Page 126 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

Dracoth

Reborn in Strength

S tormcleaver falls like a thunderclap—the true toll that marks the beginning of this titanic clash.

Krogoth springs back with unnatural speed, narrowly dodging death.

The slag beneath us splits like a shattered skull.

His blade whip snaps forward—vipertail barbs on a chain, razor links screaming through the air like orbital strikes.

A heartbeat before its brutal kiss rends my flesh, I raise my shield.

Clang!

Sparks fly. Metal shrieks against metal, a screech swallowed by the crowd’s thunderous roar.

But Krogoth doesn’t relent. His arm flows like water, an unbroken river of motion. A conductor of living arcweave. The whip dances, sings—a cyclone of razors whirling with such God-blessed speed the ends blur together.

Then—a flick of his wrist. A blur. A hiss. Pain blossoms just beneath my eye. A shallow line. Green blood falls to feed the dying planet.

I step back. Ash crunches underfoot. Gasps rise from the crowd—first blood, drawn by a coward. My blood boils. My Rush ignites—molten and crimson.

Krogoth advances—an impenetrable wall of blades wrapped around a stalking demigod, extending beyond my axe’s reach.

Instinct takes over. I yield ground, biding my time, eyes scanning for an opening. For fatigue. But all I see are those blazing purple eyes piercing through a storm of dark-gray metal. A god’s judgment made flesh, casting down lightning from the heavens.

He’s not slowing. He’s accelerating.

The whip’s whine builds—no longer a whistle, but a droning swarm of barbs. He senses my hesitation, my doubt. Press harder. Faster. My retreat shifts from measured to desperate. My steps scrape, stumble.

Another lash. Another promise of pain. I raise my shield. Screech! —the whip ricochets in a shower of sparks.

Now.

I lunge. Stormcleaver cleaves down—an executioner’s blow meant to split him in two, cleaving only bitter ash.

Too late, I realize my mistake. Pain stabs between my ribs—a punishing sting, another slicing lash.

Even while fending my attack, he kept the cyclone spinning. Always moving. Always cutting.

Impressive. Maddening.

His skill, speed, tactics—all perfectly honed to nullify my size and strength.

I spring back again, buying space. But Krogoth doesn’t pursue.

Instead, he speaks—voice muffled through his respirator, words slick with venom.

“Compared to Xandor, you move like a stuck snarlbroc,” he sneers, fangs flashing. “Submit. Relinquish the tainted title of War Chieftain—and your Mortakin-Kis’s grievance. Do it, and I’ll spare your life. As I did before.”

Green blood drips in heavy tears onto scorched stone. I touch the wound at my side, smear the gore across my face, and taste the bitter tang.

His words rot in my ears. Again, he declares victory without earning it. Is it hubris—or fear—that drives him?

“You compare me to your lowly Second ?” I spit with seething contempt. “You claim victory. But the storm always breaks before the dawn. ”

I raise my shield. Stormcleaver rises. My stance hardens.

Krogoth exhales steam. “So be it,” he growls. His whip hums, slicing the air in vicious arcs. “I’ll peel your skin until only reason remains.” He stalks forward, a whirlwind of blades and fury.

Our dance of pain begins anew—faster now, more feral. I leap back, keeping space between us. But Krogoth surges forward with terrifying speed. His wrist flicks—the droning whip becomes a shrieking bullet, slicing past my ear. Another lashes out, screeching against my shield.

I retreat again. Then again. But he’s already there, a blur of purple mist and ash-swallowed motion. Relentless. Tireless. Ruin made flesh. His gaze drops to my leg. The barb cracks downward—predictable. I lower my shield, catching the blow. Sparks burst like stars in a crimson sky.

Stormcleaver howls down to cleave his cursed whip—but it vanishes.

A sliver of light, gone before the metal lands.

My axe smashes into blackened slag, erupting a geyser of steam and stone.

A meteor strike. From the debris, I hear it: the keening song of pain.

Then— impact. Agony erupts in my thigh. The wound flares hot and sharp, a green blossom in the gloom.

I grunt, staggering back, blood spilling over steaming obsidian like ale over tankard.

Krogoth pressures with merciless resolve, moving with unnatural speed.

The droning buzz of his swarming blade whip a death dirge in my ears.

Each step is a retreat. A defeat—a humiliation repeating.

My mind scrambles for a tactic, some ploy to turn this disgrace around—finding nothing but panic and shame.

The crowd gasps, a deafening flood of concern washes over me, like the searing heat lapping at my back. A glance over my shoulder—the arena’s edge yawns a few paces away. Flames waiting like a hungry god.

That curiosity costs me. Arcweave sings. Pain answers. A fresh gash opens along my cheek.

