2025-09-02 21:09:45
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MARCH ON THE TOWER
The tower glared back at them from the heart of Lin City, its steel and glass face catching the glow of fire from the docks. It looked less like a building and more like a throne raised in arrogance. Every floor lit up was another reminder of the man who had poisoned their lives.Ares stood still, blood drying across his knuckles, his breath steady. Around him, the fighters murmured in awe and fear, waiting for his next command. The boulevard stretched wide and dark in front of them, leading straight to that towering fortress.He finally spoke. “East.”The word carried weight. No one doubted where he meant.Reyes checked his rifle. Hawk rolled his shoulders, jaw set like stone. Mira drew Elijah closer, her fingers tightening as though she could shield him from everything that was about to come.One of the younger fighters - a boy who hadn’t yet learned how to hide the tremor in his voice - asked, “Commander, you mean… straight for Wu Tower?”Ares turned his head slowly. The scar along
THE BEGINNING OF RECKONING
The words hung in the night air, raw as a blade drawn from its sheath. I’m coming for you. Ares hadn’t shouted them. He hadn’t needed to. His voice was quiet, yet it struck like thunder in the bones of everyone who heard it.Reyes glanced sideways, eyes sharp under the fractured moonlight. “Then we make them bleed,” he said.Mira said nothing, but her hand brushed Elijah’s shoulder protectively. The boy’s small face was pale, lips tight. He looked between them, sensing that this vow was not just words - it was a storm about to break.Ares turned his gaze east, toward the sprawl of Lin City, lights glittering like false stars. The enemy was there. The debt of blood, betrayal, and years of silence was there. And he was finished waiting.“Victor Wu first,” Ares murmured. “Then every hand that fed on my family’s ruin.”The Resistance Hall behind them stirred. Men and women who had lost homes, brothers, children - those who had bled under the Syndicate - emerged into the night. They had ov
STORM OF STEEL
Not yet.The word rattled through Ares’s chest as he forced his legs to lock beneath him. The square had been a battlefield already - now it became a slaughterhouse waiting to happen.From the east and west gates, black-clad soldiers poured in. Boots pounded in rhythm. Rifles leveled. Their rain-slick visors reflected the storm’s lightning, faceless, endless.Victor Wu’s reinforcements had arrived.The crowd screamed and broke, scattering in waves. Mothers dragged children, old men stumbled, young men clutched whatever sticks or pipes they had. But rifles barked, sharp cracks echoing. Bullets tore the air. People fell. The ground became slicker with fresh blood.Ares’s chest burned. His ribs felt shattered. His sword arm trembled like a dying branch. He could barely keep his weapon raised.But Elijah’s face came to him again. Mira’s silence, steady as stone. That was enough. Enough to plant his boots. Enough to lift his blade.The champion still knelt, ruined arm pressed to his chest,
THE KILLING STROKE
“This ends now.”The words came like gravel dragged through fire, broken but unshakable. Ares’s blade pressed down, keeping the champion pinned, one knee in the mud. The storm raged above them, thunder splitting the sky, rain pouring in sheets that washed blood into black rivers at their feet.The champion’s teeth gnashed. His body shook. His sword arm trembled as he tried to push back. But the truth was written in the slump of his shoulders, the sag of his breath. His strength was gone.The crowd knew it. A ripple ran through them, swelling into a roar. Some screamed for mercy. Most screamed for blood.Ares stood swaying, every muscle screaming for rest. His vision flickered, his chest burned with knives, his legs shook under him. But he would not fall. Not while the man before him still breathed.The champion spat red, lifting his chin. “Kill me, then. Do it. Show them what you are.”Ares’s blade quivered. His hand clenched tighter. For a heartbeat, he saw himself - ten years ago, F
THE LAST PUSH
- the duel dragged on, blood-soaked, locked in stalemate.Time lost meaning. Seconds bled into minutes. Minutes stretched into an eternity.Ares’s lungs clawed for air, every breath slicing through him like broken glass. His sword arm trembled so violently he thought it might simply give out and drop the blade. But it didn’t. Somehow, it didn’t.Across from him, the champion looked no better. Blood streamed down his cheek, one eye nearly sealed shut, lips split. His chest heaved like a bellows about to burst. Yet he too held his sword, trembling, refusing to bow.The crowd had gone strangely quiet - thousands holding their breath, as if noise itself would tip the balance.And above it all, the storm churned. Thunder rolled. Rain threatened, heavy in the air, the first drops spitting against their faces like cold needles.The ground beneath them was a graveyard of blood.The champion’s laugh was hoarse, shredded by exhaustion. “You can’t win. You’ll break before I do.”Ares spat red i
BLOOD-SOAKED STALEMATE
And it was here.Here - the ground that shook beneath their boots, slick with blood and dust. The place where everything Ares had carried on his back for years - the shame, the silence, the rage, the promises - came hammering down into one long, brutal clash.Steel rang again. His arm jolted numb. The weight of the blade nearly tore from his hand. He held on.The champion - broad, scarred, eyes fever-bright - snarled and lunged again. Their swords scraped like lightning against stone, sparks bursting. The crowd roared, but Ares didn’t hear them anymore. Only the pulse in his ears, loud as drums. Only the tearing pain in his ribs each time he drew breath.His knees trembled. His body was spent. He fought anyway.The champion drove him back, boots grinding through mud. Ares’s blade dipped, caught, twisted up just in time. The man’s edge whistled past his throat, so close he felt the air split. Too close.Ares staggered. His thigh burned - split open. His side leaked warm rivers down to
