Page 12 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

“Balsar nearly soiled himself when he saw what became of his former ‘ smoky brothers ,’” Jazreal says, stepping gracefully into the arena, his spear poised in challenge.

A smirk flickers across his unmarred cheek.

“But it’s what came after that truly spooked him.

” He spins his weapon with a theatrical flourish, the tip slicing lazy arcs through the air.

“Spooked me too!” he shouts, springing forward. His spear flashes like brown lightning, a relentless barrage of thrusts aimed straight for me.

Caught off guard, I’m forced to step back, turning aside the strikes with my claws. The rapid clatter echoes through the chamber, each blow closer than the last. His movements are too quick, his weapon a blur I can’t catch.

“Did you hear what he and Princesa were doing during the hunt, Ignixis?” Jazreal asks, the smirk on his lips widening as he risks a glance at the yawning old gas-cloud.

“I do not care to learn such sordid details, Death Herald,” Ignixis rasps, his tone laced with faint disgust.

Foolish to take your eyes off your opponent—even for a heartbeat. I seize the moment, stepping inside his flurry of thrusts, throwing a brutal elbow aimed for his head.

Predictably, he ducks with impressive speed, but right into the path of my rising knee.

Victory is mine for the span of a breath—until Jazreal twists, deflecting my strike with both hands. The impact launches him into the air. Time seems to slow as he folds into a smooth backflip, landing just beyond the sandy perimeter of the arena.

Jazreal glances down at his feet, a grimace spreading across his face. “You win another one,” he declares with a short laugh.

“No,” I growl. The notion that the finest warriors in the universe should be confined to a paltry circle of sand offends me. “Ignore the ring. It disadvantages your speed.”

Jazreal inclines his head in respect, twirling his spear in quick, efficient arcs—training maneuvers executed perfectly.

“If you relied less on your strength and more on technique, you might’ve caught me cleanly,” he suggests, his tone annoyingly measured.

My grip tightens on the wooden claws, the handles groaning under the strain. That he —a warrior I’ve bested repeatedly—dares to mock me with drills fit for a Prospect.

“It is you who should improve, Death Herald. ” I sneer down at him. The Rush blazing through my veins, demanding release.

“Now, now, young Dracoth. We’ve discussed your childish outbursts,” Ignixis interjects, clicking his tongue. His condescension grates like claws on rock. “And know I sought Jazreal’s aid to teach you what I cannot.”

Did he? And yet, the mystery of how Ignixis convinced him to join our cause remains unsolved.

“What can the vanquished teach the conqueror?” I demand, my glare shifting to Ignixis, daring him to justify his flawed logic.

But it is Jazreal who answers, unperturbed. “You swing wide and hard, as if to smash a Battlebarge to pieces, when with your great strength, even a glancing blow would take the head off an aurodon.” He stretches his shoulder and neck with casual ease.

“You’d have me prancing through the air?” I jab my practice claws at him accusingly, the notion absurd. “Like me, you lead where you’re strongest—for you, speed.”

“I’ve fought in the Ravager Berserkers for over five hundred years,” Jazreal replies, his casual tone sharpening like tempered arcweave.

“Centuries of unending battle and death. Fighting with and against the best the universe has to offer. So no, War Chieftain, unlike you, all my skills are honed to their zenith, tested in war’s brutal embrace. ”

Unimpressed, I suppress a frown. “Yet your so-called zenith fails to best one who swings too wide?”

“Infuriating, isn’t he?” Ignixis interjects from nearby, his cackling laughter rattling like chains.

The gas-cloud Elder is hunched over a graviton belt, tinkering with its controls.

“I choose to believe it’s not his fault, but the combined arrogance of youth and genius rolled up into that boulder he calls a head. ”

“It’s a simple concept, Dracoth.” Ignixis continues, approaching with a gleam in his hooded green eyes. “Your talent precludes you from the joy of effort, the beauty of struggle, because for you, it’s all too easy.”

He throws the graviton belt at my feet with a heavy clang. “Put this on,” he orders, his tone brooking no argument. “With this, you’ll have no choice but to adapt.”

I frown, picking up the belt and wrapping it around my waist. They think me a fool—that I don’t understand. But it is they who are fools.

“What purpose does this serve?” I demand, gesturing to the contraption now fastened around me. “I’ll not face Krogoth wearing this device. Like Jazreal, he will succumb to my talent. ”

“No,” Jazreal says, his voice unusually serious. “Krogoth is faster and stronger than me.”

I stare at him, barely believing the words. Jazreal, who moves like an arrohawk, admits inferiority?

“He was always one of our best,” Jazreal continues, his expression grim.

“And when he fought your father... he was greater still. Unbelievably so. His blows appeared like streaks of light.” He shakes his head as if dispelling a nightmare.

“You must improve, or you’ll not land a single blow against him. ”

“Oh, dear, young Dracoth,” Ignixis titters, his laughter breaking the tension like a snapping twig. “You best activate that belt now.”

My gaze drops to the graviton device strapped to my waist, my mind a storm of questions and doubts. I’ve heard many wild boasts about Krogoth’s power and skill, but coming from Jazreal—an impressive warrior himself, with a rare sincerity in his voice—it lends those boasts a troubling credibility.

As I flick the switch on the belt, a sinister hum resonates through the air.

An impossible force bears down on me, crushing the breath from my lungs.

It’s as if the weight of the entire cosmos has settled on my shoulders.

My muscles quake with the effort it takes to draw a single breath, to turn my head even slightly.

“Death Herald,” Ignixis intones, his voice laced with cold amusement. “Teach our young War Chieftain the meaning behind our words. If you’d be so kind.”

“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. ”