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The sound of hooves hitting dead grass and old rubble echoes in the dead valley, like thunder after a lightning strike. Trees as black as coal are scarce, old, torn tents and abandoned camps lay around the valley. Bones, both new and old, human and beast, lay forgotten, slowly being dragged underground to reunite with mother nature and become something new.
The sound of armor slamming together echoes as the army of two hundred horses and men travel across the valley, not a speck of light in sight, only a dark blood moon hung in the clouds. At the front, a horse with a coat as black as tar and eyes as red as dragons' blood gallops, hooves slamming into the ground, leaving cracks and craters as it leads the army. Soot-stained armor lay on its body, a polished yet worn saddle.
On its head lay a mask made from the skull of a creature, horns straight, chipped, and black with tints of muddled red at the tips. Skulls of both human and creature lay in between spikes on shoulder amour, a band of leather wrapped around the horse's neck, swinging skulls and painted dragon teeth hang from the expensive wyvern leather. On the horse is a man, shoulders broad and high-strung with the adrenaline of the upcoming battle.
Cloak as black as night lay over him, hood up and hiding away identifying features. Under the shadowed hood of the cloak, eyes as pure and red as rubies glow with a rage no man should have. Calloused, rough hands grip the reins tight, skin marred, and scars fading. Veins bulge, and muscles tense as the hood whips and moves with the rushing wind, flying off the man's head. Hair as fair as wheat bathed in the morning sun, spiked like the spines that run down a dragon's back.
His jawline was sharp, chiseled from stone graced by a master sculptor. This man is the embodiment of both demon and angel, beauty and destruction.
In the sea of armored horses, cloaks as black as night cover the rest of the riders, their eyes glow with a blazing fury that rivals the ever-burning, cremating flames of hell that burn big and bright. Waves of anger, hate, and excitement roll off of them like catastrophic waves in a thunderstorm far out in the sea. The waves that swallow ships and stories whole, who have no mercy for the ones who try to brave the unpredictable sea.
In the distance lays an old stone Kingdom, shrouded with darkness and despair. Old steel gates rusted over and never opening. Vines creep up the stone walls of the castle and bordering walls of the Kingdon. The old Kingdom once ruled with an iron fist by the cruel king, All for One. After nearly two hundred years of his unwavering rule, the man fell sick and died, after the witch who preserved him for his two hundred reign has withered away, stolen through the gates of hell and damned to the pit of ever-suffering.
His son, Tomura, and his band of thieves inhabit the Kingdom now; the people living there are poor, depressed, and chained to the Kingdom. Tomura rules with the same iron fist his father once did, but this one does waver and bend to the ones stronger than him.
The man in front pulls on his horse's reins, stopping the galloping stallion. The stallion retaliates, rearing its thick, scarred head, stomping his hooves as the sea of horses behind them stop behind, the sound of angry horses and shuffle of armor echoes.
The man peers up, red eyes softening slightly. "Deku..." He breaths out, almost a whisper lost in the traveling wind, uncharacteristically soft. The man grabs his scabbard, grabbing the hilt of the sword lying in the worn leather scabbard, the hilt melting into his right palm.
He whips the sword out, raising its gleaming silver blade to the sky, dried blood splattered on the newly sharpened blade. "FOR IZUKU!" He roars, canines glowing red from the blood moon as the army behind him answers his cries, mimicking his actions and words as they storm the Kingdom in front of them.
For Izuku.