The dawn broke blood-red over the bronze roofs of Sand City. From its walls, thirteen thousand Golden Lions stood in perfect rows, shields overlapping, sabers sheathed, banners trembling in wind that smelled of iron and smoke. Below them, five thousand Red Cloaks waited on the dunes, still as carved obsidian, their runed banners whispering with ember light. A silence stretched. Then came the King.
Ma Al Mustafar, the Golden Lion, rode out before the army. His armor glowed faintly, layered brass and white silk etched with sun sigils. His saber, Zahir, the Dawn, hung across his saddle, its curved edge catching the first flash of morning. He raised the blade toward the rising sun.
"Lions. Sons of sand and flame. Remember your forefathers who forged steel from the desert's bones. These cloaked heretics come to erase what the Wheel still remembers. Show them the roar that guards the world."
The army responded with the thunder of shields—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM—a heartbeat across the dunes. Trumpets cried. The King's right flank, three thousand horse riders, surged forward in a golden wave. Sabers flashed, banners streamed, the ground shook like a living drum.
From the Red Cloak lines, Shinshōkan Tornado stepped out, wind coiling around his arms.
"Let them charge. The wind will remember their names backward."
He pressed his palms together.
Wind Muti — Reverse Tempest. The air folded. Arrows, fired from Sand City's walls, veered mid-flight and whipped back into the ranks that shot them. Hundreds fell from the battlements before the first cavalry line reached the dunes.
But the Lions did not falter. Their front wedge slammed into the Cloak formation, saber against claymore, curved grace against brutal edge.
The King's banner, a roaring lion of gold cloth, cut through the dust like a comet.
Close quarters chaos. Cloaks swung wide, heavy blades meant to break bone. Lions stepped inside, turning cuts into draws, letting curved sabers slide under guard and into joints. Every Lion fought in rhythm—three beats: parry, pivot, strike—drilled through generations.
Raven watched from a dune ridge, eyes glinting crimson through her mask. She scattered an alchemical dagger into the sand.
Alchemy Muti — Sulfur Bombs. A grid ignited beneath the charging Lions, geysers of fire erupting to break momentum.
Mustafar had expected it. He raised Zahir, aura pulsing gold.
Spirit Muti — Roar of the Sand Lion. His strike sent a wave of concussive energy outward, flattening the flames and turning molten sand into harmless glass. He galloped straight through, leading his vanguard into the heart of the Red Cloaks.
Mustafar fought like a storm, given discipline. Each motion bore the weight of Seeker training—every cut precise, every order timed to heartbeat.
"Second line, shield pivot. Archers, kneel and fire low." The Lions obeyed instantly. Shield walls rotated. Archers shot between legs and armor gaps; the arrows found throats and hearts. Dozens of Cloaks fell before they could reset stance.
The King dismounted in motion, landed with a roll, and cut a Red Cloak officer in half as he rose. His saber spun once, catching the dawn.
"Path for your King."
The Lions formed twin corridors of shields, blades flashing as they carved forward. Each step cost blood, but the path held. A Cloak sergeant lunged. Mustafar's saber traced an arc of golden light.
Martial Muti — Tiger of the East. A horizontal slash that carried three delayed echoes. The first cut steel, the second air, the third spirit. The man's body parted cleanly, armor, aura, and soul bisected.
Three more charged. The King pivoted, aura roaring.
Martial Muti — White Mane Reversal. A spinning back cut that deflected all incoming blades, the shockwave tearing the sand into a ring around him.
He flowed straight into another form.
Spirit Muti — Sun Cat Ascension. His body glowed white gold. Every movement left a trail of burning light. Sabers met him and melted.
Even Red Cloaks hesitated. The King was no myth—he was a wall of will and flame.
For an hour, the Lions pushed the Red Cloaks back step by step. Organized ranks, rotating lines, perfect cohesion—old world discipline grinding fanatic zeal into the sand. Drums beat from the walls, signaling reinforcement. Victory looked possible.
Then the storm changed.
Cyrus raised his hand.
Abyssal Muti — Shadow Flood. The horizon blackened. Sand turned liquid. From beneath, spectral hands clawed up and dragged Lions down, screaming. The organized front shattered into pockets of chaos.
The tornado descended from the sky, wrapped in a cyclone, its claymore glowing a teal hue.
"Gale Execution — Heaven Spiral." He drove the blade into the earth. A tornado unfurled outward, lifting men, horses, banners—everything. When it faded, only glass and blood remained.
Raven's arrays blossomed across the field—rings of red light that turned fallen soldiers into fuel. Corpses burned, releasing waves of crimson mist that strengthened nearby Cloaks.
The King roared back, aura shaking. He signaled his elite guard—the Pride Circle—two hundred Seekers in lion-emblazoned cloaks.
"Form the Roar. Advance." They moved as one, sabers carving sigils into the sand, a spiraling light pattern beneath their feet.
Combined Spirit Muti — Solar Pride Formation. Golden energy erupted, cleansing the shadow mist and blowing Tornado back. Cyrus merely watched from his black glass dune, arms folded, silent.
The King's guard pressed forward again, hacking through weakened Cloaks. Their sabers caught and turned the heavier claymores; discipline broke the Red line once more. Bodies piled high; dunes ran with red and gold.
Mustafar moved like a lion stalking its kill, every step deliberate, every breath measured. He could see Cyrus now across the field, standing alone amid smoke.
"There," he whispered. "The serpent behind the storm."
He cut down another Cloak captain, parried two more, then thrust his saber skyward.
Martial Muti — Lion of the South: Heart Strike. A vertical aura burst cleared the space before him, vaporizing dozens and drawing a shining path straight to the Shinshō.
"Hold the line. No retreat until I have his head."
The Pride Circle roared in unison, locking shields around their King as they advanced step by step through the burning sea.
Cyrus finally moved. He extended his right arm. Black-blue aura spiraled upward, twisting the sky. Lightning without sound rippled behind him. Tornado and Raven fell into step at his sides.
Cyrus: "He actually broke through. Let him come. The Netherflames will judge the lion."
The King halted thirty paces away, breathing steady, armor scorched, eyes bright as sun on steel.
All around them, the war still raged, wind shrieking, glass cracking, banners burning—but the battlefield's heart had gone silent, waiting.
The lion had reached the abyss.