Page 188 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“I will bring her back,” I mutter, a solemn, whispered promise.
“War Chieftain, aShorthairvessel disobeys orders,” Corsark interrupts, his tone laced with annoyance.
A coward? Now? After everything they’ve endured?
My gaze snaps to the navigation display. A tiny blue dot breaks away from the others ferrying between this ship and the stranded Battlebarges. Not to flee. No. The ship hurtles toward the raging battle turned rout—a needle plunging into the titanic metal jaws of the enemy.
A frantic attempt to prove themselves?
“The pilot responded. Message reads: A large Klendathian has taken control of the ship.” Corsark says, confusion matching my own.
“Must be from warband Hemovyrn’s Blood,” Drexios sneers. “Those voiders have a death wish.”
“No,” I mutter, my warvisor-enhanced senses bridging the vast distance of space. The Scythian forces recoil, scattering like a flock of puffrios before a swooping arrohawk.
“Krogoth.”
He’s aboard the rogueShorthairvessel, ripping holes in the fabric of reality among the withering ranks of the metal horde. Voidbanes and Seeker drones scramble to escape the churning voids of cosmic death.
But they can’t escape the inescapable.
The gravitational force of the universe itself strips the arcweave from their frames, piece by piece, pulling them inextricably toward oblivion. Mountainous obsidian warships crumble, squeezed into swirling abysses no larger than my fist.
“Would you look at that,” Drexios laughs, visor locked on the viewport. “He likes killing Scythians more than you do.”
My fist tightens, bones creaking under the strength none but I possess.
This is Krogoth’s victory. It cannot be denied.
Masses of Seeker drones hurl themselves into the celestial voids in a desperate attempt to reach his fragile ship, but the Nebians fall into formation, encasing him in a prism of biting lasers. The Scythians refuse to die, refuse to yield. They scatter like embers in a blizzard, only to reform, testing new angles, new strategies. Each failure costs them dearly. Every attempt sends millions more drones into a realm that defies reason and logic.
The wrath of the Gods.
“War Chieftain, theShorthairsreport all survivors are aboard theRavager’s Ruin,” Corsark breathes, relief washing over him as what once seemed an impossible dream becomes reality before our eyes.
“Good,” I growl, my gaze shifting to a shattered world in the distance—Argon-Six.
My hands guide the ship toward the planet, engine rumbling as we hurtle through wreckage thudding against our shields. I focus my warvisor on the communications from the planet’s surface. Instantly, my mind is flooded with the barked commands of War Heralds—confident yet strained. Their forces meet stiff resistance from hordes of Scythian droids and towering Dreadforges.
“War Chieftain, I’m picking up hyperspeed signatures,” Corsark says, his words slicing through my elation like an icy blade. “A fleet approaches.”
Another fleet?A final desperate ploy from the Voidbringer?
The Rush pours through my veins like molten lava, ready to unleash death upon whatever emerges.
Then, I see it. Multi-hued lights streak across the void like a meteor shower, materializing into gleaming ships. Not the angular tombstones of Voidbanes nor the darting orbs of Seeker drones. No. Something much sleeker, something rumored to exist but doubted by the wise.
The Imperator’s Fist.
It lances through the void with elegance and lethal precision, an elongated dagger of burnished violet arcweave trimmed with molten gold, glowing faintly even in the void, as if coated in pure Elerium. Three times the length of a standard Starcruiser, its bow tapers to a razor-edged prow, looking capable of slicing through fleets like the vast array of laser cannons dotting its surfaces.
Flanking theImperator’s Fistare twelvePraetorian-class Starcruisers—each a pristine masterpiece of war. Smaller echoes of the flagship, their hulls gleam a deep amethyst, their prows etched with the Imperator’s sigil. They rotate around their master like armored gauntlets guarding a clenched fist, ensuring no enemy approaches unburned.
“Hah!” Drexios barks, equal parts amusement and surprise. “Can you voiding believe this? The old geezer himself makes an appearance. Do you know how long your father and I tried to goad this ancient shite from Nebia? And now here he is, swooping in to steal the show when the fight’s already won.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Voiding Shorties. You know what I think? I reckon we ought to have a little pop at ‘em.” His tone drips with dark amusement. “For old times’ sake.”
“No,” I mutter absently, transfixed by the unfolding carnage.
TheImperator’s Fistcrashes into the Scythian flank, its pointed plow sparking with crimson fire as it carves through a Voidbane like a claw through snow—bisecting it with frightening ease. Hundreds of laser cannons ignite, turning the void into a searing inferno. Ruby beams punch through the hordes ofSeeker drones and Voidbanes, eviscerating them, wiping them from existence.
