The smoke of Darnak-9, the Rot City, curled into the bruised skies like the cries of the dead. Broken towers leaned under the weight of centuries of oppression, their rusted frames glowing with embers from the recent clashes. The once-crowded markets now echoed only with grief.
Amidst the rubble, Jason Amberdenk, his Verdalian blade still dripping with blood, pulled a fallen Zypherian woman from beneath shattered stone. She clutched at his arm, her eyes red with tears.
"They've taken them… the royals have stolen our children," she cried, her voice breaking. All around, slaves in chains wailed, their faces hollow from decades of servitude. Pools of crimson painted the ground, the price of rebellion already steep.
Jason gritted his teeth, fury burning in his chest. So many dead. So many Zypherians lost to the empire's cruelty. But not for nothing.
From the shadows of the ruins stepped Rovin, scarred and unyielding—the hardened leader of the Scorched Branch. His voice was gravel, yet it carried like thunder.
"I've heard word," Rovin growled. "Targan has already begun tearing through the Vokar-17 Air Security Grid. He clears the skies for our Liberation Army's commander, Arco, and his legion. Soon, the heavens will open for our rebellion."
Jason nodded, gripping the hilt of his weapon. His eyes scanned the broken faces of Zypherian slaves, their hope dangling by a thread.
"Well then, Rovin," Jason said, his tone sharp with resolve. "Your Scorched Branch will gather every slave from the Rot Cities. We'll free them all before the royals can tighten their grip."
"And you?" Rovin asked, though he already knew.
Jason's eyes burned with a fire that could set the city ablaze. "I'll take my team and strike first blood. While you build the tide, I'll make the empire bleed."
Above them, the skies rumbled with the distant sounds of explosions—Targan's war against the air defenses already begun. Every flash lit the city with promise.
The alliance fractured into two forces:
Rovin and the Scorched Branch: the shepherds of the enslaved, tasked with awakening the masses.
Jason and his strike team: the blade in the dark, to carve open the rebellion's first victory.
The rebellion of Darnak-9 had begun to breathe.
The skies of Vokar-17 burned crimson, lit by scattered beams of fire from the air-defense cannons. The rebels' transmissions were cut short as the ground itself quaked with marching thunder.
Targan stood atop the broken ridge, his breath shallow, his ribs still aching from the wound inflicted only three days ago. Across the dust-veiled plain, Roouch emerged like a shadow resurrected—red-skinned, towering, and wrapped in a mantle of Fantom energy that pulsed with forbidden power.
The soldiers of Zypheria whispered of Roouch as a butcher, a tyrant born from the bloodlines of kings. Now, face to face, the wound between past and present tore open again.
Targan's fingers curled around his blade, its edge faintly humming.
"Bill…" his voice was gravel. "This monster… he is the reason she died." His gaze hardened, fire burning in his eyes. "Her blood will not stay unavenged."
Roouch's tusked grin spread wide, his voice cutting like iron through the storm.
"You still mourn, Targan? You crawl in sorrow and dare to face me again? You can't even wield your Fantom Arts anymore." He raised one of his massive hands, his six crimson arms flexing, radiating with killing intent. "You are nothing but broken bones clinging to memory."
Bill shifted to Targan's side, her twin sabers already alive with sparks of energy. "Then he won't fight alone. Not this time."
Roouch's laughter boomed, echoing across the battlefield. He spread his arms wide, and at his command, the Red Skins advanced. Hulking Zypherian warriors, each taller than two men, their six arms clutching axes, spears, and blades carved from blackstone, surged forward in a wall of war.
"Crush them all," Roouch roared, his voice cracking like thunder. "Let the rebellion drown in its own blood!"
The ground shook as the Red Skins charged, their warcry rising like a tidal wave. Dust and sparks tore into the air.
Targan's blade lifted, his body trembling but unyielding. Bill's sabers crossed before her chest, glowing like twin stars. Together, they launched into the storm.
Steel clashed against blackstone. Screams of fury and defiance filled the battlefield. The tide of Zypherian warriors smashed into the rebel vanguard—yet Targan and Bill fought side by side, carving through the crimson giants with fire and resolve.
And beyond the clash, Roouch watched with a predator's grin, his six arms opening wide. He stepped forward, his presence drowning out the noise of battle.
"Come then, Targan," he growled. "Let's finish what should have ended years ago."
The battlefield quaked under the roars of Zypherian warhorns. Crimson-skinned warriors with six arms thundered forward, their colossal frames blotting out the moonlight as their serrated blades gleamed. The air burned with smoke, the cries of Verdalian soldiers, and the pounding of war drums that shook the ground like thunder.
Targan's chest heaved as he glared at Roouch, the phantom of his nightmares. Three days ago, Roouch's blade had nearly ended his life; the wound still ached with every movement, every breath. Now, standing across from him again, the old hatred burned hotter than the suns above.
"You—" Targan's voice broke, guttural with grief. His crimson eyes narrowed, filled with a fury that almost broke him. He raised a trembling hand at Roouch. "You were the reason she died. The reason I carry this curse. I will never forgive you."
Roouch smirked, his tusked jaw tilting in mock amusement. His presence radiated arrogance. The Zypherian commander's armor gleamed obsidian-black, and his six crimson arms flexed as he coated them in faint, shimmering light—the signature glow of the Fantom Arts.
"You?" Roouch's laughter was deep, almost inhuman. "You can't even wield the Phantom Arts anymore. You're nothing but a scarred ghost living off memories. How will you possibly stop me?"
He snapped his fingers, and his Zypherian battalion surged forward, like a red tidal wave. "Slaughter them. Let the Verdalians see their rebellion crumble."
But before Roouch could advance, a blade clashed against his. Bill—gritty, determined, eyes blazing with rage—stepped in beside Targan. His strike was precise, fueled by every ounce of rebellion still alive in his veins.
Roouch effortlessly blocked, sparks exploding as steel met steel. With a sudden twist of his massive arm, he flung Bill back several feet, smashing him against the jagged stone. "Pathetic," Roouch sneered. "You both think you can stop me?"
Targan lunged in fury, fists glowing faintly, and slammed his knuckles into Roouch's side. The blow landed, the crack echoing through the chaos—but the Zypherian titan only staggered slightly. The damage was nowhere near what he had hoped.
Roouch's response was merciless. One of his six massive fists shot forward, punching Targan square in the chest. The impact sent Targan flying across the battlefield like a ragdoll, smashing into a mound of shattered debris. Blood sprayed from his lips, his vision trembling.
"Targan!" Bill roared, rushing back to his side.
But Roouch was relentless. With his fantom-coated arms, he struck again at Bill, the sheer pressure of his arts sending shockwaves through the ground. Bill gritted his teeth, barely holding his ground, but blood dripped down his brow.
Through the chaos, the Verdalian troops pressed on, holding their lines. The green banners of Verdalia whipped in the wind as arrows rained against the Zypherian onslaught. The rebellion's cries clashed against the war horns of their oppressors.
Targan dragged himself back to his feet, body trembling, rage tearing at his throat. His bloodied fists clenched, eyes burning with tears and fury.
"Roouch…" His voice cracked, but carried across the battlefield like thunder. "I will not stop—not until this planet… no, until this entire Lilliput Star System… is free of your chains. I swear, even if it kills me!"
The rebellion roared in unison behind him. The Verdalians fought harder, their cries echoing his defiance, their blades clashing against Zypherian steel with renewed fury.
Roouch's smirk twisted into something darker, his six arms glowing brighter with Fantom Arts.
"Then come, Targan," he growled. "Let me show you what true despair feels like."
And with that, the battlefield descended into fire and chaos once more.