The acrid smell of burnt wood and dust hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the life that had been violently ripped away from their small town. Six-year-old Rebel, his face smudged with dirt and his small body tense with fear, pressed himself against the rough, cold surface of the large rock. Beside him, eight-year-old Tusk trembled, his small frame wracked with silent sobs. They were hidden, tucked away from the prying eyes of the Dextin guards who patrolled the ravaged streets.
Rebel, despite his own terror, kept his gaze fixed on the passing soldiers. Their heavy boots crunched on the debris-strewn ground, their voices, sharp and commanding, echoing through the desolate space. He watched, his young heart clenching with each passing figure, as they herded the remaining citizens – their neighbors, their friends – with brutal efficiency. There was no consent, no explanation, just the cold, hard authority of Dextin's iron fist.
Behind him, Tusk's muffled cries intensified. The sound, though quiet, was a sharp arrow piercing Rebel's fragile composure. He turned instantly, his small hand reaching out to grip his older brother's arm. "Big brother," he whispered urgently, his voice barely audible, "you can't cry now. They might hear us."
Tusk's face was a mask of anguish, tears streaming down his dirt-stained cheeks. "Mo-mo-mom and daaaaad…" he choked out, his breath catching between sobs. Each wipe of his hand seemed to only bring forth a fresh wave of tears.
Rebel's own eyes burned with unshed tears. He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic and grief. He had to be strong. He had to be the anchor for both of them. He pulled Tusk into a tight hug, his small arms wrapping around his brother's trembling form. "Mom and Dad… they risked everything so we could escape," Rebel said, his voice thick with emotion but firm with conviction. "I don't know what's happening to them right now, but… we'll get through this. Eventually. And then… then we'll free Mom and Dad, and the other villagers. But for now… for now, we have to be strong."
Tusk clung to Rebel, his sobs gradually subsiding into quiet sniffles. After what felt like an eternity, Rebel gently pulled away. "We need to move," he whispered. "While they're still down the street." Slowly, cautiously, they peeked out from behind the rock. The coast seemed clear for a fleeting moment. Taking a deep breath, Rebel took Tusk's hand, and they began to creep out of their hiding place, their small feet moving as silently as possible.
But their hope was short-lived. As they rounded a crumbling corner, the horrifying reality of their situation slammed into them. Dextin soldiers were everywhere. They seemed to swarm the ruined town, their presence an oppressive blanket suffocating any chance of escape.
Tusk's breath hitched in his throat. Fear, raw and paralyzing, washed over him. "It's impossible… to escape all these guards," he stammered, his voice trembling. "We're going to die… none of us here can fight…" His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths.
Rebel's small hand tightened around Tusk's. He could feel his own fear rising, a cold knot in his stomach. But he couldn't let it consume him. He had to be strong for Tusk. He had to find a way. He looked around desperately, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene for any sliver of opportunity. "We are going to pull through," he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his hands. "We're almost out of this town. Just a little more, and we'll be near the border… the border between here and the West. If we hurry… we can escape them. Come on, let's go." He tried to inject as much courage into his voice as possible, hoping it would ignite a spark of hope in his brother.
He pulled Tusk forward, and they began to run. Their small legs pumped furiously, dodging piles of rubble and weaving through the scattered debris. They ran until their lungs burned and their muscles ached, the constant fear of discovery spurring them onward. They managed to avoid several patrols, their small size and the chaos of the destroyed town offering them fleeting moments of cover.
But the relentless exertion began to take its toll on Tusk. His breath came in ragged gasps, his steps becoming increasingly unsteady. Suddenly, his foot caught on a loose stone, and he stumbled, falling hard onto the dusty ground.
"Tusk!" Rebel cried out, instantly stopping and turning back. He rushed to his brother's side, his heart pounding with renewed fear. He reached Tusk just as a looming figure rounded the corner. It wasn't just any Dextin soldier; the polished armor and the menacing aura radiating from him marked him as an Elite Soldier – Dran.
Rebel's mind raced. He was just a child. He didn't know how to fight. But the instinct to protect his brother surged through him. He instinctively balled his small fists, his stance shaky but defiant. Behind him, Tusk whispered frantically, urging him not to provoke the soldier. But Rebel, fueled by desperation and a fierce protectiveness, stood his ground.
To their utter astonishment, Dran simply stopped, his gaze sweeping over the two small figures. A strange, almost sad smile touched his lips before he turned and continued on his way, disappearing around another ruined building without uttering a single word.
Rebel and Tusk stared at each other, their faces etched with confusion. The unexpected reprieve left them momentarily stunned. But the survival instinct quickly kicked in. This was their chance. They had to take it. Rebel quickly helped Tusk to his feet, and they began to run again, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the bewildering encounter.
Meanwhile, another Elite Soldier approached Dran, his expression stern. "We're done over here. Did you see any other civilians? If we miss anyone, Dextin will have our heads."
