The Emperor’s Weapon
In this throne room confrontation, Lord Drakkon vs Goldar is more than a clash of power — it is proof that Rangers can fall. When Lord Zedd summons a victor from another dimension, the balance inside the Dark Palace shifts. Goldar expects routine. Instead, he faces a version of Tommy Oliver who did not fight to survive… he fought to conquer.
A Familiar Stranger
Lord Zedd’s mighty General, Goldar, entered the throne chamber expecting routine.
The massive doors groaned open and the familiar heat washed over him — scorched circuitry, molten metal, and the constant hum of palace conduits that pulsed like mechanical veins through the walls. The throne platform radiated its crimson glow, casting jagged shadows that stretched across the stone floor.
Everything was as it should be. Until it wasn’t.
Goldar stopped mid-stride.
There was someone standing beside the throne — Not kneeling, not restrained. Standing. And there was something about the figure that felt wrong.
Green. White. Gold.
The colors struck him like a flash of remembered humiliation.
The armor was unmistakable — the sleek chest plating, the dragon shield lines, the Tiger emblem centered across the torso, the hybrid helm that fused two identities into one. It was familiar in every detail.
And yet, it was not.
The posture was different. Straighter. Still. Controlled.
Not restless. Not reactive.
Goldar’s wings shifted behind him as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his double-edged Golden Sword, Griffocalibur.
“Your Eminence… what is that Ranger doing at your side?”
Lord Zedd did not rise. He leaned back against the throne as sparks from the surrounding energy coils flickered behind him, illuminating the skeletal lines of his armor.
The Emperor’s Revelation
“This is Lord Drakkon.”
The name trespassed against their chamber — and Goldar felt it.
The armored figure turned his helmet slowly toward Goldar. There was no dramatic gesture, no display of power. Just a measured turn of the head.
Goldar understood it immediately. That gaze was not defensive. It was evaluating him.
“I remember that armor,” Goldar said, his voice low and edged. “And the reckless boy hiding behind it.”
Zedd gave a short, amused exhale.
“He is not the boy you chased across Angel Grove, Goldar. This one conquered his world.”
The word landed heavy, humming with the promise of dominance.
Conquered.
Goldar felt it reverberate through him.
Zedd’s voice remained calm, deliberate, almost analytical.
“In his dimension, he destroyed his Rangers. He eliminated his enemies. He did not hesitate when power was within reach.”
Goldar’s grip tightened further around Griffocalibur.
Zedd rarely praised anyone. Certainly not a former Ranger. The Emperor leaned forward slightly, red energy flaring behind him as if responding to his words.
“The Morphin Grid trembled when he did it.”
The chamber grew noticeably still.
“I felt it,” Zedd continued. “A fracture. A disruption unlike anything this universe has seen.”
Goldar’s eyes narrowed as understanding began to form.
“You summoned him.”
Drakkon Conquers
Zedd’s tone sharpened with quiet satisfaction.
“I summoned proof.”
Silence followed. Even the palace conduits seemed to hold their charge.
“That Rangers can fall.”
Drakkon remained silent beside the throne, his presence steady and unflinching. He did not need to speak, only observe.
Zedd settled back once more.
“For years you have fought them, Goldar. Battled them.”
Zedd’s tone cooled.
“And time and again, they sent you running.”
“He did not give them that luxury.”
Goldar felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest — not fear, but recognition.
This was not another monster of the week. Not another experiment.
This was strategy, evolution.
Zedd angled his helmet toward him.
“I did not summon a Ranger.”
A moment of silence.
“I summoned a victor.”
Only then did Drakkon step forward. His eyes locked with Goldar.
“You remember the Dark Dimension, Goldar?”
The words cut clean through the silence.
“The Green Candle,” Drakkon continued evenly. “You tried to drain my power.”
Goldar’s jaw tightened.
“You escaped.”
Drakkon’s voice sharpened, though his posture never changed.
“No. In my dimension, that candle fueled my dark side with the Green Ranger’s power.”
He stepped closer.
“Then I defeated you. Just like I always did.”
Drakkon tilted his helmet slightly.
“And I’m guessing… you ran in this dimension too.”
The memory ignited without invitation — the clash of swords in the Dark Dimension, the forced retreat, the humiliation that had lingered far longer than the wounds.
Goldar’s voice lowered into a growl.
“Careful.”
Drakkon did not blink.
