When the door to the room was opened, an ancient scent wafted from it, like a manuscript from a bygone era. Darkness was engulfing the place, and there was only one lamp glowing with a dim red light, casting long shadows on the walls like the arms of a past yet to be buried.
An old man entered, his steps slow, but each step carried the weight of years of experience. Behind him advanced another man whose features showed signs of decline in physical strength, as if the years of struggle had begun to leave their mark on him — they were similar in appearance, similar in dignity, and on their clothes was one inscription: "The Golden Sword Clan."
The old man stepped forward to the middle of the room and said in a quiet but surprising voice to those listening: "We have waited a long time for this, haven't we?"
The other nodded, saying, "That's right, my lord, the master of the Golden Sword clan."
Men responded from the edge of the shadows; another old man sat there. On the back of his coat was an inscription that read: "The Dawn Sword Clan." He rose slowly, and began to speak, bearing the mark of a will written long ago: "Yes… yes, the time has come. The time has come for the destruction of the Green Sword Clan."
The two copies sat down before they could finish their words, and the Master of the Golden Sword intervened, his voice dripping with a cold question: "Is this your disciple?" He pointed to the boy standing behind the Master of the Dawn Sword.
He was a young boy, his hair as black as night, his right hand cracked with wounds, and his left hand dark—as if it bore the mark of a curse or a silent experience. But he stood firm, as solid as a tree trunk that had withstood storms.
The master of the Dawn Sword replied in a tone that concealed the warmth of a father: "Yes, he is my disciple, and he is the future of the clan. I found him in a village whose people were all wiped out… as if he was destined to be born from ashes."
The men exchanged quick glances, then the Master of the Golden Sword said with apparent indifference, "Anyway, what is the plan? You and I ascend to the level of existence, and the Master of the Green Sword is also at our level."
Before he could answer, the Lord of the Dawn Sword interrupted in a firm voice: "You and I are against him. And don't forget that you are wounded—yes—but even the wounded are still dangerous, and yet we can kill him."
The two agreed not to devise a detailed plan due to the vast disparity in power. Honesty in such matters was a more reliable means of survival than cunning.
...
Later, one of them whispered, "They agreed there would be no official plan—and that's for the best. I'll reveal the plan to you: Baran and Narvik, and a third party will join you against the Master of the Golden Sword." The Master of the Green Sword said this as he looked towards Baran and Narvik.
Sayyid Saif Al-Dhahabi continued, "And I will fight Sayyid Saif Al-Fajr."
Baran quickly understood and then said to himself: "The strongest man in this city is the Green Sword Master, but the Dawn Sword Master is powerful and he disappeared for three whole years… his return is not ordinary."
Narvik looked at Baran and said in a low, suspicious voice, "This means there is a high-ranking spy within one of the clans. Is the third man who will help us the same spy?"
Baran responded immediately and unequivocally: "We don't want help; we will both win without it."
The Green Sword Master never agreed. His level of existence was too high — even if he was badly wounded, with his strength alone he could defeat two like Baran and Narvik if they didn't do all their calculations.
Outside the realm of conspiracies, the city began preparing itself for the festival. All its houses and costumes were adorned with stars—not merely as decoration, but as an emblem of a spirit born here: the Festival of Stars. Weapons studded with star shapes were found in the alleys, and small swords hung like tiny offerings to the sky.
The shops shouted and sold games, and the fighting clans opened special arenas for "transformation" levels. Few participated—the games were a chance to rip off the gullible, and the Dawn Clan's greed manifested as dishonesty in the kiosks. The Golden Sword Clan opened countless games, while the Green Sword Clan opened restaurants and sweet shops, leaving the city poised to transform into a battleground within days.
And so the festival began, and it became clear that the stars did not shine here merely for joy, but to weave tales of an ancient conflict—a conflict between clans, between destinies, and between those born from the ashes of abandoned villages. In the heart of this conflict, loyalty would be tested, secrets would be revealed, and the fate of a boy whose hands bore the mark of wounds would be sealed.