Page 127 of Scorching the Alien Empire (The Klendathian Cycle #7)

My molten strength hurls him across the slag-strewn ground.

He skids, a blur of blood and ash, until the jagged stone tears his momentum to shreds.

The crowd splits like lightning overhead—some voices erupt in thunderous cheers, others in desperate cries.

They all feed me. This is the moment I’ve craved: Krogoth, broken, beneath my heel.

Another coughing fit wracks him. The harder I press, the more ash he drinks. A death spiral he cannot escape.

I pounce like a starving venefex, Stormcleaver howling down with the weight of worlds. Prone, he barely scrapes his shield into place. Wood erupts in splinters, shredded by my wrath. The axe bites deep, nearly tasting flesh.

His arm buckles under the force, pain twisting his bloodied face. I follow with a brutal kick—air crushed from his lungs, forcing him to gasp in more of the searing ash. Yet somehow he rolls across the hissing fissures with startling speed, a battered revenant clinging to life.

I let him rise.

He staggers upright, breath ragged, black hair matted with sweat and soot. Ash and blood cake his body—a veil of suffering. But his eyes... they still burn. Purple fire, defiant, carried by the scalding, howling winds.

“Do you taste it, Krogoth?” I roar, charging, Stormcleaver raised high. “That’s the taste of death!”

My axe carves the air in a wide arc. He ducks low, thrusting his spear toward my thigh—but he’s slower now, drained. My shield slams down, trapping his weapon between it and the blackened earth. My swing shifts mid-motion into a brutal upward slash.

He releases the spear to save his neck, pivoting, shield raised. More splinters. More blood.

I become fury incarnate—raining blow after blow, an unstoppable titan of muscle and wrath. Krogoth splutters, retreating in a staggering dance. Narrowly avoiding some strikes, his shield splintering beneath others. I can feel him waning, slowing, weakening. His defenses are falling apart.

Soon it will end. Soon I’ll claim his head.

And yet... regret blooms—petals of poison. A flicker at first, it grows—festers into something bitter. A seething disappointment, halting my advance.

Krogoth breaks away, breath rasping, body a bloody ruin. His eyes flicker—a swirling storm of purple and hazel. Rock’s voice rings out, a lament—a mournful wail splitting the ash-laced sky.

No. This is not honor. This is not worthy—the contest of demigods that was promised.

“Take it,” I growl, tossing his captured respirator at his unsteady feet. “I will not have it said, Krogoth Star-Eyes was undone by ash.” I kick his spear toward him. “But by Dracoth, son of Gorexius!” My roar is joined by hundreds of thousands.

He stoops, hands trembling, and straps the mask to his broken face.

I wait. Rush burning through my veins like rivers of boiling lava.

He takes a gasping lungful of air, exhaling like a warrior almost drowned.

His body stills. His spine straightens. The shuddering stops. Veins bulging. Muscles tightening.

And then... he lifts his head.

Yes. Yes.

Look at him! Those eyes—purple suns swirling in hazel stars—ignite again. His Rush flares, rising like a god’s breath on the wind. Power radiates in pulsing waves. I can feel it, sense it, thrumming beneath his skin. He’s climbing—reaching for new heights. Heights I’ve never faced.

He casts aside his ruined shield with a flick, flips his spear into the air, and catches it with a warrior’s flourish. From the weapons rack, he takes a new shield, nearly identical to the one I shattered.

He watches me. Not as prey. But as an equal. A rival. A predator.

A hush falls—one silence born from a million throats.

Krogoth lowers his stance, spear forward, shield steady, closing inch by inch.

Now.

I lunge— Stormcleaver screaming down in a blow to split mountains. But Krogoth rolls beneath the blast, debris exploding in his wake. He springs forward with a blur of motion that defies nature. My shield rises—too slow.

A shriek. Metal on metal.

One prong slices into my shoulder. Not deep—but long. The pain flares white, then vanishes beneath molten rage.

He presses the attack—foot lashing out in a sweeping kick. I lift my leg just in time, narrowly avoiding the trip.

My axe slashes down in a savage counter, but he surges forward, stepping inside my guard, twisting to gut me with his spear.

I slam my shield down—too slow.

A shriek of metal. A cry of agony. White-hot pain explodes through my leg as the spear deflects downward. Two prongs puncture deep.

I roar and lash out with shield and axe. He dashes back. My blood spills, fanning the flames of his wrath.

A breath. A heartbeat. He pounces.

Relentless. Unyielding. A blinding storm of strikes rains down like the burning ash. My shield moves with a desperate speed I’ve never needed before. Sparks fly. My arm jolts with every brutal thrust—each one flawlessly executed, perfectly timed.