“Or what?”
Silence swallowed the throne room whole.
Behind them, Lord Zedd watched.
And in that heavy stillness, Goldar understood something unsettling.
The Emperor was not threatened by this presence at his side.
He was intrigued.
Drakkon did not retreat from the challenge.
Close Enough to Smell the Challenge
Instead, he stepped down from the throne platform and into the open space between them. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, almost casual, as though he were entering a conversation rather than a confrontation.
He stopped inches from Goldar.
Close enough to smell the smoky, sulfur-laced scent of scorched metal clinging to Goldar’s armor. Beneath it lingered something more primal — the hot breath of a metallic lion-ape, thick and unpleasant in the heat of the chamber.
Drakkon did not recoil.
He did not step back.
If the odor offended him, it did not register in his posture. Only the faintest tilt of his helmet suggested acknowledgment — not disgust, but assessment.
“You ran because you knew,” Drakkon said quietly, “that you couldn’t win.”
Goldar’s breath rolled across the narrow space between them, hot and acrid. His wings flared wide, casting jagged shadows against the chamber walls.
“I retreated strategically,” he growled, beginning to circle. Griffocalibur angled forward in his grip, the twin edges catching the throne room’s red glow and scattering fractured light across Drakkon’s white and green armor.
The space between them seemed to contract. The heat from the palace conduits pulsed through the stone floor, rising into the air like a warning. The heat between them thickened. Drakkon lifted his hand and slowly waved it in front of his helmet, as though dispersing smoke from a battlefield.
The Insult That Landed
He paused, then leaned in just slightly.
“You should consider closing your mouth when you threaten someone,” he said calmly. “Your breath could knock out a Putty at ten paces.”
Goldar’s wings snapped wider.
Drakkon didn’t step back. Only closer.
His voice lowered, colder now.
“And whatever that stench is clinging to you… it’s not intimidation.”
Goldar’s wings twitched.
Drakkon’s hand lowered.
“You’re still too slow… you overgrown flying monkey.”
The insults found their mark with surgical precision, tearing open a wound that had never truly healed.
Goldar roared and surged forward, committing his full strength into a decisive strike meant to end the exchange before it could deepen. Griffocalibur carved a brutal horizontal arc through the air, the blades slicing toward Drakkon’s chest with lethal intent.
Goldar had fought this armor before. He remembered the reckless fury of the Green Ranger. The disciplined form of the White Ranger. Both had been powerful. Both had relied on emotion and conviction. Both had been predictable.
He expected resistance. A dramatic counter. A clash of force against force.
Instead, Drakkon moved.
Not backward. Not frantically.
Just slightly off the line of attack.
The adjustment was minimal, almost imperceptible. The blade passed through empty air where his torso had been only a heartbeat earlier.
Goldar’s mind recalibrated instantly.
The dodge had been too efficient. Too restrained. There had been no flourish, no telegraphed spin, no athletic exaggeration. The Green Ranger would have leapt. The White Ranger would have countered with spectacle.
This one had barely shifted his weight. And it was calculated. And in that suspended instant, Goldar understood something unsettling. This was not the boy he had battled in the Dark Dimension. This was something darker and threatening.
A Hard Lesson
Goldar barely registered the movement.
One instant Drakkon stood before him. The next, the space between them had collapsed.
There had been no roar of exertion, no dramatic wind-up. Only a subtle shift of weight and a flash of white and green that cut across his vision too quickly to track.
Then the impact came.
Drakkon’s fist struck square against Goldar’s chest plate with precision that felt engineered rather than explosive. It was not a wild blow fueled by anger. It was not a desperate counter thrown in defense. It was controlled and precise.
The force drove through metal and muscle alike, reverberating beneath Goldar’s armor with crushing efficiency. Air tore from his lungs as his body lifted from the stone floor, the world tilting violently around him. Griffocalibur tore free from his grip, spinning wildly through the air before clattering against the stone somewhere behind him — a sound that echoed longer than it should have.
Goldar’s back met the throne chamber floor with a thunderous crash that echoed against the vaulted walls. Sparks flickered from the palace conduits above as fractured shadows danced across his blurred vision. Pain radiated outward from the center of his chest, deep and unrelenting, forcing a harsh breath through his clenched teeth.
For a moment, he lay there, stunned not by weakness but by realization.
He had not been overpowered. He had been outclassed.
