The sun hung mercilessly above the desolate shrubland, its unrelenting heat bearing down on Michelangelo and Raphael as they slithered forward, low to the cracked and arid earth. Their camouflaged scales, once vibrant and blending seamlessly with the lush greenery of Newscar’s jungle, now seemed muted against the pale hues of this dying landscape. The gilly suits they had donned for stealth had been abandoned hours ago, the weight of the drying vines and leaves more of a hindrance than a help in this barren terrain. Each step they took was a testament to their endurance, their loyalty, and the legacy they bore as members of the Originals.

  “Three days, and nothing but dust,” Michelangelo muttered, his voice low and rasping as he adjusted the bow slung across his back. His yellow eyes darted ahead, scanning the horizon for any signs of movement or life. “After two weeks travel from First scar I’m starting to think the jungle ends here.”

  Raphael, moving just behind him, hissed softly in agreement. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air, searching for the faintest hint of prey or danger. “If it ends, it ends. We adapt, like Jannet taught us. The council made the call, and we follow through.” His tone was calm, resolute, but his scales shimmered faintly with the tension he couldn’t fully hide. “The Catfolk need us.”

  The mention of their Sovereign stirred something in both of them. Jannet—the Great and Mighty. His name carried a weight that transcended the practical matters of survival. Even in his absence, his legend grew among the inhabitants of Newscar. For Michelangelo and Raphael, his teachings were not just lessons but a foundation. Every decision, every action they took, bore his influence.

  The duo pressed on, the arid wind carrying the faint scent of decay and dust. What had once been verdant land, bursting with life and color, now stretched before them as an expanse of withered shrubs and skeletal trees. The ground beneath their clawed feet crunched with every step, the soil brittle and cracked from years of neglect or catastrophe. They moved with practiced ease, their bodies low and their movements silent despite the oppressive conditions. Though they had not encountered any sign of danger, their vigilance never wavered.

  “What do you think happened here?” Michelangelo asked after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Raphael glanced at the stark landscape, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Not sure. A drought? A plague? Maybe something worse. The goblins we’ve heard about... they arent like ours they don’t seem to leave places intact.”

  Michelangelo nodded grimly. They had been briefed before leaving the safety of Newscar. Goblin activity had surged in recent months, spilling southward like a toxic tide. Reports from the refugees painted a grim picture of raids, kidnappings, and destruction. The Catfolk children who had stumbled into Newscar’s borders, their eyes wide with terror, had described their village to the north, besieged and desperate. It had been their testimony that prompted the council to act—and Jannet’s enduring influence that swayed the vote to intervene.

  As the sun reached its zenith, the landscape around them began to shift subtly. The dry air carried a faint tang of smoke, barely perceptible but enough to set their senses on edge. Ahead, a haze of dust shimmered in the distance, rising in uneven columns against the stark blue sky. The two lizards froze, dropping to their bellies instinctively as their eyes locked onto the disturbance.

  “Dust,” Raphael murmured, his voice tight. “A lot of it.”

  “Could be prey,” Michelangelo suggested half-heartedly, though the sinking feeling in his gut said otherwise.

  “Or predators,” Raphael countered. He gestured toward a low ridge nearby, its rocky outcrop providing a potential vantage point. Without another word, they moved, their bodies slithering smoothly over the ground as they made their way to the cover.

  Reaching the ridge, they crept up its slope, careful to keep their profiles low. As they reached the crest, they peered over cautiously, their hearts sinking at the sight before them.

  Below, nestled in a shallow basin, was a village surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. The settlement’s architecture was distinct, with its pointed roofs and colorful symbolic banners marking it unmistakably as a Catfolk enclave. But any charm the village might have held was overshadowed by the chaos that surrounded it. A seething horde of goblins swarmed at its perimeter, their crude weapons and ragged banners forming a chaotic tide of aggression. The walls of the village bristled with arrows and spears, the defenders’ desperate attempts to hold back the onslaught evident in the scars of battle that marred the barricades.

  Michelangelo and Raphael exchanged a glance, their expressions grim.

  “That’s not an army,” Michelangelo said, his voice laced with quiet horror. “That’s a horde.”