I snarl with furious rage. Fangs bared. Trapped. Hunted.

My heart pounds a war rhythm as I circle left, seeking escape from this tightening snare. Krogoth flows with me—cutting me off like lightning wearing flesh. His eyes pour violet mist into the haze, like some vengeful god come to pass judgment.

I pivot hard, darting right, all muscle and momentum. He’s there again. A rain of barbs slams into my shield. Each one a stone for my tomb.

Rage seethes in my veins. Rush bubbling like liquid hate.

It pours from my eyes, red as the blood he drew from my Princesa.

This is not justice. Not this... this farce.

It’s a disgrace. A mockery. A dishonor to us both.

His spine should be shattering in my grip—not dancing beyond reach while I bleed like a wild borack.

If this keeps up, I’ll plummet into the fiery abyss behind or slowly bleed out. Controlled, corralled like an animal for the slaughter.

No. I will not crawl. I will not yield. Never again.

If pain is the price of hope— then let it tear me open.

Let it rip. Let it remind him who I am. I am Arawnoth’s chosen son. And my vengeance will not be denied.

My eyes narrow. My grip tightens. Stormcleaver cocks over my shoulder. I beckon him forward.

For just a heartbeat, he hesitates—uncertain. I watch his whip hand like an arrohawk. Patient. Still. Heart pounding like the beating war drums.

Then—I see it. A flick of the wrist.

I roar and hurl Stormcleaver —a cyclone of death screaming for his legs.

Krogoth leaps, fluid as flame, rising above the strike. His whip whistles toward me, weaker now. My arm lashes out, seizing the chain. Pain detonates in my palm as the razored links bite deep. I ignore it. Fury is the only thing I feel.

A yank—sharp and brutal.

Krogoth jerks through the air like a speared fish, crashing down with a gratifying grunt. He skids across the ash-caked rock, flailing. My strength tears the weapon from his stunned grasp. I let the vile thing fly into the lava’s waiting embrace behind.

Now!

With a bellow, I charge—unstoppable, roaring, ready to end him. The crowd’s deafening roar dies into a breathless hush. My natural claws extend with a pleasing shrieeek— itching for his blood and spine.

A heartbeat away, Krogoth pushes from the ground to land on his feet with a speed and grace that shouldn’t be possible for a warrior his size.

Too slow.

I’m already there, my claws carving a brutal slash. He barely raises his shield in time. Wood screams as my long claws gouge deep scars into its surface.

He staggers, tries to retreat—but I slam my burnished shield into his face with a thunderous crack. His head snaps back. A geyser of green blood paints the air.

Seeking to end him. I jab for his throat—one swift strike to finish it.

But he’s still too quick, deflecting with his mangled shield before springing backward in powerful leaps.

Then—I see it.

There, half-buried in rubble beside Stormcleaver —his respirator.

I dive, scoop them both, hooking the mask to my belt.

Krogoth coughs. A wet, wheezing sound that echoes beneath the pounding war drums. First a splutter, then a rattle.

He bends over, clutching his face, trying to contain his weakness.

He cannot. It swirls around us for all to see.

The blood from his shattered nose and the choking ash are strangling the life from him.

I stand tall, savoring the moment. Victory tastes near enough to drink.

“Even this cursed land rejects you, Krogoth.” I boom, my voice rising with the ruby lightning that crackles overhead.

I kneel, grab a fistful of scalding ash, and smear it over my wounds, stemming the flow of blood from my torn hand. It stings. It burns—but I welcome it.

I am a son of Scarn. Forged in fire and ash.

A grin twists my lips as I lick the residue from my hand, tasting metallic blood and salty, bitter ash.

“You wither,” I growl. “While I burn with rage. I rise—reborn from the ashes of the shame you inflicted.”

How many charred warriors, how many souls swirl through the air of this dying world, demanding their sacrifice be honored?

A planet that’s known only war and death.

Their spirits howl in my lungs, fueling my wrath.

They reject Krogoth’s weakness. His dishonor. I alone am chosen. I alone will ascend.

Stormcleaver hums in my grasp, thirsty. I stalk forward toward the hacking Krogoth. “Come,” I whisper. “I will sear your flesh and breathe deep of your ashes.”

Even now, Krogoth reacts well despite his pathetic limitations. He lifts his gaze, wiping the blood from his mangled face. Hand reaching for his four-pronged spear. Shield raised.

I strike—a brutal overhead cleave.

Krogoth dashes sideways. The ground splits beneath us.

He retaliates, spear thrusting out.

I catch the thrust on my circular shield—sparks spray, the jolt racing up my arm.

He coughs. A wet, helpless sound.

I deliver a brutal frontal kick into his midriff, driving the air from his lungs.