"The Solarian Edge: Blade of the Astral Realm"

The battlefield reeked of blood and burnt flesh. Screams, metal clashing, and the scent of wet earth filled the air as rain poured from the darkened sky. The once-blue heavens were now a merciless gray, weeping for the lives being taken below.

He stood amidst it all, sword clenched in trembling hands. His grip was weak. His breath uneven. The world around him blurred, yet the bodies falling one after another were painfully clear.

I don't want to die here. I can't.

His father's words echoed in his mind. Words spoken by a man whose back had been broken under the weight of chains. A man who had died kneeling, a slave to the very end.

"We were born to serve, son. We can never be free."

No. That was a lie.

His entire bloodline had lived and died as slaves. His grandfather, his father… all of them had died waiting for a freedom that never came. He refused to be next.

A shadow moved. An enemy lunged. Instinct took over.

With a desperate cry, he raised his blade, steel clashing against steel. His arms burned, his footing wavered, but he forced himself to hold. The enemy—a soldier clad in red and black armor, face hidden behind an iron helm—pressed forward, their strength far greater. He felt his knees buckle. His own armor, a hand-me-down from the army's lower ranks, was too heavy, too worn. He was nothing more than a pawn in this war. A nameless fighter among thousands.

But then he saw the opening.

Time slowed as he pivoted to the side, his blade slipping past the soldier's defense. A warm spray of blood painted his face. The enemy's eyes widened beneath the visor, a shocked gurgle escaping his lips as he fell to his knees. Then, silence.

The body collapsed at his feet.

His hands were shaking, the sword now slick with blood. He had killed. He had killed.

He felt the weight of it, the undeniable proof that he had crossed a line he could never return from. His heart pounded, his stomach twisted—but beneath it all, something else burned.

Survival. A flicker of something more.

His father had died a slave. But he would carve a different path. No matter how much blood stained his hands, he would never kneel.

Not again.

And so, with the rain washing away his hesitation, he stepped forward, blade ready, eyes locked onto the next enemy.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't running.

For the first time, he was fighting for himself.