The Great Southern Gate of Suryavansh loomed ahead like a giant stone skeleton. Once a vibrant passage for silk, spices, and travelers from across the continent, it was now a bottleneck of death. The massive iron portcullis was lowered, its teeth biting into the charred cobblestones. The air here was different—it wasn't just the smell of smoke; it was the heavy, suffocating stench of dark magic.
"Stay low, Mira. Don't let your breathing get too loud," Aryan whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling of nearby fires.
They were crouching behind a stack of overturned merchant crates, stained with spilled wine and dried blood. Mira was trembling so hard that Aryan could hear her teeth chattering. Her small hands were white from clutching the wooden doll and her mysterious pendant.
"Aryan... look," she pointed with a shaky finger.
In the center of the plaza, a dozen soldiers of the Obsidian Legion stood in a semi-circle. They didn't look human anymore. Their armor was fused to their grey, leathery skin, and their eyes were hollow pits of glowing green fire. In the middle of them stood a Centurion—a seven-foot-tall monster in spiked black plate armor, wielding a greatsword that seemed to drink the light around it.
"By the order of the High Necromancer!" the Centurion's voice boomed, sounding like gravel grinding in a tomb. "No soul leaves the capital. You are no longer citizens; you are raw material for the King's eternal army!"
Behind the soldiers, a line of roughly fifty refugees—mothers, elderly men, and crying children—were being forced toward a glowing green vortex. Aryan's heart hammered against his ribs. He was a warrior, trained to protect, yet he was watching his people being turned into soul-less husks.
'I have only one chance,' Aryan thought, his hand tightening on the hilt of the Core-Breaker. 'The blade is still dormant, but I can feel it pulsing. It wants this fight.'
"Listen to me, Mira," Aryan said, looking her straight in the eyes. "When the fighting starts, do not look back. Run toward the small drainage tunnel near the East wall. I will find you there. Do you understand?"
Mira nodded tearfully. "Please... don't leave me alone."
"I promise," Aryan said, though he wasn't sure if he could keep it.
With a sudden burst of speed, Aryan vaulted over the crates. His boots hit the stone with a sharp clack, drawing every green-eyed gaze in the plaza.
"A survivor?" the Centurion sneered, tilting his massive helmet. "And a Captain of the Guard, no less. Your King is a head on a pike, little warrior. Why do you still stand?"
"Because unlike you, I still have a soul to fight for," Aryan replied, his voice cold and steady.
"Kill him! Tear the flesh from his bones!" the Centurion commanded.
Six Legionnaires charged at once. They didn't move like men; they moved like machines—perfectly synchronized. Three spears lunged at his chest, while two blades swung at his legs.
Aryan breathed in. In his mind, the world slowed. He could see the dust particles dancing in the air. He didn't draw his sword yet. He stepped into the gap between the spears, his body twisting with the grace of a dancer. He grabbed the shaft of the nearest spear, using the soldier's own momentum to flip him over his shoulder.
CRACK!
The soldier's armor shattered as he hit the stone. Aryan didn't stop. He pivoted on his heel, delivering a devastating roundhouse kick to the second attacker's helmet. The metal dented inward, and the soldier was sent flying into a stone fountain.
But the others were closing in. Aryan felt a sharp sting as a blade grazed his shoulder. He couldn't hold back anymore.
SHING!
He drew the Core-Breaker. As the metal left the scabbard, the "rust" began to flake off, revealing a glowing azure-steel blade that hummed with ancient power. A shockwave of blue energy erupted from the sword, pushing the surrounding soldiers back by five feet.
"That sword..." the Centurion's voice wavered for the first time. "The Core-Breaker? It was supposed to be a myth!"
"Let's see if your head thinks it's a myth," Aryan growled.
The Centurion roared and swung his massive greatsword. The clash of the two blades created a spark so bright it blinded the refugees nearby. Dark green shadows clashed against bright blue light. Aryan felt the sheer weight of the Centurion's strength—it was like trying to hold back a falling mountain.
The dark magic from the Centurion's blade began to crawl up Aryan's arms, numbing his fingers, freezing his blood.
'He's draining my life force!' Aryan realized. He looked over his shoulder and saw Mira was still frozen in fear. He had to end this—now.
Aryan closed his eyes, tapping into the deepest part of his spirit. He remembered the sunlight on the fields of Suryavansh, the laughter of the people, the heat of the forge. He channeled all that warmth into the blade.
"Suryavansh Secret Style: First Form – The Rising Dawn!"
Aryan's body became a blur of white-blue lightning. He didn't just strike; he flowed through the Centurion's guard. In one seamless motion, he sliced through the Centurion's heavy plate armor as if it were parchment.
A scream that wasn't human echoed through the plaza. The Centurion's body began to disintegrate into black ash, the green fire in his eyes flickering out. Without their leader's magic to tether them, the remaining soldiers collapsed, their armor falling into empty heaps on the ground.
The refugees stood in stunned silence.
"Run!" Aryan shouted, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
"The gates are opening! Go to the woods! Don't look back!"
As the survivors scrambled through the opening portcullis, Aryan stumbled. The use of the 'Rising Dawn' had drained him completely. His vision blurred, and the blue glow of his sword faded back into a dull, rusted grey.
"Aryan!" Mira ran to his side, catching him before he hit the ground.
"I'm... I'm okay," he gasped, though his breath was shallow. He forced himself to stand, using the sword as a crutch. "We have to move. The King will have felt the death of a Centurion. More will be coming."
They stepped through the massive stone archway, leaving the burning corpse of their civilization behind. Behind them was the fire; ahead of them was the dark, whispering mystery of the Elara Forest.
The Last Warrior had escaped the cage, but the hunt had only just begun.