Dran's gaze was distant, his earlier faint smile now completely gone. "No," he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "I didn't see anyone. That's all. We should be going." He turned and walked away, the other Elite Soldier falling into step beside him, none the wiser to the two small lives he had just spared.
Tusk and Rebel, their eyes fixed on the distant treeline that marked the border, felt a surge of adrenaline. Freedom was within reach. They pushed themselves harder, their weary legs finding a new burst of speed fueled by the desperate hope of escape.
But as they finally approached the border, their hearts sank. A line of Dextin soldiers stood guard, their faces grim and their weapons glinting menacingly in the harsh light. The soldiers spotted the two children instantly. Before Rebel and Tusk could even think of turning back, they were upon them, strong hands grabbing them and pinning them to the ground.
Tusk, his voice cracking with terror, began to beg. A particularly cruel-looking soldier leaned down, his breath hot and foul against Tusk's ear. "Why would we, kid? Unlike others, we find joy in this."
Tusk's eyes widened in horrified understanding. The soldier straightened up, a twisted smile on his face. "Okay, men," he announced to the others. "It's clear these kids' parents are either dead or captured. They'd be no use as soldiers. Best option is to… eliminate them. Though we weren't exactly advised to, we have to make sure Dextin doesn't hear a word about this, understand?" A chorus of grim smiles rippled through the other soldiers.
Rebel, his small body trembling with rage and despair, suddenly surged upwards, pounding his tiny fists against the leg of the soldier who had spoken. "No! You wouldn't! I'll make sure you don't hurt anyone! No one!"
The soldier barely registered the blows. With a dismissive grunt, he kicked Rebel away as if he were a mere insect. "You little brat." Immediately, the other soldiers descended upon Rebel, their blows heavy and brutal.
Tusk watched in frozen horror. He tried to move, to help his brother, but his limbs felt like lead. Fear, cold and suffocating, had paralyzed him. All he could do was watch, tears streaming down his face, as they beat his small, defenseless brother.
The soldier who had whispered in his ear earlier noticed Tusk's inaction. He sneered, then delivered a brutal kick to Tusk's face. "So you're just going to sit there? At least that one's fighting. All you're doing is crying." He punctuated his words with another kick, then stomped on Tusk's small body, the sickening thuds mingling with Rebel's pained cries.
Something inside Tusk finally shattered. The dam of his fear and grief broke, and a raw, primal rage erupted within him. As the cruel soldier turned back towards Rebel, Tusk, with a speed that defied his earlier paralysis, drew a small, hidden knife – a gift from his father. In a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he sliced the soldier's head clean off.
The decapitated body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud. For a split second, the other soldiers didn't even seem to notice. Then, the headless corpse twitched, and a geyser of blood erupted from its neck. A collective gasp of shock and horror rippled through the remaining soldiers.
Tusk stood frozen, the small knife still clutched in his trembling hand, his eyes wide and vacant. "Kill… kill… kill…" he whispered under his breath, the word a chilling mantra.
Meanwhile, the other soldiers were still focused on beating Rebel, who, despite his injuries, continued to fight back with a desperate ferocity. "Damn this guy isn't giving up!" one soldier exclaimed, panting.
"Maybe we should just use our swords and be done with it," another replied, drawing his weapon. The other soldiers followed suit, the cold steel glinting in the light as they prepared to deliver the final blow.
Rebel, knowing it was over, closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable pain. But it never came. After a moment of stunned silence, he cautiously opened his eyes. What he saw made his blood run cold. All the remaining soldiers lay dead, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles, their faces frozen in expressions of unimaginable agony. Some had been sliced cleanly, others seemed to have been torn apart.
His gaze slowly shifted to Tusk, who had finally snapped out of his daze and was now sobbing uncontrollably in the corner. "Did… did you do this?" Rebel asked, his voice filled with disbelief and a dawning horror.
Tusk looked up, his face streaked with tears and blood. "Yes… I'm so sorry, please don't be mad. I… I couldn't watch them beat you anymore…" He misunderstood Rebel's shock, his voice laced with guilt and fear of his brother's reaction.
Rebel rushed to Tusk, kneeling beside him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No, no, I'm not mad," he said softly, trying to reassure his distraught brother. He didn't know what to make of the terrifying power Tusk had just unleashed, but he knew he couldn't let Tusk carry the burden of such violence alone. A chilling thought formed in his young mind: (So this is Tusk's true strength… I always knew he had one, but this… this is dangerous. I have to become stronger. I have to become strong enough so we won't ever be forced to use it again. He doesn't deserve to have that guilt in him.)
Back in the present, years later,Now, facing Zack, that same terrifying power had resurfaced. The clash of their weapons echoed the brutal reality of their past, a past forged in loss and violence. Each strike, each parry, was a testament to the long and arduous journey that had led them to this arena, a journey forever marked by the blood of their enemies and the unspoken trauma they both carried.