Page 273 of Scorching the Alien Empire
If this keeps up, I’ll plummet into the fiery abyss behind or slowly bleed out. Controlled, corralled like an animal for the slaughter.
No. I will not crawl. I will not yield. Never again.
If pain is the price of hope—then let it tear me open.
Let it rip. Let it remind him who I am. I am Arawnoth’s chosen son. And my vengeance will not be denied.
My eyes narrow. My grip tightens.Stormcleavercocks over my shoulder. I beckon him forward.
For just a heartbeat, he hesitates—uncertain. I watch his whip hand like an arrohawk. Patient. Still. Heart pounding like the beating war drums.
Then—I see it. A flick of the wrist.
I roar and hurlStormcleaver—a cyclone of death screaming for his legs.
Krogoth leaps, fluid as flame, rising above the strike. His whip whistles toward me, weaker now. My arm lashes out, seizing the chain. Pain detonates in my palm as the razored links bite deep. I ignore it. Fury is the only thing I feel.
A yank—sharp and brutal.
Krogoth jerks through the air like a speared fish, crashing down with a gratifying grunt. He skids across the ash-caked rock, flailing. My strength tears the weapon from his stunned grasp. I let the vile thing fly into the lava’s waiting embrace behind.
Now!
With a bellow, I charge—unstoppable, roaring, ready to end him. The crowd’s deafening roar dies into a breathless hush. My natural claws extend with a pleasingshrieeek—itching for his blood and spine.
A heartbeat away, Krogoth pushes from the ground to land on his feet with a speed and grace that shouldn’t be possible for a warrior his size.
Too slow.
I’m already there, my claws carving a brutal slash. He barely raises his shield in time. Wood screams as my long claws gouge deep scars into its surface.
He staggers, tries to retreat—but I slam my burnished shield into his face with a thunderous crack. His head snaps back. A geyser of green blood paints the air.
Seeking to end him. I jab for his throat—one swift strike to finish it.
But he’s still too quick, deflecting with his mangled shield before springing backward in powerful leaps.
Then—I see it.
There, half-buried in rubble besideStormcleaver—his respirator.
I dive, scoop them both, hooking the mask to my belt.
Krogoth coughs. A wet, wheezing sound that echoes beneath the pounding war drums. First a splutter, then a rattle. He bends over, clutching his face, trying to contain his weakness. He cannot. It swirls around us for all to see. The blood from his shattered nose and the choking ash are strangling the life from him.
I stand tall, savoring the moment. Victory tastes near enough to drink.
“Even this cursed land rejects you, Krogoth.” I boom, my voice rising with the ruby lightning that crackles overhead.
I kneel, grab a fistful of scalding ash, and smear it over my wounds, stemming the flow of blood from my torn hand. It stings. It burns—but I welcome it.
I am a son of Scarn. Forged in fire and ash.
A grin twists my lips as I lick the residue from my hand, tasting metallic blood and salty, bitter ash.
“You wither,” I growl. “While I burn with rage. I rise—reborn from the ashes of the shame you inflicted.”
How many charred warriors, how many souls swirl through the air of this dying world, demanding their sacrifice be honored? A planet that’s known only war and death. Theirspirits howl in my lungs, fueling my wrath. They reject Krogoth’s weakness. His dishonor. I alone am chosen. I alone will ascend.
