Page 89 of Scorching the Alien Empire
I am no War Chieftain.
“I am a clone.” The words ooze from my lips like venom, threatening to murder everything I’ve built.
For a moment, through our bond, I feel her disappointment flare, her gaze faltering. But then it hardens, sharper than before.
“I don’t care if you’re made of red-colored silly putty,” she snaps. “You are what you are—my red dragon.”
No. I am a lie—a weapon of death, crafted from the bones of our females. Wielded by an enemy that seeks to eradicate all life.
A faint smile touches her beautiful lips as she pinches Ignixis’s ashes from my hand and presses them to my forehead.
“We carry Ignixis with us. His sacred ashes are touched by Arawnoth himself,” she whispers solemnly, smearing a streak across her own skin. Then, suddenly, her face lights up with excitement as she swallows a pinch of the ash.
“Yes!” she gasps, her silver eyes blazing with fervor. “He resides within us now. Arawnoth’s chosen herald—his most faithful servant. He who burned in divine love. Let the strength of his sacrifice wash away our weakness. Let his ashes blaze a path to strength.”
She presses Ignixis’s charred remains into my mouth.
The bitter taste of soot coats my tongue, but almost instantly, warmth spreads through me. Faint at first—then searing. A molten inferno ignites in my core, pulsing from my forehead, surging through my veins, burning away hesitation, doubt, and despair.
“Scourge the weak, embrace strength. Let the vanquished be reborn in his divine image.” Princesa’s voice rises, her black robes billowing as she lifts her arms.
“Yes,” I growl, my despair evaporating in the heat of my molten hatred. “The Scythians—the Voidbringer—must suffer.”
With a snarl, I activate my plasma claws. The searing blades hiss to life, casting flickering azure across the dim room. With a primal roar, I tear into the hated Crucible.
Fangs bared, Rush blazing.
No technique. No precision. Only raw, unrelenting fury.
I strike over and over, molten slag sloughing off as conduits and connectors rupture, writhing and sputtering like dying creatures beneath my wrath. The air boils, thick with burning metal and vented plasma. I inhale it deep, relishing the heat, wishing—longing—that I were hacking flesh and bone beneath my claws. That I could hear the screams. Instead, I am met only with the cold silence of dying machinery.
“Death to the murder-bots!” Princesa shouts gleefully, yanking me from my misty-eyed rampage.
I pause, chest heaving, my molten breath scorching the air.
Before me lies a broken mound of twisted, melted metal. Unrecognizable. The Crucible is no more. The malignant heart of Ravager’s Ruin—of my people’s suffering—torn asunder.
Silence lingers. Eerie. Unnatural.
Until realization takes root—the static whispering laughter is no more. The temperature is no longer unnaturally cold.
The air itself feels... lighter. No longer thick. No longerwrong.That heavy, crawling pull at the edges of my awareness—gone.
And yet, the real danger remains. It lurks outside, in the void. A near-infinite tide of Scythians. Cold, unblinking metal lenses fixated on us. Watching. Waiting.
I rejected the machine’s offer of slavery. Spat in its eye with the strength of the Gods. And yet—by some miracle—we are not already drowning in a storm of drones and sizzling plasma.
What holds them back?
“Come,” I rumble, offering an arm to Princesa, urgency twisting in my gut.
“Two seconds,” my Mortakin-Kis mutters distractedly, on hands and knees, frantically brushing Ignixis’s ashes into a pouch. “Here.” She straightens and ties the bag’s string around my belt of bone.
My fingers trace the fabric. It radiates a faint warmth.Mere ashes—it should mean nothing.Yet, I cannot deny the comforting presence they convey, the fire it ignites in my soul.
“I will slaughter them all,” I whisper, a vow carried to Ignixis, to our lost females, to all my people. The Scythians will know fear as long as I draw breath.
My final gift to you, my old mentor—fulfilling your prophecy.