  “And the Catfolk are losing,” Raphael added, his tone heavy. He pointed toward a section of the wall where the goblins had begun constructing a crude battering ram. The defenders atop the wall—their feline forms barely visible amidst the dust and chaos—fought valiantly, but their numbers were clearly dwindling. “They won’t last much longer.”

  The two scouts watched in tense silence as the battle unfolded. Goblins swarmed at the base of the walls, their high-pitched war cries piercing the air. The defenders responded with arrows and spears, their aim precise but their supplies clearly dwindling. Several goblins managed to breach the palisade through gaps in the barricade, only to be met with fierce resistance from Catfolk warriors wielding curved blades and shortbows. Yet for every goblin that fell, two more seemed to take its place.

  “This isn’t a battle,” Michelangelo muttered, his claws digging into the dry earth. “It’s slaughter.”

  Raphael’s eyes darted across the scene, analyzing every detail. “We can’t take on that many,” he said bluntly. “Even if we had the rest of the Originals, we’d be outnumbered ten to one.”

  “Then what do we do?” Michelangelo asked, his voice tight with frustration. “Just watch?”

  “No,” Raphael said firmly, his gaze locking onto a group of goblins who had begun hauling what looked like a makeshift ladder toward the walls. “We get closer. We figure out how to help. Jannet didn’t raise us to sit and do nothing.”

  He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at Michelangelo. “Do you remember when we first found him? Or rather, when he found us? We should have died that day.”

  Michelangelo nodded slowly, his claws flexing against the earth. “Yeah. Two scrappy little lizards, half-starved and more scales than sense, wandering into the Great Jannet’s territory. We were food, plain and simple.”

  “But he didn’t eat us,” Raphael continued, his eyes distant as if seeing the memory play out before him. “He could have, but he didn’t. He looked at us, really looked, and decided we were worth saving. He brought us into Firstscar. Fed us. Taught us. Gave us a chance to be something more.”

  Michelangelo’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Not just us. All of them. The ones who came after. Firstscar wasn’t just his home; it was his sanctuary. He made it a place where any lizard—or goblin, or gnome, or anyone willing to live by his code—could belong.”

  Raphael’s gaze hardened, his claws clenching into fists. “And he led by example. Do you remember the Breach? Lil Guy nearly died fighting at his side, and Jannet didn’t flinch. He stood against the impossible and held the line. He taught us that being lizards didn’t mean being predators. It meant making the world better, even if it cost us everything.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Michelangelo said quietly, his voice steady with conviction. “Because he would be. Because this is what he taught us to do.”

  Raphael exhaled sharply, the fire of determination returning to his eyes. “Then let’s make it count.”

  Michelangelo nodded, the fire of determination igniting in his chest. Together, the two lizards began to descend the ridge, their movements silent and purposeful. The air around them was thick with dust and tension, the sounds of battle growing louder with each step they took. As they approached the outskirts of the goblin horde, they slipped into the shadows of a cluster of bleached, skeletal trees, their camouflaged scales blending seamlessly with the pale bark.

  The scene before them was chaotic, almost surreal. Goblins surged like a living tide, their numbers overwhelming, their ferocity unchecked. The Catfolk’s defense was valiant but faltering, their warriors exhausted and their resources dwindling. Michelangelo and Raphael exchanged one last glance, their unspoken resolve clear.

  The cracked ground beneath them crunched as Michelangelo and Raphael moved in unison, their massive frames gliding like shadows cast by the relentless sun. Dust kicked up with every step, clinging to their scaled forms as they descended the ridge toward the chaos below. Their eyes, sharp and gleaming, never wavered from the surging tide of goblins that encircled the Catfolk village.

  Michelangelo’s voice broke through the sound of their rapid breaths, tight with both tension and exhilaration. “So, do we have a plan?”

  Raphael let out a low hiss, his lips curling into a fierce grin. “Back to back,” he said, the words carrying the weight of shared history. “Just like the early days, out of the nest. Before Jannet. Before it all. When it was just us against the world.”

  Michelangelo nodded, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his face despite the grim task ahead. “We were half this size then,” he muttered.

