Chapter 18: The dark squad Reformation 2
Kane stood tall and commanding, his eyes gleaming with an otherworldly power as he completed the dark ritual. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the desolate battlefield as he chanted to the lifeless bodies before him. His tone carried both authority and a chilling promise of destruction. His lips curled into a sinister smirk as he saw the corpses twitch and stir, his words sinking deep into the fabric of their being.
"Stand up, my soldiers," he intoned, his voice growing louder with each command. "Stand up and fight for me. Stand up and destroy for me, my machines."
One by one, the amors of the Dark Squad rose, their movements jerky at first, like marionettes tugged on unseen strings, until they steadied and stood unnaturally still. Their empty eyes glowed faintly with an eerie light, their expressions blank, yet charged with latent violence. The air grew colder as Kane's power enveloped them, transforming them into beings of pure obedience and destruction.
Kane mounted his horse in a fluid, practiced motion, the beast itself as black as night, its glowing crimson eyes mirroring its rider's dark intent. He surveyed his reanimated army, his expression a mask of cold satisfaction. The squad stood in perfect formation, their postures rigid and unnervingly precise, awaiting his command without a single sound or flicker of hesitation.
"It's time to go," Kane said, his voice low but firm, the words slicing through the silence like a blade. His horse stamped its hooves, eager to move, as if feeding off its master's dark energy. With a single gesture, Kane gave the command, and the Dark Squad began their march, their steps perfectly synchronized.
As they moved forward, Dren, the commander of the dark squad, felt a strange pull toward a nearby pool of still water. He hesitated, his movements stiff and mechanical, yet there was a flicker of something within him—an echo of curiosity. Kneeling, he leaned closer to the surface, his reflection slowly coming into view.
What he saw stopped him cold. His expression, though dulled by his transformation, showed a glimmer of shock. His jaw slackened, and his head tilted slightly as he tried to comprehend the figure before him. His once-human face was now covered entirely in dark, metallic armor, seamless and unyielding. From his head to his feet, he was a construct of death. Smoke curled from the empty sockets where his eyes had been, a dark and unrelenting haze that pulsed faintly with every unnatural breath.
Dren raised his gauntleted hand, watching as the fingers moved in perfect synchronization with his will. The realization hit him like a wave—he was no longer a man but a weapon, forged for destruction. His expression faltered further, a faint trace of despair flickering across his otherwise expressionless face, but it was fleeting, snuffed out as quickly as it had appeared.
Kane's voice cut through the moment like a whip. "I see you've seen your new look," he said, his tone dripping with dark amusement. His eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto Dren with a knowing gleam. "You no longer contain anything human. You are my living killing machine."
Dren turned to Kane, his body moving with unnatural smoothness now, every trace of hesitation wiped away. His expression had shifted; the faint spark of resistance in his gaze was gone, replaced by cold obedience. Whatever emotions had stirred within him were buried deep, suppressed by the power that bound him.
"Now, let's go," Kane commanded, his voice brooking no argument.
Without hesitation, Dren rose, his movements swift and purposeful, and fell back into formation. His armored body gleamed faintly under the moonlight, and the dark smoke from his eyes left a trail behind him as he marched. There were no questions, no objections—only the grim silence of the Dark Squad as they followed their master into the night, their steps echoing with the promise of chaos to come.
As Kane reined his horse to a halt, the Dark Squad followed suit, their synchronized steps coming to a rigid, unified stop. The clinking of their dark, metallic armor echoed in the cold, still air, the only sound in the desolate night. Kane turned his mount, his crimson eyes gleaming with malevolence as he faced his soldiers. The horse beneath him shifted, its glowing red eyes matching its master's commanding presence.
"My soldiers," Kane began, What you have doesn't come easy. You must fight for it. You stay here and wait for them to come." His gaze swept over the squad, each soldier standing unnaturally still, their weapons gleaming faintly under the dim moonlight.
The dark smoke that seeped from their eye sockets pulsed faintly as if responding to his words. They're, seamless armor, betrayed no emotion, yet there was a tension in the air—a subtle shift in their stance, an imperceptible tightening of their grip on their swords.
"When you come out victorious," Kane continued, his lips curling into a cruel smirk, "I'll be waiting for you in the palace. But hear this—whoever does not return and is killed by these pathetic creatures does not deserve to be my soldier. You do not deserve to be called a member of my Dark Squad."
There was no outcry, no sign of resistance or fear among the soldiers. Their silence was not born of courage but of absolute obedience. Each one stood like a statue, their empty gazes fixed on Kane, their dark aura radiating an unsettling calm.
