The fight between Aemon and the barbarian chief had become a maelstrom of steel and blood. Every swing of their weapons carried the weight of lives, and the terror of battle thickened the air. Aemon’s basic stance was barely holding against the fury of the barbarian chief, whose blows were so fierce and swift they seemed to mock the rigid lessons of Sir Caldor.

— Do you think you can defeat me, boy? — snarled the barbarian chief, his words dripping with disdain, his voice a growl of pure menace. — I am forged in war, molded by death. I have nothing to lose, while you… you are just a pampered prince!

Aemon’s breath came in ragged gasps as he blocked another crushing blow, the force rattling his bones. His voice was tight with both effort and defiance:

— I'm more than just a title. You'll see what I'm capable of.

The tension was suffocating. The guards, gripping their weapons, watched in a horrified silence. The only sound was the labored breathing that mingled with the harsh clang of swords. One guard, carefully holding the weakened Lyra, muttered to his comrade:

— He's fighting for us... For the kingdom... If he falls, we're all lost.

Lyra, barely able to lift her head, whispered in a faint, fragile voice:

— Aemon... You can do it...

The hostages were frozen in place, their wide eyes following the deadly dance between Aemon and the towering barbarian. One woman, recognizing the prince through the haze of battle, turned to the others in disbelief:

— He's risking everything for us... Is that... is that Prince Aemon?

The barbarian chief let out a vicious, bone-chilling laugh, his eyes gleaming with malevolence as he struck again with brutal force. Each blow of his sword echoed across the battlefield like the peal of some dark, distant thunder, shaking Aemon to his core.

— Give up, boy! — the barbarian roared, another savage strike crashing into Aemon’s blade. — You are no match for me!

Aemon’s arms trembled under the relentless assault, but he held firm, his voice rising in a desperate shout of defiance:

— If I fall, it won’t be without a fight. Don’t underestimate my determination!

The air grew thick with suspense, every clash of steel a heartbeat closer to death. The barbarian’s savage grin widened as he swung his blade with bone-shattering power, the sound of breaking metal and tearing flesh hanging in the air like the toll of a funeral bell. Blood splattered the ground with each collision, and the atmosphere became oppressive, as if the very earth was holding its breath, awaiting the final blow.

In the agonizing stillness between each strike, the battlefield was haunted by the sound of quiet sobs, the murmurs of the desperate, and the rhythmic banging of the barbarians’ weapons against the earth. Aemon was bloodied, his armor cracked and torn, his body a wreck of pain. Yet, despite it all, he stood, even as his legs wavered and his vision blurred.

The barbarian chief sneered down at him, his voice filled with cruel amusement:

— Look at you, prince. You're in pieces. It's pathetic. You can barely lift your sword.

Above them, the sky seemed to darken, as if the heavens themselves were bearing witness to the bloody spectacle. The mage, her lips curling in a twisted smile, spoke in a voice that cut through the chaos like a dagger:

— Look at how they fight... So much brutality, so much triviality. It's almost poetic, don't you think? — she turned to the barbarians at her side, her eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.

One of the barbarians pounded his weapon into the ground in support of his chief, the booming noise reverberating across the battlefield:

— Our leader will not lose. He will crush this prince and all who stand against us!

The rhythmic pounding of the barbarian weapons filled the air like the drumbeats of doom, sending chills through the watching guards. One of them, trembling, whispered under his breath:

— Come on, prince… Don’t fall now… We’re all depending on you…

The fight raged on, every strike between Aemon and the barbarian chief more brutal than the last. The clang of swords and the sickening crunch of bone created a symphony of violence, as the line between life and death blurred with each passing moment. The spectators, both hostage and barbarian, watched with bated breath, their fates hanging in the balance of every movement.

Aemon's vision began to blur, his body screaming in agony as his strength drained away. But his mind, amidst the storm of pain, clung to the plan he had formed — the gunpowder, hidden strategically around the battlefield, waiting to be unleashed. It was a desperate gamble, but it was his last, best hope. And if it worked, it might just turn the tide of the battle and save them all.

(Mage) — It seems the prince has resigned himself to his fate. The pain and helplessness are a delight to watch.

(Barbarian Chief) — Crawl, prince. There's nothing left for you but to crawl to your final defeat.

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(Child Hostage) — Prince, please, don’t give up!

(Mage) — Prince, if you don’t get up now, I’ll launch this fireball at the guards and hostages. What will it be, prince? Your life or theirs?

Aemon, feeling the pressure and desperation, began to crawl toward Lyra's sword. Each movement was torture, but he knew he had to follow through with his plan. In his mind, he decided to initiate what he had planned.

While being beaten continuously, he crawled toward the gunpowder he had spread around the camp. Determined, he aimed to ignite it, creating an explosion that could alter the course of this desperate battle.

(Barbarian Chief) — Show him what true pain is. Let him see what it means to face a real warrior.

The mage raised the fireball higher, a glint of cruelty in his eyes, ready to unleash destruction at any moment. The air grew heavier, and darkness crept in as Aemon fought with each agonizing move, struggling for survival and a slim chance to save the others.

Weakened, surrounded by waves of agony, Aemon locked his mind onto the scattered gunpowder. His plan was fraught with risk, but it was the only way to turn the tide and protect the hostages.