  “Yeah,” Raphael said, his grin widening. “But twice as dumb.”

  They shared a hissing laugh, a moment of camaraderie before the storm. The laughter quickly gave way to something deeper, primal. The energy coursing through their veins was electric, a heady mix of power, purpose, and raw adrenaline. They let it build, unrestrained, until it erupted from their throats in roaring bellows that echoed across the battlefield.

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  The goblins turned as one, their attention snapping to the two enormous figures barreling toward them. Michelangelo and Raphael—fifteen feet of scaled muscle and claws each—hit the goblin line like a hurricane. Their impact was catastrophic, the sheer force of their charge scattering the first wave of goblins like leaves in the wind. Bodies flew, crude weapons snapped, and the goblin horde’s shrill cries of surprise rang out in all directions.

  Raphael surged forward, a blur of claws and teeth. His movements were precise but devastating, each swipe of his talons cutting down multiple foes. A goblin, braver or perhaps stupider than the rest, lunged at him with a jagged spear. Raphael’s tail lashed out, catching the creature mid-air and sending it careening into a group of its kin. He hissed in triumph, his golden eyes gleaming with battle-lust.

  Behind him, Michelangelo advanced methodically, his role clear: to cover his brother’s charge. He swatted aside goblins with powerful sweeps of his claws, his heavy tail smashing through their ranks like a wrecking ball. Arrows rained down from the goblins’ archers perched on makeshift platforms, but they pinged harmlessly off his thick, armored scales. He growled low and steady, his focus unshakable.

  The two lizards moved with deadly coordination, their years of fighting together evident in every step, every strike. Raphael carved a path through the horde, his strikes fueled by a mix of rage and exhilaration. Michelangelo stayed close, his massive frame a bulwark against the chaos. Together, they were an unstoppable force, a living tempest of death and destruction.

  The Catfolk defenders on the walls watched in stunned silence at first, their ears flattening against their heads as they took in the sight of the two massive lizards tearing through the goblin ranks. Then, slowly, a cheer began to rise, hesitant at first but growing louder with each passing moment. The rings of tongues the lizards wore hummed faintly, translating the cries of the Catfolk as their morale surged. Words like “hsaviors” and “warriors” carried through the dust-choked air, bolstering the defenders who redoubled their efforts.

  Raphael hissed with glee, his teeth bared in a savage grin as he relished the thrill of battle. This was what it meant to be like Jannet. To lead. To inspire. To fight against impossible odds and make a difference. His claws sliced through a goblin’s flimsy armor, the creature’s scream cut short as it fell. He spun, his tail sweeping a group of goblins off their feet, their bodies crumpling like discarded rags.

  But the horde’s numbers were unrelenting. For every goblin they felled, more took their place. The air grew thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the battlefield a cacophony of screams and clashing weapons. The goblins, though disorganized, began to adapt. They swarmed Raphael, their small, wiry bodies clinging to his limbs and back in a desperate attempt to bring him down.

  Michelangelo roared, his claws tearing through the goblins clinging to his brother. He moved with furious precision, his tail smashing through a goblin archer who had taken aim at Raphael’s exposed flank. “Stay sharp, Raph!” he growled, his voice strained but steady.

  Raphael’s laugh was wild, almost unhinged. “Sharp as ever, Mikey!” he shouted, his claws flashing as he tore free from the goblins attempting to pin him. Blood streaked his scales, both his own and that of his enemies, but he didn’t falter. If anything, the wounds seemed to fuel his rage, his strikes growing more feral with each passing moment.

  Michelangelo’s heart sank as he watched his brother fight. Raphael’s attacks, though devastating, were reckless. Each victory came at a cost, each goblin he felled leaving another wound in its wake. Michelangelo tried to alleviate the pressure, his claws and tail a constant presence at Raphael’s back, but the sheer number of goblins made it impossible to hold them all at bay.

  “Raph, we need to pull back!” Michelangelo shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

  “No!” Raphael roared, his golden eyes blazing with fury. “This is our moment, Mikey! Our turn to be heroes! To be like him!”

