Chapter : 7 The Flames of Rebellion
The moment everyone had been waiting for—the spark that would decide the kingdom's fate—had finally come.
The attack squad began their advance while the defense teams split into smaller groups, taking hidden positions across the city. Until the signal was given, they were to stay scattered through the streets, ready to rush in and rescue the wounded once the battle began.
Meanwhile, the kingdom's knights were thrown into confusion, racing through the streets in search of whoever had blown the horn. The alarm spread quickly, echoing through every corner of the city. No one knew who had called it—or why.
Little did the guards know that the entire kingdom had already turned against them. The people were rising to rebel. Fenlor led the attack squad, spotting the knights in the open. Without hesitation, he raised a whistle to his lips and blew. The sharp sound cut through the chaos, and in that instant, the rebels charged.
The knights barely had time to react before the tide hit them. In just a few minutes, they were completely overwhelmed and wiped out. The streets fell silent once more—eerily still, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Then the attack squad advanced toward the royal palace.
When the palace guards saw the mass of people charging toward them, panic rippled through their ranks.
"H–hey, look at that!" one of them stammered, eyes wide.
More guards rushed to the gates, staring in disbelief at the sea of rebels advancing like a storm.
Their chief guard slammed the butt of his spear against the ground. "What are you waiting for? Pick up your weapons!" he roared.
The guards scrambled to arm themselves, forming a shaky line behind their leader. The chief's scowl deepened as he glanced at the chaos beyond the gates.
"Have they finally lost their minds?" he muttered. Then, turning sharply to his soldiers, he shouted,
"No matter what happens, don't let a single one of them leave this place alive! Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Chief!" the soldiers cried in unison, their voices trembling but resolute.
The chief gave a grim nod, turning to face the palace gates—waiting for the inevitable clash.
Meanwhile, Fenlor halted his men halfway up the path to the palace.
"Bring me a spear and a wooden torch," he ordered.
A rebel quickly handed them over. Fenlor tore a strip of cloth from his own tunic, wrapped it tightly around the spear's tip, and set it ablaze. Holding the burning weapon, he took aim—the firelight flickering in his determined eyes.
With a powerful throw, he hurled the flaming spear toward the palace gates.
The chief watched the arc of fire cut through the air and smiled faintly.
"Oh? So there's someone interesting among them," he murmured, his tone laced with anticipation.
The gates burst into flame as the rebels charged. Fenlor blew his whistle again, the piercing note echoing across the courtyard.
"Attack!" the chief roared, drawing his sword. The palace guards surged forward, and the two forces collided like crashing waves. Steel met steel in a storm of sparks and screams.
Fenlor moved through the chaos like a force of nature, his blade flashing in deadly rhythm. To him, the enemy were no longer men—only obstacles to be cut down.
The chief fought with equal ferocity, his strikes heavy and deliberate. Through the smoke and firelight, their eyes met—a silent acknowledgment between warriors.
Step by step, they closed the distance until the world around them faded. The clamor of battle dimmed as they reached an open courtyard, lit only by the flickering glow of burning walls.
The chief rested his sword on his shoulder. "So, you're the one who threw that spear," he said.
Fenlor gave a faint smile. "Oh? Then you received my message."
The chief let out a low chuckle. "If only I'd seen you earlier, I might've recruited you. Even now, I could offer you a place among my soldiers. What do you say?"
Fenlor's smile vanished, anger flashing in his eyes. "What do you take me for?"
The chief laughed, raising his blade. "Relax—I was joking. A man who abandons his people for power could never be a soldier." His tone grew serious, his stance tightening. "Still… when I called you talented, I meant it."
Fenlor adjusted his stance. "Enough talk," he said coldly. "Let's fight."
And with that, he charged.
Their swords met in a blinding clash. The impact rang through the courtyard, forcing both men back. The chief's arms trembled, but he didn't yield.
He countered immediately, launching a flurry of precise strikes. Fenlor twisted and ducked, barely avoiding each swing. Sparks flew with every near miss, and the air grew heavy with heat and tension.
Then the chief's blade found its mark—cutting across Fenlor's side. The wound was shallow, but the pain burned sharp. Fenlor staggered, biting down hard before straightening.
He exhaled, resetting his stance. "Not bad," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
He remembered his training—every drill, every scar that had shaped him—and charged again.
The chief scoffed. "A desperate fool," he said, raising his sword. "Charging blindly won't save you."
He thrust straight at Fenlor's chest.
But Fenlor only smiled. In one swift movement, he slipped past the strike, closing the distance before the chief could react. His blade flashed once—a clean, decisive arc.
Steel tore through flesh.
The chief gasped as the sword bit deep into his abdomen. Blood darkened his armor as he fell to his knees.
Fenlor lowered his weapon. "You should just stay down," he said quietly. "Why bother getting up?"
The chief chuckled weakly, his breath ragged. "You brat… how can I lie here while my soldiers fight? That'd make me look pathetic. If I'm going to die… then I'll die standing."
With a grimace, he forced himself upright, his body trembling but his spirit unbroken.
Fenlor's expression softened. "Why go this far?"
"Because I made a promise," the chief said, his voice fading. "To a friend… one of the emperors of the four major kingdoms. He asked me to protect this land."
Fenlor frowned. "Whoever he is, it doesn't matter to me."
The chief let out a final shout and swung with all his remaining strength. Fenlor met the strike head-on, twisting his blade to deflect—and with one final motion, drove his sword through the chief's chest.
The man's eyes widened, then softened as the light faded from them. His lips curved into the faintest smile of pride before he fell.
Fenlor stood still, lowering his blade in silent respect. Then he turned away, rejoining the battle that raged beyond the courtyard.
Far away, Rudravaan sat on a rooftop, the glow of the burning palace reflected in his eyes. He lifted his beer and took a slow drink.
"Fools," he muttered. "All of them chasing ghosts of glory."
He leaned back, watching the flames climb higher into the night.
"And yet…" he whispered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "I can't look away."