When his vision finally steadied and he forced himself to look up, Drakkon stood a few steps away, boots planted firmly against the stone.
He had not stumbled on landing.
He had not advanced in rage.
He simply watched.
His posture remained steady. His breathing controlled. His helmet angled slightly downward in silent evaluation.
Goldar felt something unfamiliar stir beneath the pain, something rare for him: fear.
The Restrained Fist
Goldar lay against the cold stone floor, the echo of impact still reverberating through his armor.
Pain radiated outward from his chest in heavy waves, but it was not the pain that unsettled him.
It was clarity.
Drakkon stood over him, one step away, posture angled forward with deliberate intent. His fist remained raised, not shaking, not rushed. There was no frenzy behind it. No uncontrolled momentum.
Just readiness.
One more strike would end this.
Goldar knew it.
The chamber felt impossibly still. Even the hum of the palace conduits seemed distant now.
Slowly, Goldar lifted his hand.
Not in panic or humiliation but in acknowledgment.
“Enough.”
The word left his mouth low and measured, carrying far more weight than a roar ever could.
“I got the point.”
Drakkon did not answer. His helmet remained angled downward, studying the fallen General as though evaluating whether the surrender was genuine or merely tactical. In the silence, Drakkon almost wished Goldar would move. Just a twitch. A defiant swing. A desperate lunge.
Give him a reason to end Zedd’s most loyal General before the Emperor ever left his throne.
Behind them, Lord Zedd remained seated.
Silent.
Observing.
Goldar held Drakkon’s gaze and did not reach for his weapon again.
The decision crystallized. Drakkon lowered his fist slowly. The restraint carried more weight than the punch that had preceded it.
And Goldar understood.
This had not been about rage.
It had been a demonstration.
An Unexpected Gesture
What happened next unsettled Goldar more than the punch.
Drakkon extended his hand.
There was no mockery in the gesture. No lingering threat. Just a calm, deliberate offering.
For a fraction of a second, Goldar hesitated.
Then he took it.
The grip was firm. Not a show of superiority — but not equal either. Drakkon pulled him to his feet with measured strength and released him without lingering.
Goldar rose slowly, reclaiming his posture, reclaiming the space around him. He retrieved Griffocalibur and held it at his side, not raised in challenge, but not lowered in shame.
He met the dark visor of Drakkon’s helm and held the gaze. This was not the impulsive Green Ranger who once relied on fury. Not the noble White Ranger who fought with conviction. This was something altered — sharpened. Refined by conquest rather than defeat.
Dangerous.
Loyalty, Reaffirmed
Goldar turned toward the throne, forcing his breathing into steady rhythm despite the lingering ache in his chest.
“I serve you, Lord Zedd. That will never change.”
The chamber hummed faintly.
Lord Zedd’s laughter rolled through the chamber, deep and satisfied. He leaned back on the throne, skeletal fingers flexing against the armrests.
“Good, Goldar,” Zedd said dryly. “Looks like you do have a brain after all.”
The words carried the familiar edge of ridicule — but beneath it, approval.
Goldar did not react to the jab. He had endured worse.
He cast one final glance toward Drakkon. Now he understood. Zedd had not summoned a replacement.
He had summoned a weapon. And weapons were meant to be aimed.
Fine.
Let Zedd keep his new victor.
Goldar would adjust. He would observe. He would learn the rhythms of this new predator standing at Zedd’s side.
And if the day ever came when that weapon turned—
Goldar would be ready.
– Copyright © 2026
About These Toy Figures
This Power Rangers short story scene of Lord Drakkon vs Goldar was photographed using a custom Dark Palace setup with layered lighting to capture the red energy glow of Zedd’s chamber. Lord Drakkon and Goldar were posed in escalating stages to create a cinematic progression across five images. Final adjustments and lighting refinement were completed in Photoshop Elements.
- Lord Drakkon – Super7 figure. The tyrannical and Super-villainous alternate reality counterpart of Tommy Oliver.
- Lord Zedd – Super7 figure. The Emperor of Evil supreme leader of the Evil Space Aliens.
- Goldar – From Super 7. Zedd’s top General and longtime battlefield enforcer.
Entertainment & Props
- Lord Zedd’s Throne base – 3D printed and air brushed.
- Lord Zedd’s Throne – Super7.
- Floor — Wood grained slab panel.
- Background — Black drop cloth.
