The sky over the Kingdom of Suryavansh was no longer blue. It was a suffocating shroud of charcoal gray and ember orange. The Great Library was a bonfire, and the Royal Palace—once a symbol of eternal peace—was now a jagged tomb of marble and bone.
Aryan leaned against a crumbling stone wall, his lungs burning with every breath. His silver-plated armor, once polished to a mirror sheen, was now dented, scorched, and stained with the dark crimson of his fallen brothers. In his right hand, he gripped a sword that looked like a piece of junk—rusted, chipped, and heavy.
"Is this it?" Aryan whispered, his voice rasping. "Is this how the Golden Age ends?"
From the shadows of the burning street, the rhythmic clank-clank of heavy boots approached. A troop of the Obsidian Legion, the elite dark soldiers of the Necromancer King, emerged from the smoke. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural, sickly green light.
"The Last Warrior," the lead Commander sneered, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "You are a ghost, Aryan. Why struggle? Your King is dead. Your people are slaves. Drop that piece of rusted iron and we might grant you a quick death."
Aryan didn't move. He closed his eyes. In the silence of his mind, he felt the faint vibration of the blade. This wasn't just iron; it was the Core-Breaker, a legendary weapon that had been dormant for three centuries. To everyone else, it looked like trash. To Aryan, it felt like a sleeping dragon.
Concentrate, he told himself. Flow like the river, strike like the lightning.
The Commander lost patience. "Kill him!"
Five soldiers lunged at once. Spears whistled through the air, aimed at Aryan's throat and chest.
Suddenly, Aryan's eyes snapped open. They weren't brown anymore—they were glowing with a fierce, electric Blue Aura.
He moved.
To the soldiers, it looked like he had vanished. To Aryan, the world had slowed down. He saw the path of every spear, the gap in every armor. He swung the rusted sword in a wide arc.
CLANG!
The rust on the blade shattered like an old shell, revealing a glowing, azure-steel surface underneath. A wave of blue energy erupted from the strike, throwing the soldiers back like ragdolls.
Aryan didn't stop. He became a blur of blue light. Slash. Pivot. Thrust. In three seconds, five elite soldiers were on the ground. They weren't dead, but their weapons were shattered, and their spirit was broken. The Commander stepped back, his green eyes flickering with genuine fear.
"That... that sword... It shouldn't be possible!" the Commander stammered.
Aryan stood tall, the blue light from his blade reflecting in his determined eyes. "The sun may have set on Suryavansh today," he said, his voice echoing through the burning street, "but as long as I hold this blade, the dawn will return. Tell your King... Aryan is coming for his head."
With a flick of his wrist, he cleaned the blood off his glowing blade. The journey of the Last Warrior had truly begun.