The rain was unrelenting. It lashed against the stone ramparts of Blackhall Keep, cloaking the fortress in a curtain of grey. The storm had arrived swiftly, as if summoned by the shift in fate that had begun within its walls. Inside, beneath the high-arched ceiling of the war room, Thalen stood at the center of a map-strewn table, his eyes locked on the glowing markers of enemy movement.
The silence in the room was deceptive. Around him stood soldiers, strategists, and a few of his closest allies each man and woman seasoned, scarred, and uncertain of what the dawn would bring. No one questioned Thalen's right to lead anymore. His victories, his aura, his defiance these had become legend. But even legends could be broken, and what faced them now was not a mere battle. It was a reckoning.
Thalen leaned over the table, voice calm but edged in steel. "They move faster than we expected. If they reach the outer ridge before we reinforce"
"They'll take the entire eastern corridor," said Niora, the Flame-Wind tactician who'd joined their side during the Vinterfall uprising. "And from there, they'll have line of sight on the Heartforge."
The room fell still.
The Heartforge the lifeblood of the fortress, the weapon store, and most importantly, the aura nexus. If it was taken, Blackhall would fall.
"What do you want to do?" asked Carris, his second in command, one of the few who had seen Thalen rise from a scrawny Blade Aura novice to the wielder of the Tyrant's Spirit.
Thalen closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his lids, he saw their faces. His friends from before the Tyrant Exam. The fire in their eyes. The promise they had made. He saw the path he had walked the failures, the bruises, the voice of his mentor reminding him that power meant nothing without purpose.
He opened his eyes, and they glowed not with the overwhelming gold of the Tyrant Spirit, but with the tempered clarity of a man who had earned it.
"We hold the line," he said. "We take two battalions and intercept at the ridge. I'll go with the vanguard."
A murmur passed through the room like thunder in a distant valley.
"You can't," Carris said quietly. "You're the only reason this army still has hope."
"All the more reason I must stand where hope will be tested."
No one argued after that.
The wind tore at Thalen's cloak as he rode into the storm, his sword strapped to his back the Blade of Wyrmreach, a high-tier blade that had begun to resonate with his Tyrant Aura. The journey to fusing both auras was slow, volatile. Every Tyrant Spirit wielder had to find their own way, and no two fusions were alike. His, so far, was unstable his blade shimmered with dangerous energy when he pushed too far. But he couldn't wait for perfect control anymore.
Ahead, lightning cracked, illuminating the black silhouettes of his enemies. A horde of Wretches twisted soldiers infused with corrupted aura moved in formation. Behind them, cloaked in darkness, stood the true threat: a figure in dark armor, surrounded by an aura so oppressive it felt like drowning.
"Korr Valyn," Thalen whispered.
The first true villain of this war. A man who once walked beside the SSS Heroes and turned his back on them to follow a darker path he was the only known wielder of a fractured Tyrant Spirit. His aura bled madness, and the Wretches were his creation.
Thalen raised his hand, signaling the halt.
"We strike hard and fast. Disrupt their line before they dig into the ridge. No retreat. You hold until I return or until there's no breath left in your lungs."
The vanguard readied themselves. No one hesitated. Not anymore.
Thalen drew his blade. A whisper of silver light shimmered along the edge. He breathed in drawing from the calm, disciplined core of his Blade Aura then exhaled, unleashing the presence of his Tyrant Spirit.
The earth trembled.
Power surged from him in a wave, pushing rain aside like an invisible dome. His sword glowed brighter, responding to both his will and the Tyrant energy flowing through him.
"Now," he roared.
And the charge began.
Steel met corrupted bone. Aura flared, clashed, screamed into the night. Thalen moved through the battlefield like a storm, each swing of his blade cutting arcs of energy through the Wretches. His attacks were sharper, heavier, his strikes infused with a balance of precise Blade Aura and explosive Tyrant force.
But the cost was steep. Every time he merged the two powers, he felt a strain, as if the auras themselves resisted complete unity. Like two rivers battling to flow in the same direction.
Still, he fought on, clearing a path toward the figure watching in silence from atop the ridge.
Korr Valyn hadn't moved. His armor pulsed with dark veins of Tyrant energy unstable, broken, and yet horrifyingly powerful.
When Thalen finally reached him, their eyes locked.
"So, the boy who passed the impossible exam comes crawling to the slaughter," Korr said, voice a guttural rasp. "Tell me, how does it feel to wield the spirit of tyrants and still struggle to stand?"
Thalen said nothing.
He raised his sword, both hands steady.
Korr grinned. "Good. Let's see if you're worthy of what you carry."
The battle that followed was unlike any Thalen had ever faced. Korr's movements were erratic, brutal his strikes warped the space around them, his fractured aura surging like an ocean in chaos. Thalen's blade met it again and again, sparks flying, aura colliding in violent explosions that lit the sky.
The fusion inside Thalen strained.
He drew from his Blade Aura to counter Korr's speed, used flashes of the Tyrant Spirit to meet his power. But it wasn't enough. Korr fought like a man who had sacrificed everything, even his sanity, for strength.
Thalen was driven to his knees.
Korr raised a fist, aura screaming.
"You are not him," Korr snarled. "You are not the First Tyrant. You're just a shadow, trying to find your light."
And then it happened.
Thalen's blade pulsed. Not with his will, but with something deeper like the auras within him had stopped fighting and, for a moment, agreed.
He stood.
His blade blazed with fused power disciplined edge and dominating spirit.
"No," Thalen said. "I'm not the First Tyrant. I'm the one who will surpass them."
He struck.
The fusion held.
Korr's defense shattered.
The dark aura exploded backward, ripping through trees and earth, flinging Korr across the ridge.
Thalen fell to one knee, gasping, but alive.
His sword dimmed, no longer pulsing. The fusion was not perfect, but it had happened.
Behind him, his soldiers cheered exhausted, bloodied, but victorious.
At dawn, Thalen stood atop the ridge, watching the sun rise.
Carris approached. "The men are calling you the Twin-Forged now. Word's spreading."
Thalen nodded, silent.
He felt the weight of what he carried now hope, fear, and something greater. The fusion had not been just power. It had been a message.
To the world.
And to himself.
The road ahead was long. The enemy more dangerous than ever.
But now, the first step toward becoming something greater than the legends had begun.
And Thalen was ready.