**The Three Pillars**
Inside the abandoned Wingman City, corrupt men had made themselves kings over gold that was never theirs. The city had long since been hollowed out — no longer home to the people who had once filled its streets — and its economy had crumbled to dust. Yet beneath the castle floor lay a secret those men clung to with desperate hands: a basement filled with gold, jewelleries, and diamonds far beyond what any ordinary treasury could hold. Enough wealth to sustain hundreds of years without a single breath of economic pressure. They had more than they could ever spend, and still it was not enough. It never is, for men like them.
The thirst for blood and power ruled within those castle walls — until the doors opened.
Three figures stepped through in a line. The people who knew them had a name for this formation: the Three Pillars. Luxorious on the right. Trail in the middle. Zord on the left.
---
False guards moved to intercept them, carrying orders to kill. But Trail caught the glint of something in his own eyes — a readiness, almost a hunger — and raised his hand. *Not yet.* Zord stepped forward instead. He was efficient and merciless: a fist to the face, a strike to the stomach, and the guard was hurled across the room like discarded cloth.
The false king looked to the right. Luxorious was already moving. One brutal kick and the pretender's face was crushed against the stone. The sound rang down the hall like a bell.
"How brutal are you?" the false king managed, his words slurring through broken teeth.
Luxorious crouched over him. "Maybe I am," he said calmly. He reached down and twisted the man's leg. The crack echoed. "You killed these people, didn't you? What would be fair, then — if we left you without legs?" He paused. Then, slowly, he straightened. "I'm sorry. Luxorious — that's enough."
He stood upright and stepped back.
Trail looked over the room — the gold, the throne, the wreckage. "This gold will be used to repair everything in this city," he said. "The people will come back. Everything will be rebuilt."
---
Then the elite soldiers arrived through the far door.
Their leader, Barok, took one sharp look at the scene and opened his mouth with fury already rising in him — then he saw Luxorious and Zord standing at Trail's sides, and the fury faltered.
"Master Barok," Trail said, before the man could speak. "What do you think you're doing?"
"What do *I* think *I'm* doing?" Barok stepped forward, jaw tight. "What exactly do you think *you're* doing, Trail?"
"Justice," Trail answered simply. "What I'm doing is what should have been done long before now."
Barok looked around at the others who had filed in behind him — Eagle, still carrying the marks of an earlier beating; elite Sabrina; elite Jacob; elite Goldknight; and several more. He turned back to Trail with a cold expression. "You really think you can do this? Look at us. Look at you. You cannot outnumber us."
Trail almost smiled. "What if I told you I don't need to outnumber you? One is enough for all of you."
He let that sit for a moment, then continued — something shifting in his voice, quieter and more dangerous. "My father, Smith, served the king faithfully for many years. He asked for only one thing in return. Just one. And that thing was justice. It was the only thing that was ever missing. Until now."
Beside him, Luxorious smiled to himself. *Old Trail is finally coming out.* He had always known there was a version of Trail that lived beneath the calm — something fierce and unhinged in the best possible way.
Trail's voice rose. He laughed, and there was madness folded into it, but also absolute certainty. "You think you can stop this? Listen carefully. Whoever kneels before me now and swears their loyalty — I will spare them. That is my offer. I hereby challenge every power in this world: you either stand against me, or you stand with me."
The room went still.
No one in any kingdom had ever spoken those words and meant them. The elites exchanged glances. Elite Jacob had heard enough. He lunged forward, blade drawn, aiming for Trail — and Zord moved. One motion. Jacob was gone, hurled backward through the wall. Stone crumbled. Dust and small fragments rained down over the heads of every man in the room.
Then Luxorious shifted his weight, and the air changed. Everyone felt it — a pressure, like the promise of something terrible, thick enough to taste. It carried the scent of blood, strong enough to unravel a man's nerve entirely.
Trail walked to the throne and sat down.
"You either live or die," he said quietly. "That choice belongs to me now."
---
Barok pressed his teeth together until his jaw ached. He stared at the young man seated on the throne — this *commander*, this nobody — and felt something hollow open up inside him. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee.
One by one, the others followed.
"I hereby dismiss every last one of you," Trail said. "Go. You are free. Go and become whatever you wish — but never turn your greedy eyes toward Wingman City again." His voice dropped to something quieter and colder. "If you do, I will carve it out of you. Bring whoever you like. They will fear what I know. They will be buried by what I can do."
---
The elites filed out in silence — humiliated, stripped of rank and standing by a single man they had once considered beneath them. Outside, one of the younger soldiers turned to Barok with wide eyes.
"Sir — we've been banished from the elites."
"Quiet," Barok snapped, fury clipped and bitter. "Use your eyes. Did you see what happened to Jacob? Attacking them would have been suicide. Keep your mouth shut and keep walking."
---
Back inside the throne room, Luxorious turned to Trail with something close to wonder.
"I never thought I'd see that side of you again," he said.
Trail looked at his two companions — Zord, steady as stone; Luxorious, unreadable and loyal — and felt something settle in his chest. A decision made and owned.
"I had to do this," he said. "I will hold this throne until the boy returns." He paused. "Forgive me, Father. But after everything — that boy is my cousin. This is the least I owe him."