  Michelangelo’s chest tightened. He understood his brother’s fervor, the raw desire to live up to Jannet’s example—to be the unwavering leader, the hero in the chaos. But this wasn’t sustainable. Each swing of their claws sent goblins sprawling, each crash of their tails toppled crude goblin scaffolding, but it wasn’t enough. The numbers pressed in like a tide, relentless and all-consuming, smothering their hard-won ground with each surge.

  Raphael fought with wild abandon, his strikes no longer calculated but desperate, a blur of claws and teeth that left carnage in his wake. His tail lashed out in a wide arc, sending goblins flying like broken dolls, but the momentum cost him. A jagged blade found his flank, sinking into the vulnerable flesh beneath his scaled armor. Raphael hissed in pain, but the sound twisted into a snarl of fury. He spun, crushing the offending goblin underfoot, but more were already upon him.

  Michelangelo roared, his own claws carving through the horde as he tried to relieve the mounting pressure on his brother. He surged forward, his massive body a wall of defense as he barreled into the swarm. Goblins screamed and scattered, some crushed under his sheer weight. His tail whipped across the ground, shattering goblin weapons and sending their wielders scrambling. Still, the swarm adapted. A hooked chain snagged his arm, another coiling around his leg, dragging him down for precious moments before he tore free with a guttural roar.

  “Raph, pull back! We’re getting pinned!” Michelangelo shouted, his voice straining as he bit down on a goblin attempting to leap onto Raphael’s back. Blood and dust clouded the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and iron.

  “No!” Raphael roared in response, his voice raw with defiance. He lunged at a cluster of goblins, his claws raking through them with reckless force. His golden eyes blazed with unrelenting determination, but his movements were faltering, each strike costing him more than it gave. A spear thrust grazed his shoulder, a dagger sank into his thigh, and still, he pressed on.

  Michelangelo growled in frustration, his mind racing as he desperately tried to form a plan. Each attempt to create breathing room for them only delayed the inevitable. The goblins were too many, their crude weapons finding gaps in even their formidable defenses. Blood—bright and stark against the dusty battlefield—dripped steadily from Raphael’s wounds, each drop a countdown they couldn’t afford.

  The horde’s cries rose in a fevered pitch, sensing the lizards’ growing exhaustion. Michelangelo felt his limbs growing heavier with each swing, his tail slower to respond as the press of bodies hemmed him in. He lashed out with one final, desperate sweep, clearing a momentary path. “Raph! We’ve done enough! We’ve got to get out now, or—”

  “Not yet!” Raphael snapped, his voice ragged but filled with an unyielding fire. He stood amidst the carnage, his bloodied form a testament to his resolve. He struck again, his claws rending through goblins as he stepped forward, refusing to yield. Each movement was a defiant roar against the overwhelming odds, but Michelangelo could see the toll it was taking. Each attack left Raphael open, another wound joining the countless others marring his scales.

  Michelangelo surged to his brother’s side, his own battered body pressing against Raphael’s as they fought back-to-back. Together, they clawed and snapped, their movements synchronized in the desperate dance of survival. The ground around them was a churned mess of blood and gore, the air thick with the sounds of battle. But for every goblin they cut down, more took their place, their shrill cries a deafening chorus of triumph.

  “Raph, we’re losing momentum! If we stay, we’ll—” Michelangelo’s words cut off as a goblin’s blade glanced off his side, drawing a sharp line of pain. He retaliated with a vicious swipe, but the attack left his flank open, another goblin latching onto him before he crushed it beneath his claws.

  Raphael’s breathing was labored now, his roars less frequent as the wounds slowed him further. Yet even in his exhaustion, there was no hesitation in his strikes. He tore into the horde with everything he had left, his movements fueled by a primal rage that bordered on madness. “We’re not done yet!” he hissed, blood trailing from his maw as he snapped a goblin’s spear in half with his teeth.

  Michelangelo growled, his chest heaving as he fended off another wave. “If you die here, it’s over! This isn’t just about us, Raph. Jannet wouldn’t—”

  “Then let me fight like him!” Raphael shouted, his voice breaking as he lunged at another group of goblins, his claws raking through their ranks. His reckless charge left him exposed, a blade sinking into his side before he tore it free, his roar shaking the ground around them. Michelangelo surged forward to cover him, his own claws carving through the goblins pressing too close.

