Apollo's systems hum quietly as the speeder lifts off, leaving Talia and Ryu behind. His optics scan the scenery below, cataloging the dense forest and distant mountain ranges under the night sky. Soon, the bright lights of the Eldorian encampment come into view, an ocean of tents spread across the landscape like a sprawling city of fabric and metal. The camp is bustling with activity, the soldiers unaware of the storm that is about to descend upon them.

  The speeder halts, hovering high above the ground, the camp directly below. Apollo calculates the distance, running precise simulations to ensure his joints can handle the impact of the landing. Satisfied with the results, he presses a button on the control panel, and the glass panel in front of him slides back with a soft hiss. The wind rushes in, carrying with it the sounds of the camp—the clatter of armor, the distant shouts of orders, and the crackling of campfires.

  Apollo stands, glancing down at the soldiers below. Without hesitation, he leaps from the speeder, the ground rushing up to meet him as he descends rapidly. The air whips past him, the force of the fall compressing the dust below, and he lands with a thunderous crash. The impact creates a small crater, and a cloud of dust billows outward, obscuring him momentarily from view.

  As the dust settles, Apollo is revealed, kneeling in the center of the crater. Around him, soldiers are frozen in place, their faces painted with awe and fear. Some instinctively reach for their swords, but Apollo is faster. He rises to his full height, retracting his twin blaster barrels from their compartments with a smooth, fluid motion. Before the soldiers can react, he fires a series of blue energy rings, each one finding its target with unerring accuracy. The soldiers hit by the stun blasts collapse to the ground, unconscious before they even realize what has happened.

  "By the gods, what is that thing?!" one soldier shouts, his voice trembling.

  "It's a demon!" another cries, backing away, his sword clattering to the ground.

  "Attack! We have to take it down!" a braver soldier yells, rallying his comrades. With a shout, they charge at Apollo, swords drawn and faces set with grim determination.

  But Apollo is a machine of war, designed for moments like this. He moves with inhuman speed, sidestepping the first soldier's wild swing and delivering a swift, calculated strike to the man's midsection, sending him flying backward with a force that breaks bones. The next soldier lunges at him with a spear, but Apollo simply grabs the shaft, snaps it in half, and follows up with a precise stun blast to the chest. The soldier drops like a stone.

  "Get him! Get him!" a group of archers takes position on the outer edges of the camp, their bows drawn. Arrows fly through the air, but they bounce harmlessly off Apollo's armored exterior, the metal deflecting the projectiles with a series of dull clangs.

  Apollo returns fire, his twin blaster barrels releasing a barrage of stun blasts. Archers tumble from their perches as they are struck, their bodies slumping against tents and walls, the fight knocked out of them in an instant. He advances through the camp, each step deliberate, each action methodical. A soldier swings a massive battleaxe at him, but Apollo sidesteps the blow, retracts a vibro blade from his arm, and with one swift motion, slices the axe in half. The soldier stares in shock at the severed handle in his hands before Apollo delivers a kick to his chest, sending him crashing into a nearby tent.

  The camp is in chaos. Soldiers yell commands, but their voices are drowned out by the sounds of battle—clanging steel, the hum of blasters, and the cries of the fallen. Apollo moves like a force of nature, untouchable and relentless. His internal systems hum with efficiency as he calculates the trajectories of incoming arrows, dodges the strikes of swords and spears, and counters with brutal precision.

  A squad of soldiers forms a shield wall, advancing on Apollo with disciplined determination. They shout in unison, raising their shields as one, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. But Apollo is undeterred. He charges forward, his vibro blade slicing through the metal shields as if they were made of paper. The soldiers behind the shields barely have time to register what's happening before they're stunned into unconsciousness, collapsing in a heap.

  "Fall back! Fall back!" a soldier screams, but it's too late. Apollo has already closed the distance, dispatching the retreating soldiers with a flurry of stun blasts. He shows no mercy, no hesitation—his mission is clear, and nothing will stand in his way.

  As Apollo pushes deeper into the camp, the large tent at the center comes into view, guarded by two massive soldiers clad in heavy armor. These are not the ordinary foot soldiers he has been dealing with—these men are elite, their broad swords the size of small trees, their eyes filled with the grim determination of seasoned warriors.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Face me, monster!" one of them roars, swinging his massive sword down at Apollo with the force of a falling boulder.

