The Gloom Knight commander's blade, a sliver of solidified night, hung in the air, poised to extinguish the small, defiant light of Ordon's only hope. The world seemed to hold its breath. And into that silence, the mountain roared.
Korgon's arrival was not an entrance; it was a geological event. He crashed through the disciplined ranks of the Gloom Knights like a living battering ram, his colossal war hammer a blur of motion. He was not a duelist. He was a force of nature. His first swing caught two knights in a sweeping arc, their corrupted armor shattering like pottery, their forms dissolving into black smoke before they even hit the ground. His second swing was a direct, downward smash that cratered the very earth, the shockwave sending another three knights staggering back. He was a whirlwind of righteous, unstoppable fury, clearing a circle of death and devastation around the fallen boy.
The commander, its cold, tactical mind forced to reassess, abandoned the kill and leaped back, its red eyes glowing with hateful surprise at this new, impossible variable.
This was the opening Link needed. He scrambled to his feet, his hand closing around the hilt of the Master Sword. The holy blade hummed, its light flaring as if drawing strength from his master's presence. He rose, and without a word, without a glance, he and Korgon fell into position, their backs to one another.
The small, swift Hylian and the massive, immovable Goron. The spark of divine light and the unbreakable heart of the mountain.
The battle that followed was not a chaotic melee. It was a symphony of perfect, brutal harmony. The remaining Gloom Knights, recovering from their shock, advanced as one, their shield wall a unified, impenetrable barrier. "Break their shells!" Korgon bellowed, and he charged. He did not try to pierce their defense; he swung his hammer in a low, scything arc aimed at their feet. The impact didn't shatter their shields, but it buckled the very ground they stood on, sending a tremor through their line that broke their formation, creating a half-dozen small, fatal gaps.
Into those gaps, Link flowed. He was no longer a lone warrior holding back a tide; he was the lightning that followed the thunder. He moved through the staggered knights, his Master Sword a blur of blue light. A thrust here, a parry there, a clean, silent cut that severed a shadow's connection to the world. He was the scalpel to Korgon's sledgehammer, and together, they were devastating.
The action was a series of desperate, crystalline moments, each one an eternity. Link saw a knight on the roof of the general store, its bow drawn, an arrow of pure shadow aimed at Korgon's unprotected back. There was no time to shout a warning. Link's slingshot was in his hand, a stone fired with thoughtless, instantaneous precision. The stone struck the knight's helm with a sharp crack, not enough to kill it, but enough to make its arrow fly wide, shattering harmlessly against a chimney.
The knights, realizing they could not win by confronting the two champions directly, turned their attention to the weaker targets. A squad of them charged the barricade in front of the inn, where Fado and the baker were desperately holding the line with pitchforks and axes. Korgon saw the maneuver and moved to intercept, his body becoming a literal wall of living stone, his great shield absorbing the blows that would have slaughtered the villagers. But they were flanking him.
Link was there. He leaped onto an overturned cart, his enchanted wooden shield held high. He played a single, sharp, powerful note on his ocarina, a note imbued with the forest's magic, and then slammed the shield down. A wave of soft, green, calming light pulsed outwards. It did not harm the knights, but the pure, natural energy was anathema to their corrupted forms, causing them to recoil in confusion for a precious second. It was enough. "Back! Get back inside!" Fado yelled, and the villagers retreated to the safety of the inn.
The synergy was perfect. The Gloom Knights, for all their cold discipline, had been trained to fight Hylian soldiers. They had no protocol for fighting a Goron champion and a boy who moved like a shadow and wielded the light of the Goddesses. Their ranks were breaking. Their cold, silent advance had turned into a desperate, losing skirmish.
Hope, a feeling that had been extinguished an hour ago, was rekindled in the hearts of the watching villagers. They cheered from their windows, their voices a raw, ragged chorus of defiance. For the first time, it seemed possible. They might just survive the night.
Link and Korgon stood back-to-back in the center of the square, amidst the smoking, dissolving remains of dozens of defeated knights. The commander, its horned helmet dented, was trying to rally the last of its troops for a final, desperate charge. The battle had reached its final, decisive moments.
And then, the air changed. A new cold descended, a cold so profound and so absolute it seemed to freeze the very fire in Korgon's eyes. The crimson light of the Blood Moon intensified, as if the moon itself were focusing its malevolent gaze upon the valley. The sounds of battle died away, replaced by a sudden, deathly silence.
From the ridge where the battle had been observed, a figure descended. He did not run. He walked with a slow, elegant, unhurried grace, as if strolling through a garden of his own creation. Asmodeus. His handsome, aristocratic face held an expression of profound disappointment, the look of a master artist whose prized students have failed to grasp his vision.
He stopped at the edge of the blood-soaked village square. He surveyed the carnage, the dissolving forms of his prized Gloom Knights, the defiant Goron, and finally, the small boy holding the glowing, holy sword.
A slow, cruel, and utterly unamused smile touched his lips. His voice, when it came, was a silken purr that slid into every corner of the valley, a sound more terrifying than any monster's roar.
"Such a brilliant, defiant little light," he said, his embers-like eyes fixed on Link. "And you, old stone, have a surprising amount of fire left in you." He sighed, a theatrical gesture of boredom. "It seems my legion lacked the proper… artistic sensibility."
He raised a single, claw-tipped hand. "No matter. If you want a masterpiece of sorrow, sometimes you must paint it yourself."
The ground around him began to darken, and the true battle, the battle for the soul of Ordon, was about to begin.