Page 198 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“And you?” Jazreal asks, head high, long black-grey hair sweeping dramatically in the wind like his usual Classy-Jazzy war-movie style.
Dracoth’s eyes flash molten coals, drifting to his clenching fists, the armor groaning like me internally.
“I will scour the Voidbringer’s mechanical filth from existence,” he says, voice low and terrifyingly calm. His gaze lifts to the obsidian skies. “Every galaxy. Every planet. Every station. I will hunt it, and eradicate every last circuit it clings too. I will teach it the meaning of fear... and regret.”
He pauses, looking back to the crowd, eyes gleaming with unnerving resolve. “There may be more clones, more Revered Mothers lost among the stars. I will light their path back home. That is where I go. That is what awaits those who follow.”
My heart thunders in my chest. There go my dreams of lounging on a sun-drenched balcony, ruling over a high-fashion, delicious-food-filled galaxy as Goddess Empress. That vision evaporates faster than Michael in bed.
“I’m with you, War Chieftain,” Jazreal growls, spinning his spear before slamming it into the shattered stone. “Not until they suffer. Not until vengeance is delivered.”
“Hah!” Drexios barks, hopping on the dais like a demon in a discount cape. “And here I thought you’d prance back to Klendathian with your flower crown, Death Herald.” He flutters his fingers mockingly. “But can’t lie—Ilikekilling. So congrats, you cunts are stuck with me.”
How does this keep getting worse?
Dracoth nods at the pair, his face the usual unreadable Mr. Frowny Face. But through our bond, I can feel it—pride and joy surging like a storm tide.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’m being dragged into the deepest circle of hell. Murder-bot hell. With bone-through-the-noses, holes in the ground for toilets, garnish rags for clothes, jelly sticks for meals, and genocidal machines trying to turn us into abstract art.
Dracoth raises his voice again, gesturing to the cracked earth beneath us.
“Those who wish to return and rebuild—come now. Lay down your arms with heads high. With my blessing.”
A heavy silence settles over the sea of soldiers. Tens of thousands of black-armored space-knights glance between each other. For a moment, hope soars like how I wish my bank account did—the glorious horde I need to rule, ready to conquer brunch planets and cosmetic empires—remain standing.
Then one steps forward.
Long crimson hair streaked with grey. Face like pebbledash, carved with ancient scars. I know him—the space-knight who begged to see the Revered Mothers. The one I promised would only fight one last battle.
Another follows. Then another. A trickle becomes a steady stream, breaking from the crowd and flowing toward us.
Drexios scoffs, jabbing a finger at them. “Voiding cowards. I can smell the piss from here. You just wanna bed the Revered Mothers while we do the dying.”
“Silence!” Dracoth snaps, his fury slicing through the air like a virgin credit card.
Drexios tuts but remains silent for once.
“There are no cowards here,” Dracoth says, voice iron. “Onlyheroes.” He turns back toward the approaching warriors, arms open. “Come.”
There are hundreds of them now—each one a chipped nail clawing at my perfectly manicured ambitions. And wouldn’t you know it? A pattern emerges. A river of grizzled, gray-streaked longhairs. Rockstars on steroids, their glory days long behind them.
Wonderful. I’m losing the most experienced space-knights.The veterans with enough battle stories to fill an entire season of Klendathian Court Dramas: Blood Edition.
Red-Hair—the OG buzzkill—slams a fist to his chest and inclines his head to Dracoth. “I will have the peace that was promised.” His gaze cuts to me—ancient and judgmental, like I’m the one who pooped in his armored boots.
That was Todd. Always Todd.
The grizzled space-knight twists a mechanism on his wrist. A ring of ashen metal clicks loose and falls to the rocky ground with athud.
“I’ve lived centuries knowing nothing but blood and death,” He growls, glaring at Drexios as he repeats the process with the other wrist.
Drexios waves mockingly, wiggling his fingers like he’s sending off a cruise ship.
“To once again bask in the beauty of Klendathor’s sun...” He closes his eyes. Breathes deep. “My thanks, War Chieftain.”
And off he goes, striding through the crowd after the mic drop. The others part to let him pass, reverent. Hundreds follow, repeating the ritual. More wrist-thingamajigs fall. Each metallicclinkhas my lips pinch tighter.
After what feels like a lifetime of listening to metaphorical nails screech across the universe’s biggest chalkboard, I’ve officially hit my limit. If this keeps up, I’ll be left with nothing but teenagers, and lunatics.