Kane gave no further instructions. With a sharp tug on the reins, he turned his horse, the beast rearing up on its hind legs with a powerful, almost theatrical motion. The sound of its hooves striking the ground reverberated like thunder as Kane rode into the darkness, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow come to life.
As the echoes of Kane's departure faded, the Dark Squad remained in perfect formation. Their hands tightened around the hilts of their swords, the faint creak of metal echoing in the stillness. Though their expressions were hidden, their movements spoke volumes—there was no hesitation, no doubt in their stances. They stood ready, their bodies poised like coiled springs, awaiting the inevitable onslaught.
The first sign of the approaching creatures was a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The soldiers shifted slightly, their heads turning in unison toward the sound. Their dark smoke-filled eyes flared faintly, reacting to the encroaching threat. They didn't speak—there was no need. Their every action was a manifestation of Kane's dark will.
The creatures emerged from the darkness, their forms grotesque and otherworldly. Their eyes burned like embers, their misshapen bodies twisting unnaturally as they advanced. The night was filled with guttural growls and inhuman shrieks, a cacophony that would have sent chills down the spine of any living being. But the Dark Squad stood still, their expressions void of emotion, their stances unwavering.
The battle erupted in an instant, a clash of steel and claw that sent sparks flying into the air. The Dark Squad moved as one, their strikes calculated and efficient. Their swords slashed through the creatures with an almost mechanical precision, their movements a seamless blend of power and grace. Yet, despite their unrelenting assault, the creatures kept coming, their resilience testing the limits of even the most seasoned warriors.
Dren's focus was unshakable, his every movement purposeful and deadly. He fought with a ferocity that bordered on inhuman, his blade cutting through the creatures with ease. Yet, there was no joy, no satisfaction in his actions—only a cold, relentless determination. His stance was firm, his strikes deliberate, and his gaze unyielding. He was a machine of war, and nothing would stand in his way.
As the battle raged on, the squad showed no signs of fatigue. Their expressions remained unreadable, their bodies moving in perfect harmony with their weapons. Even as the creatures clawed and bit, their armor remained unyielding, their resolve unshaken. They fought with a singular purpose, their actions devoid of hesitation or fear.
Then, the final creature emerged. It was larger than the others, its form exuding a dark, menacing energy. Its eyes burned brighter, its movements more deliberate and calculated. The air grew heavy with its presence, and for a brief moment, the battlefield fell silent.
Dren stepped forward, his posture rigid and commanding. He raised a hand, signaling the rest of the squad to hold their positions. His voice, though devoid of emotion, carried an undeniable weight. "Stay back. This one is mine."
The squad obeyed without question, their weapons lowered as they watched their commander face the towering beast. Dren's grip on his sword tightened, his stance shifting slightly as he prepared for the fight. His movements were calm, measured, yet there was a faint intensity in the way he squared his shoulders, the way his head tilted ever so slightly, as if calculating every possible outcome.
The creature lunged, its claws slicing through the air with brutal force. Dren met it head-on, his sword flashing in a deadly arc that deflected the attack. Their clash sent a shockwave through the battlefield, the sound of metal on bone reverberating like a thunderclap. Dren moved with a fluidity that belied his armored frame, his strikes precise and devastating.
The creature fought back with equal ferocity, its strength forcing Dren to adapt and shift his tactics. Their movements became a deadly dance, each strike and counterstrike executed with razor-sharp precision. Dren's expression remained unreadable, but there was a subtle tension in the way his body moved, an almost imperceptible tightness in his jaw as he pushed himself to his limits.
Finally, the moment came. Dren feinted to the left, his movements so quick and seamless that the creature faltered. In that split second, he drove his sword forward with all his strength, the blade slicing cleanly through the creature's neck. The head fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the body collapsing moments later.
For a moment, the battlefield was silent once more. Dren stood over the fallen creature, his sword lowered but still gripped tightly in his hand. The faint smoke from his eyes pulsed rhythmically, mirroring his steady breaths. He turned to face the squad, his posture as commanding as ever, but there was a faint, fleeting shift in his stance—a subtle loosening of tension, an acknowledgment of victory.
The Dark Squad silently straightened, their weapons returning to their sides. They showed no outward signs of emotion, yet their movements carried an air of unspoken respect for their commander. Without a word, they prepared to march again, their steps echoing through the night as they moved toward the palace—and the awaiting judgment of their master, Kane.