Trail woke up, his head spinning with dizziness, but instinctively, he quickly assessed the situation around him. He stood up, forcing himself into motion, and ran outside. From a distance, no soldiers were in sight, but destruction had claimed everything in its path. Buildings lay in ruins, smoke curled into the sky, and soldiers hurried to aid the injured, their shouts echoing across the chaos.
Trail stepped onto the road, his gaze sweeping over the devastation. Countless people lay strewn across the streets—some unconscious, others motionless. His heart sank when he saw a man trapped beneath a collapsed house. The structure had crumpled over him entirely, leaving only the man's lifeless face visible. Trail's stomach churned at the sight.
Then, a voice called out sharply behind him: "Trail!"
Trail spun around. It was Zord. The name had been carried on a tense, commanding note that instantly drew his attention.
Trail's voice trembled, tinged with both fear and sorrow. "What… what has happened?"
The day outside had been beautiful, deceptively so. The forest surrounding the city shimmered in vibrant greens, the sunlight danced across the trees, and for a moment, it seemed almost peaceful. But now, standing amidst the ruins, Trail could see the truth—the world had shifted.
In a blink, the scene changed. Trail and Zord were no longer outside. They were sitting in Trail's room, the weight of reality pressing down on them.
Zord's expression was grim. "Simply put, the Wingman City has fallen. There's no saving it now. Whoever orchestrated this is a mastermind. I caught someone who can answer my questions, but he's badly beaten, barely conscious. Trail, you need to go somewhere far from here. Some will escape this, and some won't—the balance of the city has been shaken beyond repair."
Trail's pale face betrayed his inner turmoil. "What should we do right now?"
"Go far away," Zord replied, his voice calm yet resolute. "The government will attempt to fix things, but the rot has already spread inside. Nor will I aid those bastards. My task was simple—observe, analyze—but now it's complete. I've also received troubling news: the city of Black Tides has been conquered."
Trail's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. "The City of Black Tides? That's… your home."
Zord shrugged, a hint of melancholy beneath his stoic demeanor. "It doesn't matter anymore. There is hope that a boy will rise to conquer the realm."
Trail frowned, uncertain. "And how do we know this?"
"The power—it radiates," Zord said simply. "Darkness fears it. That's why they are tearing apart everything outsiders hold dear. They are desperate."
Trail's gaze hardened. "Then I will not leave. I made a promise. If I can't keep it… then what am I?"
"Die for honor, not for a promise," Zord said, standing. "Words bound by oath mean nothing if you cannot act. Live to fight another day."
With that, Zord vanished into the sky, leaving Trail standing in silence, watching the horizon. "Don't worry," Trail muttered to himself. "I will help when the time comes. But for now… I have a job to do."
Meanwhile, Aron pushed his body to its limits. The sun hung high above, relentless in its heat, sweat soaking through his clothes. He performed push-ups, charged forward, delivered kicks, each movement sharper than the last. A sudden strike from Luxorious sent him flying into a rock boulder. Luxorious remained calm, unyielding, testing Aron tirelessly.
Hours passed. Aron could barely land a single hit. Exhaustion overtook him, forcing him to call it a day. Collapsing to the ground, he felt the sting of defeat—but it was tempered by the sudden splash of water over his back. "Don't get weak," a voice seemed to whisper.
Later, Aron tended to the garden, watering plants carefully before collapsing onto his bed. Sleep claimed him, deep and unyielding.
But sleep was no respite. He found himself in the same dream again—a surreal arena where reality blurred. The table stood before him, a sword resting upon it. The old man, formidable and silent, prepared to strike.
"Why?" Aron muttered, frustration threading his voice. "I just trained so hard…"
Yet as he glanced at his body, he noticed something remarkable: the bruises, the aches, the exhaustion—all gone. He felt energy coursing through him. Taking hold of the sword, determination hardened in his chest. "I'm going to end this dream today."
The old man with the wind vanished briefly, then returned. Aron rotated gracefully, balanced perfectly on his feet. A slash came from above; he dodged, gripping his sword with both hands. A kick, met with a deft dodge, sent them circling, each movement a deadly dance.
Breathing deeply, Aron executed his next maneuver. The old man charged like a bullet. Aron shifted just in time; his stomach grazed the impact, his clothes tearing from the force. He struck for the old man's hand—the sword fell, but the old man backed off.
"I did it," Aron breathed, exhilaration and relief mingling. But before he could finish his advance, the old man raised his right hand. Like a magnet, the sword flew back into the old man's grip.
Aron's face turned pale. "Cheating," he whispered. And then, with a jolt, he woke. This time, reality grounded him. He had trained, fought, and grown stronger—it was no longer just a dream.
The night had fallen by the time Aron stepped outside. A warm fire flickered near the Master's house. He saw familiar faces—Wood, Master, Carlos, Lily—all waiting.
Wood called out cheerfully, "We were just waiting for you. Come, have a seat. We decided to eat together outside. It's windy and beautiful."
Aron smiled. "Thank you. What's roasting?"
Carlos gestured at the sizzling beef. "Beef. And hi, man—haven't seen you much lately."
"Been busy with herbs," Carlos admitted with a grin. The warmth of camaraderie wrapped around Aron, lifting the weight of his earlier battles.
Lily, busy boiling vegetables, received Aron's help as he set up the fire. Carlos tended to the roasting meat, while Master and Wood conversed quietly nearby.
"That child is rare," Master murmured. "How fortunate I am to witness the hope of humanity—the flames of hope—standing before my eyes. I wish he could live a normal life, but fate…" He sipped from his glass, a trace of sadness in his eyes.
Wood nodded. "True, but remember—you control your fate too. Maybe he will find a normal life."
Master chuckled softly, lost in memories. "These kids remind me of my own time…"
Wood groaned. "Ah, man, don't start. You've told me a million times already."
Master's eyes twinkled with mischief. "If I told you a million times, it's because it's worth repeating!"
Lily watched them, amused. "Now watch them fight," she teased, and the playful banter filled the air.
The teens laughed, the adults smiled, and for a brief, precious night, the world felt alive again. Jokes, laughter, and warmth replaced the echoes of destruction. They shared stories, savored the food, and reveled in the simplicity of being together.
And for that night, at least, hope felt tangible—a light burning brightly against the encroaching darkness.