My sojourn pressed on.
From the wilds of Gooldon, I trekked north to Midburth, a small town near Kedrone. There, I lingered, restless, waiting for the spark of trouble I knew was coming. Dakor’s schemes loomed large over Kedrone, and if his plans held, chaos wasn’t far off.

As tensions simmered in Kedrone, Karmadin—now the great King—proved the diplomat I’d always pegged him for. He’d turned Amlyxone into a republic and now sought to unite Kedrone with the northern territories. The man’s ambition was a wildfire, his ego its fuel. I couldn’t grasp the depths of his hunger for power. But one thing was clear: the men of the Mountain Plains would sooner die than bow to any unified kingdom. Gezon, I’d wager my life, would be the last to yield to this lunacy.

Yet Karmadin’s schemes were never what they seemed. Rumors swirling through the region rarely matched the cunning of his true designs. I’d been a victim of his ploys before—so had my archenemy. There was always more to Karmadin’s game.

In Kedrone, Princes Brone and Jeron now held the reins. Mild administrators, they were no match for Dakor’s brewing storm. His raids grew bolder, clashing repeatedly with Kedrone’s forces. Each skirmish saw Dakor’s men deliver brutal blows, leaving Kedrone’s troops battered. His strategy was clear: swell his ranks by raiding villages, recruiting eager young men, and brainwashing them with promises of glory. With an army forged this way, he could challenge any stronghold. His immediate aim? Weaken Kedrone’s forces while building his own, preparing to seize the kingdom.

Going after him alone was suicide. I’d be cut down before I reached half his men. From a distance, I was powerless, and even joining Kedrone’s forces carried risks. Returning as the officer I once was would be too conspicuous. If Dakor caught wind of my command, he’d vanish into hiding, elusive as ever. But fighting as an infantry soldier on the front lines? That increased my chances of facing him in single combat. So, I resolved to enlist as a foot soldier when the time came.
It didn’t take long.

Kedrone’s forces were bleeding men to Dakor’s relentless strikes. Karmadin remained silent, playing the diplomat while brewing his own schemes. When Kedrone began recruiting, I enlisted alongside a motley crew. We were whisked to Hamdire, a cramped military camp in southern Kedrone. The barracks overflowed with recruits—more mouths seeking food than warriors seeking battle, by my reckoning.

A crash training program sorted us by skill. Every man could wield a blade, but few knew the art of firearms. Behind the scenes, I knew the truth: the military was desperate, throwing bodies at the front lines to face Dakor’s horde. Still, I stayed, resolute.
Luck turned in my favor. I was assigned to a unit tasked with hunting Dakor and his band. Leaving the stifling camp for action was a relief, but my fortunes soured quickly. For days, we chased Dakor through rain, sun, wind, and wilderness, always coming up empty. He grew desperate, sacrificing his own men to escape, abandoning the slow-witted to their fate. Yet one truth offered solace: he wasn’t far now. He knew our forces would soon corner him, and a brutal clash loomed.

   ¶¶¶
Word came that Dakor’s men marched east. We moved out at once to intercept them. By afternoon, we spotted them under the scorching sun, their weapons glinting ominously. Horses reared, kicking up dust, while foot soldiers brandished crude blades. The white valley was fated for blood.

We halted at the sight of Dakor’s advancing force, twice our number. Captain Barkwood conferred briefly with his lieutenants, their grim faces betraying unease. It felt like defeat was creeping in before the fight began. After a tense deliberation, Barkwood ordered us into a square formation, whispering commands to hold fire until the enemy was within eight yards.

There we stood, prey beneath a merciless sun, facing an army roaring like beasts from the depths. Their horses snorted, their cries pierced the air, yet we waited—as if they were friends come to call. When they closed the distance, Barkwood’s arm slashed down, and we unleashed hell. Archers and riflemen tore into them, dropping foes like rain.

Stunned, Dakor’s men retreated, only to regroup and charge again. Their losses mounted, the air thick with dust, the field strewn with bodies. Vultures circled above. Our ammo dwindled, and prayers rose from our ranks as Dakor’s horde prepared another assault. For me, this was perfect. I craved a hand-to-hand brawl, where I might face Dakor blade-to-blade, not lose him to a stray bullet.

The order came to draw swords and fix bayonets. We formed a shield wall, bracing for impact. Dakor’s cavalry hit like a storm, shredding our line. Blood and chaos erupted—comrades fell, entrails spilled, heads rolled. I broke formation, driving into the enemy with reckless fury, eyes scanning for Dakor. My hope faded; I knew his cowardice. He’d never fight on the front line.

Then, fate smiled. Amid the chaos, I spotted him—a hulking figure with a familiar scar on his left cheek. Dakor. He’d just torn out a soldier’s throat when our eyes locked. Shock flickered across his face, masked quickly by a sinister grin. He was here, fighting, defying my doubts. But I was determined to end him.

He charged, blade flashing. I met him with equal ferocity, our steel clashing in a ringing dance. This was my fight, my vengeance for Keiya. We traded blows, each nearly besting the other. Dakor was sharper than before, but I was methodical, biding my time. His impatience was his weakness; I knew he’d falter if the fight dragged on.

He lunged, and I sidestepped, his blade slicing air. My counterattack missed as he ducked beneath my swing. Before I could strike again, a conch’s blare froze us both. Dakor’s men panicked, sensing danger. A company of Kedrone troops had cut off their rear, trapping them.

Fear flashed in Dakor’s eyes. The fierce commander, who’d fought to inspire his men, was unraveling. Desperation seized him, and like his fleeing troops, he turned to run. I wouldn’t let him escape. He slashed at my hand; I dodged and tackled him to the white sands. We grappled, and I gained the upper hand, plunging my blade into him. His cry was music to my soul.

But Dakor, ever resilient, hurled me off, ripping my blade from his flesh. In a flash, he stabbed it into my thigh. Pain seared through me as I screamed. Seizing the moment, he hobbled away, knocking a rider from his horse and mounting it. Dakor was always at his best when cornered, and once again, he slipped through my grasp.
The battle’s consolation? Dakor escaped with only a handful of men. But my loss burned deeper. Dakor was gone. Again.