Page 122 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“War Chieftain. Blessed Daughter.” Their voices rise in raw, fervent emotion. “You deliver a gift from the Gods themselves! We will follow you anywhere. Into the pits of the netherworld itself, if you command it!” The black-haired Varax steps forward, his voice ringing with passion and fire.
This moment will echo for eternity—the rebirth of our glorious people. My berserkers feel it too, the weight of it crackling in the frigid air. Their hearts soar with new purpose. No longer fighting for mere pleasure, but for something more. To protect the future, and redeem the past.
I clap the warrior on the shoulder, my gaze sweeping over the grouped females.
My voice is a solemn promise.
“We’re going home.”
Chapter 24
Dracoth
A Million Worlds
Thecorridorflaresred,deep crimson flooding everything, casting long, twisting shadows over concerned faces.
It happens immediately after my words. Almost mocking, calculated. My heart hammers. I scan the corridor, praying the light will flicker off again, as it did before. But this time is different. This time, it strobes. The glow pulses—bright ruby blinding, then plunging us into blackness—again and again, flickering in a rhythm. Like a bioluminescent insect signaling danger.
Worry shortens my breaths, eyes sweeping over the huddled Klendathian females. Hunched over. Trembling. Hands clutching the worn fabric of their gowns as if it might protectthem. So fragile. So precious. The weight of our entire species’ survival rests on my shoulders. A sputtering ember, cradled in my hands, about to be plunged into an ocean of blood.
“Quickly!” I bellow, my voice rumbling like thunder.
My six berserkers react instantly, moving with haste—arms spread wide, herding the females forward. However, they barely move. Their eyes remain downcast. Their bare feet shuffle across the cold metal, slow and reluctant. Like a herd of stubborn snarlbrocs.
I grimace beneath my mask. They’re oblivious to the danger. To everything. With so few of us, we cannot carry them all. No, we must press on slowly, for now.
With agonizingly sluggish steps, we travel down the flashing corridor. The etched glyphs, threading with pulsing green. Tendrils of light sprawl from the floor, creeping upward, winding toward the ceiling like twisting veins. The crimson glow vanishes. Then, in an instant, it returns. The cycle begins anew.
“Yeah, home sounds good right now, babes,” Princesa muses, silver-crimson eyes tracking the writhing tendrils.
We pass the remnants of our earlier destruction. Melted turrets. Sliced droids. Puddles of solidified blue-gray matter, fused to the floor.
Among an eviscerated droid lies Drexios. He sits with his back to a wall, surrounded by severed insectoid droid limbs, staring at the twin blades in his hands.
“Aww, did the little puppy get lost?” Princesa coos in a mocking soft tone. “I mean, I don’t know much about Klendathian military laws, but you look like a deserter to me. And back on Earth, they shoot those.”
Her lips curl into a twisted smirk. Drexios springs to his feet, face darkening—a venomous sneer forming on his lips. But then his eyes dart to the shuffling females. Suddenly, his expressionshifts. The rage drains from his face. His shoulders loosen. The leather of his blade hilts stops squeaking in protest.
“I... I—” he stammers, eyes downcast.
“How embarrassing!” Princesa bursts into laughter, leaning forward, silver-red fumes wafting from narrowed eyes as she drinks in his discomfort. “Where’s the big tough—”
“Fall in,” I cut through the time-wasting nonsense with a growl. “Escort the Revered Mothers,” I nod past him.
Drexios doesn’t argue. He simply slams a fist to his chest plate and inclines his head with a solemn expression I’ve never seen before crosses his face. He moves swiftly, falling into formation with the others, urging the females forward.
After what feels like an age we pass through the cloning chamber with the five vats. My broken, twisted clone brothers still mar the blood-soaked floor. Somehow, more disturbing. In the flashing crimson and sickly pulsing green, their features vivid. Their brows no longer shadowed. Their suffering is no longer hidden. My face. My pain. Reflected for all to see.
With my heart encased in the thickest arcweave, I step over the grisly remains. No second glance. No hesitation. Only a vow—to destroy this place. To reduce this netherworld fortress of agony to ash. Let it burn in Arawnoth’s cleansing fire.
“Ugh, gross,” Princesa mutters under her breath, eyeing the gore before craning her neck to peer at the females behind us. “We’re going to need more red taxis. Like a giant red bus at this rate.” She sighs, impatience pricking through our bond.
We emerge into the next corridor. It stretches endlessly. The walls converging, disappearing into the distance. The length dotted with the smoldering ruins of ancient battle droids. Their destruction is a balm. A reminder that I was right not to trust their slumbering presence.
Then, I notice it. The crimson illumination doesn’t flicker. It stays solid. Red and locked. My heart skips a beat. I hesitate,wondering if it’s the product of my troubled mind. The others stop. Watching. Holding our breath. Waiting for the flash. But there isn’t one. No flicker. Just the deep red and the throbbing green tendrils crawling inexorably from floor to ceiling, like cords of a sickly net closing in around us.
When the threads meet. Winding. Tightening. Wrapping from top to bottom, a rumble, deep, guttural, resonates through the walls like a colossal beast awakening. My warvisor pulses with alerts. Movement, all around, layered where metal surfaces should be. Nearby, the muffled groan of servo gears churns through the walls—whirring, spluttering to life.