  But Apollo is faster. He sidesteps the blow, his vibro blade flashing out to meet the soldier's sword. The metal blade of the broad sword is cleaved in two with a screech of tearing steel. The soldier stumbles forward, off balance, and Apollo delivers a precise stun blast to his chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

  The second guard charges with a furious yell, his sword aimed at Apollo's head. Apollo ducks under the swing, retracts his vibro blade, and with a single, fluid motion, slices through the sword. The soldier is left holding nothing but a broken hilt, his eyes wide with shock. Apollo fires another stun blast, and the guard crumples to the ground with a heavy thud.

  The entrance to the tent is now unguarded. Apollo steps over the fallen soldiers without a word and pushes aside the heavy fabric of the tent flap, stepping into the dimly lit interior. The air inside is thick with the scent of incense and rich fabrics, the floor covered in thick rugs. The tent is spacious, with ornate furniture scattered throughout—a large bed draped in silk, a table covered in maps and documents, and a golden armor stand holding a magnificent set of armor and a crown.

  Standing in the center of the tent, dressed in his sleeping robes, is the King of Eldora. He is a tall man, his dark hair and beard streaked with gray, his face lined with the marks of age and responsibility. His eyes are sharp, intelligent, but at this moment, they are filled with a mixture of fear and rage. He grips a finely crafted sword in his hand, the blade trembling slightly.

  The king's face twists in fury, his eyes ablaze with an intensity that could cow most men, but Apollo stands unmoved. Deep lines crease King Bjorn's face, and his jaw is clenched tightly, teeth bared in a snarl. His cheeks flush crimson as rage courses through him, lending him a wild, intimidating aura that speaks of both his age and the fierce spirit within.

  "How dare you attack my camp!" he bellows, his voice reverberating through the tent like a thunderclap. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword, the knuckles white with exertion, and every word drips with disdain and indignation. "Do you know who I am?" His tone is a blend of pride and defiance, a man who has earned his title through years of battle and rule, now utterly unyielding before an intruder.

  Apollo remains silent, his stance unflinching as he finishes his scan of the tent's interior. His sensors detect only the frantic activity outside, the shuffling of guards and soldiers as they ready themselves, unaware of their king's confrontation within. His photoreceptors focus on the king alone, analyzing and anticipating every movement. Still, he offers no response, a silent, immovable sentinel in the face of the king's ire.

  "I am Bjorn Ironside, King of Eldoria!" the king declares, his voice thick with raw authority and a lifetime of command. "If you want to take my life, I promise you," he growls, leveling his sword with a determined gaze, "I will not make it easy!"

  Without another word, King Bjorn surges forward, his sword raised, each step radiating fierce determination. Despite his age, he moves with surprising speed and agility, his movements honed from decades on the battlefield.

  Apollo doesn't move as the king swings his sword down at him. With precise timing, Apollo reaches out and grabs the blade by the flat, stopping it cold. The king's eyes widen in disbelief as he struggles to free his weapon from Apollo's iron grip. The droid raises his other arm, his twin blaster barrels extending from his wrist, and aims them directly at the king's chest.

  A blue ring of energy erupts from the blasters, engulfing the king in a stunning wave. His body seizes up, the sword dropping from his hands, and he collapses into Apollo's waiting arms, unconscious. Apollo slings the king over his shoulder with ease, his sensors picking up the sounds of approaching soldiers from outside the tent.

  Stepping back out into the night, Apollo is greeted by the sight of hundreds of soldiers, their spears and shields raised in a defensive line. The soldiers' faces are set in grim determination, ready to defend their king with their lives.

  Apollo sends the ready signal to DP-8, and within moments, the night sky erupts in a hail of red heavy blaster fire. The beams rain down from above, striking the ground around Apollo, the heat and light creating a terrifying display. Soldiers cry out in panic, some throwing down their weapons and fleeing, others raising their shields in a futile attempt to block the incoming fire. Tents burst into flames, the fabric curling and blackening in the intense heat.

  The speeder descends from the sky, the blaster fire ceasing as it lands before Apollo, its engines whining softly as it hovers just above the ground. A large dust cloud is kicked up as the glass panel slides open, revealing the empty back seat.

  Apollo doesn't hesitate. He strides forward, ignoring the chaos around him, and dumps the unconscious king into the back seat. Then, with a final glance at the scattering soldiers, he climbs into the speeder, the glass panel sliding shut behind him.

  The speeder's engines roar to life, and it lifts off the ground, leaving the burning camp behind. Apollo sits beside the unconscious king, his systems humming with satisfaction. The mission is a success. They're one step closer to victory.

  As the speeder speeds away into the night, Apollo's sensors remain alert, scanning the skies for any signs of pursuit. But all is quiet, the stars above twinkling in the vast darkness. The camp, now far behind them, is a beacon of chaos and flames, but it's no longer Apollo's concern. His mission is complete.