  But the tide was too strong. The weight of the horde was unbearable, their relentless numbers overwhelming even the formidable might of the two lizards. Michelangelo fought with everything he had, his claws and tail a whirlwind of destruction, but the crushing realization settled over him like a heavy shroud.

  They were losing. The plan was slipping further and further from their grasp, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  As the battle wore on, Raphael’s movements grew slower, his strikes less precise. Blood dripped from countless gashes across his body, pooling at his feet. Yet he fought on, his roars echoing across the battlefield like a defiant anthem. Michelangelo stayed close, his own body battered and bruised as he struggled to protect his brother.

  The goblin horde pressed closer, their shrill cries rising in a fevered pitch. The two lizards, back to back, stood amidst a ring of death and gore, their massive frames heaving with exhaustion. As the relentless tide surged, a panicked scream rose above the din—a Catfolk villager, clinging desperately to the edge of the wall, lost their grip in the chaos and tumbled down into the melee. The small figure landed awkwardly, scrambling backward as goblins turned their focus toward the easy prey.

  Raphael's eyes snapped to the fallen villager, the sight igniting something deep within him. With a guttural roar, he surged forward, his claws carving through the goblins nearest the vulnerable Catfolk. Each movement was a testament to his unwavering resolve, his strikes precise yet brutal as he cleared a path. "Get up! Get back to the wall!" he bellowed, his voice raw with urgency.

  The villager scrambled to their feet, terror flashing in their wide eyes as they began to climb back up the rough planks of the palisade. Goblins screeched and lunged at them, but Raphael was there, his massive form a barrier of fury and blood. He swiped at an archer attempting to draw a bead on the climber, his claws rending the creature's bow in two before his tail smashed it into the dirt. Another goblin leapt from the side, a jagged blade aimed for Raphael's flank. He twisted, intercepting the strike with his forearm, and crushed the attacker beneath his weight.

  Michelangelo, seeing his brother's reckless advance, roared in frustration and barreled through the horde to his side. His claws tore through goblins with ruthless efficiency, his tail sweeping wide to create space. "Raph! Pull back! You're too exposed!" he shouted, his voice strained.

  Raphael barely registered the words, his focus solely on protecting the villager. A goblin climbed onto his back, its dagger plunging into his shoulder. He roared in pain, shaking it off with a violent thrash that sent it hurtling into a cluster of its kin. Another goblin darted forward, its spear piercing his thigh, but Raphael countered with a downward swipe that split the creature in two.

  The villager finally reached the top of the wall, their trembling hands grasping the edge as they were pulled to safety by their comrades. Relief flickered across Raphael's bloodied face, but it was short-lived. The effort had cost him dearly. His legs buckled, and he staggered under the weight of his injuries. Goblins swarmed around him, sensing their opportunity.

  Michelangelo let out a thunderous roar, his tail smashing into the ground with enough force to send goblins sprawling. He surged to his brother's side, his claws raking through the horde as he positioned himself between Raphael and the encroaching swarm. "Stay with me, Raph! Just hold on!" he growled, his voice thick with desperation.

  Raphael, his breaths labored, managed a weak smile. "Not done yet," he rasped, his golden eyes still burning with defiance. But his body betrayed him, sagging as the blood loss and pain became too much to bear.

  Michelangelo roared again, a primal sound that echoed across the battlefield. His massive tail swept in a wide arc, creating a wide berth around them. Goblins screamed and scattered, but Michelangelo knew it was only a momentary reprieve. The odds were insurmountable, but he refused to let his brother fall without a fight.

  Raphael let out one final, thunderous roar, his claws tearing through a goblin’s chest as he staggered forward. His legs buckled, his body swaying as the battlelust gave way to the crushing weight of his injuries. Michelangelo caught him, his own strength wavering as he held his brother upright.

  “Raph,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “We’ve done all we can. We need to get out of here.”

  Raphael’s eyes met his, the fire within them dimming but not extinguished. “Not yet,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Not yet...”