(Mage) — The prince is near the end. His suffering is almost poetic.

(Barbarian Chief) — Crawl, prince. You have nothing left but to embrace your defeat.

(Guard 1) — Aemon, you can do this! This isn't just a duel. It's our fate! Fight for us!

(Child Hostage) — The prince is up to something! I don’t know what, but we have to believe in him!

(Mage) — Prince, if you don’t rise now, I’ll turn everyone here into ashes. Let's see if your pride can save these pitiful souls.

(Barbarian Chief) — Get ready to feel true pain! There’s no place for mercy on this battlefield!

(Aemon) — If I fall today, it will be for a cause. The fate of us all is at stake. There's no turning back now!

The clash of steel against steel echoed through the oppressive atmosphere. Every swing of the Barbarian Chief's brutal axe marked a closer step to death as Aemon fought through unbearable tension, with all eyes locked on him—hostages, guards, and barbarians—gripped by fear, hope, and bloodlust.

Finally, the gunpowder was in place, as Aemon had plotted. But his sword, already worn down, couldn’t last much longer. A monstrous strike from the barbarian’s massive axe shattered Aemon’s blade. The metallic crack reverberated across the field, leaving a stunned silence hanging over the battlefield.

(Barbarian Chief) — It’s over. There’s nothing more you can do. Your final hour is here.

(Mage) — The prince is unarmed, at last. It’s time to end this. But remember, keep him alive. I want to see him suffer a little longer.

The barbarian chief approached Aemon, his expression a mix of disdain and impatience. His presence was oppressive, each step resonating like a harbinger of imminent death. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder still lingered over the battlefield, forming an opaque curtain that made the scene almost surreal.

(Barbarian Chief) — Did you really think you could defeat a warrior like me with a mere torch? Prepare for your end, prince.

Aemon, his strength nearly depleted, glanced at the torch he had picked up. It was a simple object, but he knew his plan was not yet complete. Every beat of his heart echoed like a war drum in his mind, reverberating with urgency. With a tremendous effort, he rose, the torch trembling in his unsteady hand. The heat from the flames felt like it was searing his skin, but there was no time to falter. The surrounding barbarians laughed, their voices intertwining like a cruel symphony of mockery.

(Barbarian 1) — Look at that! The prince thinks a torch will save his life!

(Barbarian 2) — What does he think he’s going to do with that? Burn the barbarian chief? What a joke!

(Mage) — Oh, I’m loving this! Watch him attempt one last act of theater. Prepare to witness a spectacle of defeat.

The atmosphere was charged with tension, like a thread on the verge of snapping. The barbarian chief, noticing the torch and what appeared to be a desperate act, chuckled with disdain. He advanced, his colossal figure casting a looming shadow over Aemon, preparing to deliver the final blow. Aemon felt the weight of the situation crushing him, yet his resolve was an indomitable flame.

(Barbarian Chief) — If you have something to say, say it now. This is your last chance.

The air thickened, almost palpable. Aemon took a deep breath, tasting the bitter tang of fear in his mouth. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity. He knew he could not hesitate. With one last gasp of strength, he hurled the torch in a swift motion—not toward the chief, but toward the spot where the gunpowder lay scattered. The moment unfurled like a silk thread, the fate of the battle hanging in the balance.

(Mage) — What is happening? No…

The instant the torch struck the gunpowder, a deafening and devastating explosion erupted. The world around Aemon transformed into a sea of flames and smoke. The sound of the blast was like the roar of an enraged beast, reverberating deep within the souls of all present. A shockwave swept through the area, tossing barbarians and debris in all directions. The pressure in the air became unbearable, as if the very sky were collapsing.

Screams of panic and horror filled the battlefield. Flames engulfed everything around, a ravenous serpent devouring the darkness, its fiery tongues dancing and crackling with insatiable hunger. The captives, terrified, huddled close to the ground, their pale faces reflecting the infernal glow. The guards struggled to protect the civilians, but confusion wrapped around them like a heavy shroud, and their determination began to wane.

The mage, with eyes wide in shock and frustration, was hurled by the force of the explosion, her plans interrupted in a cruel instant. She rose, eyes wide with disbelief, witnessing the chaos surrounding her, unable to comprehend the magnitude of destruction she had unwittingly unleashed.

(Mage) — No! This cannot be happening!

(Barbarian Chief) — Damn it! What was that?!

The barbarian chief straightened, fury radiating from his eyes. The roar of the fire was almost deafening, and the smoke curled around him in grotesque shapes. He surveyed the area, realizing his men were disoriented, the advantage they had turned into desperation.

Amidst the chaos and destruction, Aemon, though gravely injured and with blurred vision, managed to crawl to a safer spot. The heat of the flames scorched his skin, and the smoke made the air thick and hard to breathe. Each cough was a brutal reminder of the price he was paying. He looked out over the blazing battlefield, feeling a mix of relief and pain. The battle was not over, but he had taken a crucial step in his desperate plan to save everyone.

As the fire illuminated his face, Aemon sensed that his mission was only just beginning. With titanic effort, he pushed himself up, his muscles aching as if they were being torn apart, and scanned his surroundings. The smoke was slowly dissipating, revealing a scene of destruction but also of opportunities.