and unrelenting, the blade biting into flesh with sickening ease. A gash tore open across Darke's shoulder, spilling blood like an unsealed vein. His scream ripped through the chaos, raw and desperate, echoing off the broken walls like a dying beast's cry.
"Darke!" Adolph Li's voice thundered as he pivoted, his eyes blazing with fury. He surged forward, muscles coiled to strike—only to be engulfed by a swarm of enemy soldiers. Ten, twenty, thirty—it didn't matter. They fell upon him like wolves, forcing his blades into constant motion, leaving him no room to breathe, no chance to reach his comrade.
His saber carved through throats, split skulls, severed arms, but for every corpse he made, two more filled the gap. The realization hit him like ice: he could not save Darke. Not now.
And Darke…
Darke was already on his knees, blood streaming from his mangled shoulder, his broken weapon lying useless at his side. General Vance Hermit loomed over him, machetes glinting with crimson droplets. His gaze was cold, merciless—a butcher studying the next cut of meat.
"You fought well," Vance murmured, his voice carrying an unsettling softness, the kind of tenderness that belongs to cruelty, not compassion. "But not well enough."
The twin machetes gleamed in the fractured sunlight, raised high like the fangs of some great serpent poised for its killing strike. Dust clung to Vance's armor, streaked with blood that wasn't his own, and his breath came out in calm, steady clouds, as though execution was just another routine act.
He paused, tilting his head as he studied the broken figure before him. Darke Dean knelt on one knee, chest heaving like a bellows. His armor was shredded, blood leaking from deep gashes, staining the cracked earth beneath him. One cut across his neck pulsed with each heartbeat, spraying a fine mist of crimson. The man who had once been the unshakable trainer of the royal guard now trembled like a candle in a storm.
"Any last words?" Vance asked, voice almost curious, as though death was a question to be answered rather than a sentence to be passed.
Darke Dean forced his head up. His eyes—half-lidded, glazed—still held a stubborn ember of defiance. When he spoke, his voice was ragged, each syllable dragged over knives.
"Adolph… my friend…" He coughed violently, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Forgive me… for the grudges between us." His gaze drifted, distant, as though he were looking through time itself. "Don't… die the death of fools. Give up… and live. I believe…" His lips curled faintly, almost a smile. "…the Black Dragon will appear… someday… and save us."
His chest hitched, and for a heartbeat, silence swallowed the battlefield. Then his eyes hardened, a ghost of the man he used to be flashing in them. "And for you…" He shifted his gaze back to Vance, voice lowering to a rasp thick with venom. "…your death will be merciless."
It was his final act of defiance.
Vance's eyes flickered—amusement, perhaps admiration, though it vanished like smoke. "Brave words from a corpse," he whispered.
The machetes came down in a brutal arc. There was no hesitation, no honor—only raw force. Steel tore through flesh and bone as if it were no more than ripened fruit. The sound was wet, final.
Darke Dean's head rolled away, eyes still open, staring at a sky that would never change for him again. His body lingered upright for a second—two heartbeats—before collapsing in a lifeless heap. Blood gushed from the stump of his neck, soaking the earth in a crimson bloom.
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Adolph Li stood frozen, the clash of distant blades muffled by the roaring in his ears. His teeth sank into his lip so hard he tasted iron, but it couldn't drown the sting in his eyes. Tears burned—not just of grief but of rage, of helplessness. For all their quarrels, for all the heated words and prideful clashes, Darke Dean had been more than a rival. He had been a brother-in-arms. A man worthy of the royal trainer's seal. And now he was gone—reduced to nothing more than a nameless corpse on a blood-soaked field.
Adolph's fists clenched, trembling. His vision blurred as he fixed on Vance Hermit—the butcher of Nazare Blade's finest. The world shrank to that single, towering figure, bathed in gore and shadow, the twin machetes dripping like the jaws of some ancient beast.