The sky was heavy with black clouds, and the wind tore through the tattered banners as if nature itself was celebrating the rise of rebellion.
The armies marched out of the camp under Damon's command—swords flashing, hearts ablaze. They walked on the ashes, not as fugitives from war, but as marchers toward destiny.
On the outskirts of the capital, other armies appeared—not yet liberated, still bound by magic. Their faces were blank, their eyes lifeless. They were few and far between… a pathetic line of defense against the approaching storm.
Damon raised his hand aloft and spoke in a calm but firm voice:
"Do not harm them. There is no blood between brothers. Just keep them away."
The soldiers obeyed, gently pushing their enchanted comrades away, passing without shedding a drop of blood, walking through them without staining their swords.
But the closer Damon drew to the palace, the more chaos intensified. Loyal soldiers rushed to stop him, pouring in from every direction, their swords pointed straight at him. He didn't retreat. He didn't hesitate. Every step was fire, slashing a path through walls of steel.
"With every step... a new guard appeared."
"With every strike... another shield shattered."
It wasn't a battle—it was a ritual, a test, a march through hell toward the light. Hours passed. Blood flowed. The earth trembled beneath the clang of clashing steel.
The soldiers didn't advance behind him. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Each one of them knew: This path could only be opened by one hand—the hand of the man who had decided to end the game.
Damon, exhausted but undeterred, charged through the palace corridors where the walls whispered his name and the floors remembered his brother.
And when he reached the last gate... a deep creaking sound echoed.
"The gate opened."
As the great gates opened, Damon entered the throne room. The air was heavy, as if the walls themselves held their breath.
At the far end of the great hall, King Julius sat calmly on his throne—regal, poised, and unaffected by the chaos outside. Beside him stood the Silent Shadow, motionless, a specter carved from shadow and steel.
The king looked at the approaching warrior and spoke in a calm, almost paternal tone:
"What is your name, boy?"
Damon paused, his eyes burning with defiance.
"My name? Does it matter now?
Why didn't you ask our names when you were sending us to die?"
Julius's voice remained calm but sharp:
"Back then, you were all in your rightful place—pieces on a chessboard. I knew each one. Knight, rook, pawn...
That was enough."
Damon's eyes narrowed.
"We're definitely not. We're human.
And today... you'll learn what that means."
He stepped forward, but in an instant, The Silent Shadow moved, blocking his path. Wordlessly, swords clashed, steel sang, and the battle between the Shadow and the Rebellion began.
They fought for what seemed like an eternity—blow for blow, move for move—but neither could wound the other. It was as if fate itself was testing them.
Then suddenly... Julius's eyes widened.
He realized something horrifying:
**The Silent Shadow was no longer his puppet.**
He leaped from his throne, not with the nobility of a king, but with the desperation of a man losing
control. He charged toward the battlefield, but
The Silent Shadow turned, fast.
With a lightning-like movement, he released his chain-sword—
a death weapon wrapped in silence. He lunged at
Julius with deadly force.
But Julius was faster than he looked. He dodged it.
At that moment, the Silent Shadow disappeared as if it had never existed.
After the Silent Shadow disappeared, a heavy silence fell over the hall. Only King
Julius, seated back on his throne, and the warrior
Damon, standing in the middle of the room, panting quietly, watching his last opponent.
He spoke in a calm voice, barely concealing his true intentions:
"Why don't we unite? Why don't we rule the continent together?
The armies seem to trust you...
If you speak to them and say that the witch was behind everything,we will emerge from this crisis... greater than before."
Damon's features hardened, and a mocking smile crossed his tired face:
"After you placed restrictions on my body, now you're trying to place them on my mind?"
That won't work, my friend."
Julius paused for a moment, stared at him for a long time... then sighed:
"I see."
In the blink of an eye, he drew his sword.
Without another word, he charged like a storm.
"Swords clashed."
Sparks flew with each strike.
The fight was evenly matched.
A king fought as if born on the battlefield, striking with the skill of a warrior.
And Damon, though exhausted, fought with a heart that knew no retreat.
But the signs of exhaustion were growing on his body.
His breathing quickened.
His sword felt heavy.
His eyes shone—not with fear... but with determination.
In an instant, Damon stumbled, and Julius seized the opportunity to strike a sideways blow.
But Damon parried it with difficulty.
Then he stepped back to catch his breath.
"Time was running out..."