I’m forced backward, step by step, each movement fresh agony. He circles toward my wounded leg. Brutal. Precise. Effective. Speed, strength, and skill—he wields them all as deadly as any weapon.

An opponent like no other.

Stormcleaver sings in tight, shallow arcs—buying me precious seconds. But Krogoth springs back and forward again in a blurring instant, launching another vicious flurry of stabbing arcweave.

Strikes come from every angle—high, low, left, right. Each one different. Each one testing. All share that same whistling drop, like death on the wind.

Most screech off my shield. Some I dodge by inches. Others bite flesh. A dozen wounds now mark my flesh—a patchwork of pain, painted in blood. I barely register them anymore.

This axe... it cannot cleave the light. Not like this. I choke up my grip—fingers sliding closer to the crescent edge.

Krogoth comes again. But this time, I’m ready.

His powerful thrusts batter my shield, but I surge forward, hammering down with quick, brutal chops. He pivots back—fast—but I give chase, driving off my good leg.

Some blows force him to block. I see the wince with each one. Wood splinters like shrapnel. My strength—beyond anything he’s felt—drives his arm down, drives him back like a nail pounded into a mountain.

He retreats, scrambling. His arm trembles. His shield—a shattered ruin hanging by a strap. Exhaustion claws at me. Fire burns through my limbs. The blistering pace. The searing pain. They demand its due.

But I bury it—fury becoming fuel. Every strike a scream of defiance, smashing his defenses to shattered pieces.

Ahead, the mote of lava looms. Krogoth stumbles on broken rock. His shield hand breaks his fall. My axe rises—his head mine to claim.

But he springs—suddenly, impossibly fast—spear aimed to skewer my gut.

I drop my shield, deflecting. Not enough.

The tip grazes my belt— my Hemo-Tok . I feel it tear. The brothers in bone jiggle in pain as they’re ripped from my waist, tangling among the spear’s prongs, trapping his thrust.

“Sacrilege!” I bellow, twisting with fury, yanking the spear from his grip.

Through blurred vision, I see the bones—spines of the fallen, offerings to Arawnoth—slip from snapped leather and tumble to the blackened earth like a destiny cast.

A violation. A blasphemy.

“You took my honor. My father. My pride.” My voice is hoarse, trembling. “And now this— my brothers in bone ?”

With a shaking hand, I seize his spear, twist it hard, shattering it into a hundred broken pieces, casting it at his feet.

Krogoth stares. Bloodied. Bruised. As broken as I am.

“I always knew,” he rasps, voice raw as ash, “you could be the best of us, Dracoth.”

He gestures weakly with a bruised arm. “Look at you. What you’ve done. What you’ve become. Rising from shame. Standing now as my equal, head held high.”

His lips curl into a weary, bloodstained smile. “I give this to you... my gift of purpose.”

“You?” I growl, leaning on Stormcleaver , gulping air. “You dare take credit for what I was always destined to become—for what I always was?”

I charge. Stormcleaver raised high. My wounded leg nearly gives, but fury drives me forward.

Krogoth, unarmed, does not retreat. He stands defiant, eyes ablaze—purple and hazel flaring into the screaming wind.

I roar. A cry to split the sky, to cleave flesh and fate alike.

Last moment, he surges forward, violet lightning incarnate, blood-soaked hands latching onto Stormcleaver’s shaft. I try to shake him loose, but he clings tight. Our eyes lock—crimson versus purple, hazel nebulas glowing in the gloomy light.

I press down with the weight of worlds. My muscles scream, veins bulge, wounds tear open anew. Blood spatters the cracked earth, greedily devoured by this dying world.

He’s strong—one of the strongest. But he’s nothing compared to me.

Teeth clenched, I snarl into his face. Stormcleaver’s solid arcweave shaft groans between us, bending. Inch by inch, the blade drops toward his neck. His muscles ripple, tendons straining against my titanic might—but the blade descends.

He feels it kiss his throat.

Then he shifts. I sense it. A brutal headbutt arcing upward toward my towering face, intending to drive nose bone into brain.

But I release Stormcleaver and twist aside.

He misses—turns too slow.

My claws rake across his chest. Deep. Hard. I feel his flesh tearing like paper, the warmth of his blood coating my fingers.

He stumbles. Falls. Defeated .

A collective breath is drawn by the crowd—a world exhales. Except my Princesa and Rocks. A squeal of crystalline joy. A cry of pure, heart-wrenching anguish.

Unfortunate. I will honor her courage with a swift, clean kill.

