Page 23 of Scorching the Alien Empire
“At once, Elder Ignixis,” Jazreal replies, his voice calm, yet edged with anticipation. A crooked grin twists the functional half of his face, and he advances like a stalking venefex. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
“Come,” I growl, forcing my body into a defensive stance. The simple maneuver is like hauling boulders through the quicksands of Nardune.
At range now, Jazreal thrusts his spear in a blinding flurry of vipertail-like barbs. I see his blows coming clearly, yet my body betrays me, moving more feebly than the old gas-cloud. My arms rise like leaden beams to parry.
Some strikes I manage to deflect; others slip through, hammering into my chest and limbs with the fury of snapping Draxxi branches. Pain blooms in sharp, hot bursts, but worse than the sting is the frustration boiling within me.
“Faster!” Jazreal snaps, circling with the confidence of a forger of war brothers over a lazy Prospect.
Again, his spear dances in the air, seeking openings. The hateful belt chokes my strength, humming with dark energy, suppressing my every move. I block less than half of Jazreal’s quick attacks, my body already awash with welts and bruises. But the throbbing ache is nothing compared to the humiliation boiling in my blood.
“Tighten your movements,” Jazreal chides, his voice like claws scraping glass. “You can’t afford wasted effort.”
His next attack comes low—at least that’s what he wants me to think. I see the shift in his stance, the faint lowering of his gaze, the subtle tilt of his shoulders. My mind discerns the feint, even if my body drags behind like a starship caught in a gravity well.
With agonizing effort, I move to intercept. My arms tremble under the strain, but I press forward, blocking low. Yet, in a fluid motion, Jazreal twists his strike into a blazing uppercut.
I’m too slow.
The spear’s haft connects with brutal force, snapping my head back. Pain detonates across my skull, and I stumble, blood spilling hot and sticky down my face. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my molten fury bursting to be unleashed at this disgrace, at this farce they inflict upon me.
“This is a mockery!” I roar, wiping the hot blood from my face, glaring at the circling Jazreal through blurry, misty, Rush-fueled eyes.
My seething rage surges through my veins, an inferno threatening to consume all reason. My fists clench, trembling with barely contained power. The belt’s suppression falters against the storm of my Rush. My muscles tighten as my body surges forward, defying the oppressive weight. With a roar, I leap at Jazreal, my fangs bared, my vision filled with nothing but the need to rip out his throat.
“Cease!” Ignixis commands, his ancient voice slicing through the haze of my rage. “You must endure this suffering, son—it is the only way. Heed the sacred words. Let this challenge harden your heart, let it strengthen your resolve.”
My murderous charge falters, feet dragging to a halt as I glare at him, my chest heaving. My gaze searches his rune-carved face for any trace of mockery or deceit hidden within its shadowed contours, but I find only sincerity.
“Good, Dracoth.” His tone softens slightly, the weight of his words pressing down like the graviton belt around my waist. “Heed our words. Learn from those who’ve trodden this path before you. As our ancestors have done since time immemorial, each soul a flicker of Arawnoth’s flame, lighting the way for those who follow. They suffered so we might live. Now, is our time to suffer. Soon, we will all be tested. We must burn bright enough to push back the darkness if we are to guide the future.”
Ignixis’s gaze drifts, his voice taking on a chant-like rhythm, as if seeing something unique to him.
Jazreal glances between us, his expression as bewildered as I feel inside. “Elder Ignixis?” he ventures, his voice tinged with concern.
“Yes...” Ignixis mutters distantly, blinking as if returning from some other realm. “Yes? Ah, forgive me. A fanciful thought seized me—an affliction of old age, I fear.” A faint grin creases his lips. “But I trust my meaning was clear? Now, continue.” He waves a blackened, gnarled hand toward us.
As clear as a Scarn ash storm.
I inhale deeply, forcing my molten rage to simmer beneath the surface. His words linger, though, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.
How much does he know? Could Krogoth be the darkness he speaks of?
Time dissolves into an unrelenting torment of punishing lessons from Jazreal. Countless furious engagements leave me coming off the worse with yet more welts painting my entire body like a canvas of suffering. Yet, I heed Ignixis’s words. I endure. I will endure any pain if it means I can one day wrap my molten grip around Krogoth’s throat and snuff the life from him. That day—my day of shame—burns hotter than any lash Jazreal can deliver.
We finally break apart, both panting heavily. The oppressive weight of the graviton belt clings to me like a second skin, draining every ounce of my endurance, strength, and speed. A sharp sting bites into my shin—another brutal reminder to expect an attack from anywhere, at any moment.
“You improve... quickly,” Jazreal concedes, between gulping air. “Still,” he jabs his spear at my feet, “your footwork? Like a broken Battlebarge limping through a meteor storm.”
His assessment is charitable. My legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. Exhaustion and the great weight sapping me of my remaining strength. But I will not fall. I will not submit. Not now. Not ever again.
Ignixis creeps around the outskirts of our sandy arena like a shadow made flesh. “The sun accuses the moon of being purple, Death Herald,” he titters, jabbing a bony, accusatory finger at Jazreal’s sand-covered boots. “You strut like a preening puffrio during mating season—Inefficient embellishments unfit for any battlefield.”
I suppress a grin as Jazreal freezes, blinking as though Ignixis’s words had physically struck him.
“Mating puffrio?” he repeats, shaking his head in disdain. “Why don’t you demonstrate for us, Elder?” he offers, raising his wooden spear, its tip still slick with my blood.
“Hmph!” Ignixis recoils, wrinkling his nose at the weapon as if it were a vipertail. “My days of fighting have long sincepassed,” he says, smoothing the void-black folds of his robe with deliberate indifference. “But perhaps you’d do well to heed my earlier words intended for Dracoth.” His tone hardens, cutting through the stale air. “Our destinies will not be shaped by muscle and skill alone. Resolve and intelligence will guide—or doom us.”
