Page 200 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“You Magaxus are ash-addled,” barks one Astranix, a dark-haired warrior already stepping forward, squaring up. “Sucking fumes and belching hot air where respect’s due.”
“I’m all out of respect, feather-voider,” Drexios grins, claws extending with a menacingsnap. “But lucky for you, the food dispenser’s running—and I’mstarvingfor poultry.”
“Your tongue’s as sharp as ever, Drexios,” Vorthax rumbles, his voice like ancient stones grinding down a mountain. “But I didn’t come to bandy barbs with Gorexius’s pet.”
He steps forward, his large frame easily brushing my Second aside.
“So. The rumors were true. Gorexius returns from the netherworld. A hemovyrn crawling free from the Catacombs of Nardune...” He tilts his head, appraising me.
The name ‘Gorexius’ is a brand pressed to my spine. My father’s shadow stretches long—even here, in this wasteland.Inescapable, his destiny continues to corrupt my own.
“Though you appear younger. Marked by shame. Wearing the bones of Hemo-Tok. You honor the old ways. Do you remember me, old friend? Or perhaps—this?”
Like the axe he unslings, his voice carries an edge—hope, pain... maybe both. He runs his hand along the etched bronze runes, fingers brushing the notched edge. The metal is darkened arcweave, the leather grip cracked and worn. The cutting-edge glows faintly with dormant plasma channels.
“Stormcleaver,” he says. “The gift you gave me.”
“An impressive blade,” I growl, eyes flicking from axe to eyes. “If a little decorative.”
His golden gaze snaps to mine—then he barks a dry laugh. It echoes strangely in the broken silence of the plaza.
“The same words you spoke when I first asked for the runes.” He hefts the weapon in both hands, holding it before him in a weathered grip strong enough to tear mountains.
“Isn’t life strange? A few months ago I used this to split Nebian Battlesuits in half. Right here.Thisvery sector—we rained molten death from orbit. Nearly broke the Nebian war engine in a single blow.”
He looks up at the ravaged skyline, the slagged spires, the drifting ash.
And now...” His voice softens. “Now Krogoth... High Chieftain Krogoth arrives—sowing discord, undoing everything we bled for.” His gaze snaps back to me, fire rekindling.
“Doesn’t itburnyou, brother? Doesn’t itseethe? To turn traitor—ally with theenemy—moments from victory?” He drives the axe butt into the slag. It splits open with a sound like thunder, cracks spidering out like veins across the plaza. “The blood spilled. The dead left behind. Every inch we clawed forward—a brutal, crawling gauntlet.For what?Nothing!”
His voice is thunder now.
“Our ancestorsweepat this betrayal!”
Golden Rush wisps from his eyes like smoke, dancing away on the scorched wind. My fists clench, gauntlets creaking under the strain. His passion, his fury... itcallsto me. To the molten part of my soul I buried. He echoes everything I once believed. Before I learned the truth.
That the real betrayal wasn’t Krogoth. It was my father, forcing our enslavement to the Scythians. Not just for us Klendathians. But for all life.
And yet... he offers opportunity.
A path once swallowed by Krogoth’s spiraling vortex, now reignites—blazing and glorious—before me. His grip over the clans is tenuous at best. Old wounds split like polymer under hyperspeed. Loyalties stretch thin, threatening to tear completely.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Blood surges like magma through my veins, stoked by the raging destiny manifesting—the one that was promised. To rise. To rule. To stand as War Chieftain.
Alone. Unopposed.
With Vorthax’s backing—and perhaps the others—I could snap Krogoth’s spine. Add his brittle vertebrae to my belt. Take his place. As I should.
But... could I defeat him?
Not as he is now. Not while divinity coils through his every limb. But as amortal?Stripped of the Gods’ blessings, bound by sinew and skill alone?
Inthatarena—no one rivals me.
I am the strongest. Arawnoth’s chosen. His molten fury flows through my noble veins. And with Princesa’s bond stoking my abilities, I soar higher than even my father’s storied legend.
My fangs bare. Lips curled into a snarl. Just the thought of it—a clash of champions, strength against strength—sends Rush-red spilling from my eyes. A trial by fire. Finally, a worthy contest to crown destiny.
