“Argh, I see you didn’t learn your lesson the first time, General. Was it not enough that I had to slaughter your people? Their blood stains your hands. Their souls rest at your door. Their last moments—the flash, the fear in their eyes as they realized their lives were coming to an end—is all your fault.”

  He smirked as he began to cut deep with his words.

  One of La Mort’s soldiers cut in. “Sire… my scout picked up a group of footsteps heading north.”

  La Mort simply nodded, and the soldier fell back into line.

  “He thinks he can deceive me,” La Mort muttered, his voice low as he let out a small chuckle before continuing his speech.

  “But worry not, General. Death still escapes you. You won’t die here. You’ll spend the rest of your days as my prisoner. And that lovely wife of yours—what was her name again?”

  He racked his brain, then clicked his fingers. “Keylah.”

  He paused, smirking as he said her name, his eyes narrowing on the General. “I’ll find her. And when I do, General, I’ll make her suffer in the most brutal, unimaginable ways.”

  The General’s heart began to race as panic took hold, questioning whether he’d given Keylah and his people enough time to escape.

  La Mort’s sadistic laugh reared it's ugly head again, the sound persistent and cruel, as he turned toward his men. With a cold, emotionless flick of his fingers, he beckoned them forward.

  “Bring the General to me.”

  Two of La Mort’s men stepped up, made their way to the front and stood beside him. “We’ll do it, sire,” replied one of the soldiers, nudging the man next to him forward.

  The Zoronian men and women gripped their weapons tightly as the two soldiers advanced, raising them high and bracing for battle—but this was a fight the General would not allow them to fight.

  “Stand down,” he commanded, his voice calm in the face of chaos. He didn’t move—he didn’t flinch. He just looked on, remaining perfectly still as La Mort’s men marched forward.

  “You’re just going to give up?” one of the Zoronian soldiers stammered, hands trembling, palms slick with sweat. “You’ll let him take you without a fight? What about the rest of us? What will become of us when he takes you?”

  But the General didn’t respond. He refused to acknowledge their words. He just stood there, completely silent.

  Two soldiers grabbed hold of the General—one on the left side, one on the right—taking his arms as they tried to usher him forward. But the General would not budge.

  They’re right. What will become of my people? I’m their leader. I can’t just leave them to be slaughtered while I live. What kind of leader would that make me? And Keylah… what if she hasn’t made it to the ship yet? I couldn’t live with myself.

  “Move it!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  The General still wasn’t budging. He glanced left at one guard, then right at the other.

  “Did you not hear what he said?” shouted the second guard.

  “Yeah—I heard him loud and clear,” said General Kantaos as he reached beneath his clothes and drew out his sword, pressing the small red button at the hilt. The blade flung out.

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  The soldier went to turn, but before he could react the General drove the blade upward, tearing through the soldier’s chin and tongue. The man’s eyes widened as he stared off into the distance, blood spilling from his chin. The General retracted his blade, and the body slumped lifelessly to the ground.

  The remaining soldier reached for his blaster, but the General was too quick. He caught the soldier’s wrist, and for the first time in what felt like forever, panic crept into the man’s eyes as he looked into the General’s. But Kantaos had no remorse, no compassion for a man who tried to take everything from him. In one swift motion, he sliced through the wrist, severing the hand from the arm.

  The hand hit the ground with a thud, blood pooling around it. The soldier grabbed his forearm and looked to the sky.

  “Ahhhhh!” he screamed, his cry tearing through the air.

  The General rolled forward, landed behind the man, and slashed both of his Achilles tendons. The soldier dropped to his knees, no longer able to stand. His eyes flickered open and shut, his mouth hung open as his head turned side to side, looking to his men for help.

  The General kept a close watch on La Mort’s forces. When one of them feinted as if to help, the General lifted his blade and, with one large swing, sliced across the soldier’s face. For a moment, nothing happened—but two heartbeats later, the soldier’s head began to slide off diagonally, his dying expression frozen before it hit the ground.

  “You’ve spent so long on your throne enforcing your will on others,” the General said, his voice calm. “You thought I’d just hand myself over? Let you hunt and torture my wife? No. If you want me—come and get me.”

  La Mort flicked his head to the side, signaling for his men to move forward and bring him the General. The soldiers didn’t hesitate. Six of them charged, but their force met equal resistance.

  The General danced through them—bending, twisting, flowing—as he sliced through soldier after soldier. Their screams, their pain, and most of all the fear on their faces fed him in the heat of battle.

  He rolled beneath a strike, rose, and sliced through a soldier’s torso. Another came at him—he blocked with his forearm and plunged his sword straight through the man’s chest. A third charged, hoping brute force would work, but the General moved aside and slashed across his neck with brutal precision, taking his head clean off.

  When the chaos settled, the General stood tall. The blood of his people had been replaced by the blood of La Mort’s fallen soldiers. He raised his fist, palm facing his face, and wiped the blood from his blade across his forearm as he stared down La Mort.

  “My people may not be fighters, warriors like your men, but I am not to be underestimated, La Mort. My lineage comes from a long line of fighting Zoronians—so if you want me, King, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  La Mort’s arrogance didn’t falter. He stood there, amused by the carnage before him.

  “Bravo, General,” he said, clapping slowly, mocking him. His grin twisted into something vicious. “Quite the display. In another life, perhaps you could’ve worked for me. Maybe a few years in solitude and you’ll change your mind—work for me, General. Reach your full potential. Allow me to mold you into what you’re truly capable of.”

  “I would never work for you,” the General spat. “A man without honor, compassion, or care for anyone but himself. I’d suffer a thousand lifetimes before becoming a weapon in your genocide.”

  La Mort’s smile shrank into something colder, crueler. “Hmph. Worth a try.”

  He turned to his men. “Weapons at the ready. He forgets—I don’t need the rest of his people alive.”

  He laughed as his men rained down fire past the General, hitting the women, men, and children gathered behind him.

  “Retreat—retreat! Run!” the General shouted, turning back in horror as screams echoed like a thunderstorm and bodies slumped into the bloodstained soil.

  “There’s no running from the inevitable, General!” La Mort bellowed. “Men—advance!”

  His soldiers surged forward, crushing everything in their path. Prayers turned to screams. Children cried.

  Then—metallic clanks echoed across the ground.

  Tick… tick… tick…

  “It’s a bomb!” someone shouted. La Mort’s soldiers scrambled, but it was too late—there were too many of them, all crammed in a tight space.

  BOOM!

  The explosions ripped through the ranks. Fire and smoke devoured the field as limbs and armor flew through the air. In seconds, hundreds of La Mort’s men were gone—reduced to splattered body parts, organs, and shreds of skin across the soil.

  Once the smoke cleared, hundreds of Zoronians emerged, surrounding La Mort’s army from every direction.

  There was no panic on the king’s face, no worry in his heart. He lived for moments like these.

  “This is what I like to see, General,” he said, his voice rising with sadistic joy. “My prey putting up a fight.”

  As his men stood surrounded, his eyes scanned the field.

  “This is what you trained for—for battle, for glorious victories. Now is your chance to leave your mark yet again, as history will remember your names, men—warriors of the greatest army. Now go—earn your place in history. Show me why you deserve to be saved—and Bring— Me— Their— Heads!”