Elation surges through my ruined body. My claws flex wide. One final thrust.

Vision blurry, I see Krogoth’s chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. I stumble forward, limbs screaming tombs of granite. Blood oozing like molten tears of suffering.

Krogoth stirs.

I freeze. Gulp air. Is it death throes?

No. Gasps rise around the arena.

Krogoth rises.

An unbreakable demigod, rising from blood and ash. His crimson skin, bruised and blackened, glistens with green blood. A savage triple gash crosses his chest—a mirror of the ancient scar gifted by my father.

Yet he stands. Claws extended. Head tilted forward. Eyes burning. Obsidian hair lashing in the howling wind.

Only we can endure this. Only Krogoth is worthy of my challenge.

“Come, brother!” I laugh, madness dancing in my molten heart. “Let us bathe in divine blood. Let us ascend to the realm of the gods!”

We stumble toward each other. Bodies broken. Spirits soaring.

He throws a jab with his swollen, battered arm. I deflect his wrist, sweeping my other hand toward him, he dodges my blow, before retaliating.

Claws and punches whistle and swoosh through the air. Each with the power to smash Battlesuits. Both of us too exhausted to launch kicks. No finesse. No distance. Just raw, brutal attrition.

A grinding test of endurance and will.

A parried backhand becomes a strike—slams into my gut. I grunt, twisting. My claws fly off course, grazing his shoulder, tasting blood.

Time drags, or perhaps we are simply slower now—our strength spilling out of us like our blood.

His fist crashes into my jaw. My vision wavers. Legs tremble. He raises his claws for the kill—but I smash into him, shoulder to ribs. He gasps, wind ripped from his lungs.

We break apart, staggering. Panting. Yet our eyes meet, smiles painting our broken faces. Two titans bleeding beneath a broken sky.

We clash again.

Blows rain down—some parried, some landing. Blood splatters. Bone cracks. Pain. Exhaustion. They burn deep, dragging my limbs toward the netherworld.

But still—our hearts soar to the heavens, as we ascend like gods.

This is why I was born. My divine purpose. Blood boils through my veins like molten rivers. My soul burns with Arawnoth’s might.

And he feels it too. I see it in his eyes. The crook of his bloodied lip. The defiance behind the pain. We collide again and again, each strike echoing like thunder. Klendathor’s greatest sons beneath the Gods’ gaze, our battered silhouettes lit by cackling crimson lightning.

The crowd’s cheers turn rancid. Calls rise for Borrthak to stop the fight. To intervene.

But there is no end.

No retreat.

Only death—or glory awaits demigods.

“I will never submit,” I rasp, voice hoarse and raw. “Not like last time. When you shamed me. When you saw my tears, Krogoth.”

My eyes glisten as our bodies lock in a clench. Exhausted breaths hot on each other’s necks. Souls bared.

“I know, brother,” he growls, low and cracked. “But I cannot yield. I cannot leave my Pebbles.” He chokes a bitter laugh. “If I’d known just how strong you’d become...” He meets my gaze. “I might not have spared you.”

We stagger apart. A mirror of pain. Of pride. Of stubborn, sacred resolve.

“Let us end our females’ anguish.” He nods solemnly.

“Yes,” I reply, grimly.

Then we charge.

One final clash. A whirlwind of claws, punches, and parries. A dozen new wounds burst across our bodies. The wet slap of meat on meat. The crunch of bone. Skin tearing. Blood spraying. Stripes of flesh flap like war banners, offerings to shattered gods.

The crowd mutters in horror. Many turn away. They cannot bear a fraction of the suffering that claws brutally at our minds. Cannot watch what we’ve become. What we’ve given—our glorious example. But this is not for them. This is for us. For the Gods. For honor .

I twist, stepping into the final strike. Stormcleaver’s phantom weight behind my arm. A blow to shatter mountains. It whistles toward his face—

Then—agony.

Pain explodes in my sternum. A sickening crunch as his fist finds me first.

My own strike lands. His jaw shatters.

We collapse.

The earth trembles under our fall. Blood floods the blackened stone.

I try to rise. But something’s broken. Every breath an icy dagger in my lungs.

Still, I claw forward. Inch by inch. An eternity of pain for a moment of movement.

I see a blurry Krogoth—on hands and knees, slowly rising.

No. I must rise. I must finish this. I must win.

But the harder I strain, the thicker the fog becomes. My vision narrows. Only light remains.

Shimmering, all around. Warm. Familiar.

A Goddess calls to me—a flow of liquid mercury.

Forgive me, Princesa. The ancestors call. And I must answer.