burning candle flickered weakly in the dark, its fragile flame trembling as shadows danced across the wooden walls. Outside, the rain had not stopped since morning. It poured endlessly, as if the sky itself was grieving. Now it was night, and deep blue and purple thunder lit up the heavens, tearing the darkness apart for brief moments before swallowing it again. Each flash painted the room in ghostly colors, revealing blood, pain, and silence.
The candle had fallen close to Aron, its heat barely noticeable compared to the fire burning inside his chest.
Balrad sat beside him and gently placed a cold cloth on Aron's nose. The touch was careful, almost fatherly, yet heavy with concern.
Balrad spoke quietly, his voice steady but tired.
"How did you end up in this mess?"
Aron lay still, his body aching, his lips split and stained red. His breathing was uneven. For a moment, he said nothing, listening to the rain strike the roof like countless footsteps chasing him through the night.
Finally, he spoke.
"I saw him slap an old woman," Aron said slowly. "The raiders… so I killed their leader. But it was the first time I felt it was needed."
Balrad's eyes moved to Aron's mouth, swollen and bloody. He stared at him for a long moment, searching his face, as if trying to understand the weight behind those words.
"And how did you feel he was bad?" Balrad asked. "How did you know?"
Aron sighed deeply. His chest rose and fell as if the answer itself was heavy.
"I don't know," he said. "But the old woman said he killed her son… a man who had children of his own."
Silence filled the room, broken only by thunder rolling in the distance.
Balrad's expression hardened.
"Then that piece of trash deserved to die," he said coldly, "and burn in hell."
Aron's eyes shifted away. His voice dropped.
"I too deserve to die," he said. "I am just living on and on."
Balrad turned fully toward him now.
"Do you really have no one to return to?" he asked. "Anyone who loves you deeply?"
He wanted to know. He needed to know.
Aron clenched his jaw. His hands trembled slightly.
"I have many," Aron said. "But where they all live… is where I came from before this land. Because of that child, I couldn't do anything. All I heard was to run—so that the guilt wouldn't be exposed to the world."
His teeth clenched tightly as the memories surged back, sharp and unforgiving.
Balrad raised his hand gently.
"It's okay," he said. "Stop."
He helped Aron adjust, careful of his injuries, which were worse than they appeared.
"You did right, son," Balrad continued. "This wooden house has heard many cries. Now rest. Sleep. Don't worry about tomorrow's work."
He stood up and placed a few coins on the table.
"Do whatever you want with it," he said softly. "Okay?"
Aron nodded weakly.
The door closed, and Balrad was gone.
Aron's eyes lingered on the door for a moment. Then they drifted upward, slowly, toward the ceiling. The candlelight blurred. His vision dimmed. One… two… three…
And then he woke again.
But not in the real world.
He stood within a massive castle, its walls towering high and lifeless. Rebel fire lit the halls with a crimson glow, shadows stretching and twisting like living things. The stone floors were cold, stained, and cracked with age and blood.
A knight entered the castle.
His armor was dark, heavy, and worn by countless battles. His presence alone crushed the air. The walls were covered in shrines—broken, desecrated, forgotten.
The great doors opened.
The knight walked forward, his blade scraping faintly against the floor. He reached the grand table, where a lifeless king sat slumped in his chair. Without hesitation, the knight grabbed him and threw his body aside like worthless debris.
He sat on the throne with menacing calm.
Seven kings surrounded him.
Highly prestigious entities. Rulers of lands and people. Yet now, they could not move. Fear held them frozen.
"Why did you come here?" asked Glardiad, the First King, his voice trembling.
The knight spoke.
"I heard what you call yourselves for isn't showing up," he said. "You killed your own people. How can I let you live?"
Barbados, the Second King, tried to speak.
"You really think we would do that to our own kind?"
The knight did not hesitate.
"I don't really care."
His blade rose, pointing straight at one of the kings. Behind the armor, his voice was heavy, chilling, absolute.
The Third King, Lithik, fell to his knees.
"Don't kill us," he begged. "We can give you the most powerful sword ever in existence."
All seven kings placed their swords onto the table. They aligned them carefully, forming a pattern. Power surged. Light burst forth. The blades merged, radiating energy until a single sword of pure white brilliance formed.
It floated slowly toward the knight.
"This sword is unbreakable," they said. "Powerful as a star. No sword can break this."
The knight—Norm—watched silently.
He did not swing.
He simply placed his blade against it.
The moment they touched—
Boom.
The sword shattered into millions of fragments, scattering like broken stars.
The seven kings cried out in disbelief.
Norm rose from the throne, his presence overwhelming. He stomped his blade into the ground.
The earth responded.
Spikes erupted upward, piercing through the kings, ending them instantly. Their voices were silenced. Justice was swift.
Norm's eyes flickered with glowing blue light. One hand rested on his planted blade, the other raised to his face. A stance of a true king.
Silence followed.
The seven kings were dead.
Justice had been delivered.
Aron jolted awake.
He sat up quickly, his heart racing. Sunlight poured through the window, warm and bright. The rain was gone.
A new day had come.
He washed himself, changed into fresh clothes, and stepped outside. The sky was blue, dotted with gentle clouds. Green fields stretched endlessly, moving softly with the wind.
Balrad spotted him.
"Aron!" he called. "Are you feeling okay, son?"
There was hope in his voice.
"Yes," Aron replied. "I feel better."
But his voice carried weight.
Elsewhere, in a restaurant, a cup of tea rested on a table. A man wearing a cap sat quietly. He was Zord.
He lifted the cup, dropped something into the tea, and stirred slowly.
His eyes glimmered as he drank.
Indeed.