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My claws make quick work of their bodies as I set about my grisly task, extracting their spines with ease.

Vertebrae snap and break beneath my hands, and I add each piece to my leather belt, their bones rattling like a death song as I move.

The sound brings a smile to my bloodied lips.

Soon, the echoes of my footsteps will carry the weight of thousands of souls—each bone a testament to my strength, a totem to my newfound devotion to Arawnoth.

Others will tremble at the sound, their hearts quaking in fear as they bow before my might.

Already, my warvisor detects movement—a fresh band of Whores Orphans inching closer to the engine room, likely intent on looting the ship’s precious Elerium. My hands twitch with anticipation, flicking drying blood across the cold metal floor.

This need, this bloodlust rises once again, insatiable, driving me forward like a venefex unleashed.

I charge down the darkened corridor, vision pulsing with green fire from the bloodroot, eager for the coming slaughter.

More prey to feed the flames of my rage.

More fuel for the blazing inferno that roars within my heart.

Drawing closer, I notice this group moves with tight coordination and cautious steps—a stark contrast to the chaotic rabble before them.

Perhaps they heard the screams of their fallen comrades?

No matter. Soon, they too will adorn my belt.

The thought brings a twisted smile to my lips as I round the corner, an avatar of death blocking their path—and sealing their fate.

“Something ahead! Yes?” A Glaseroid stammers, the tremor of fear unmistakable in its voice. The soft blue glow of their wrist consoles lights up the corridor, highlighting their location, drawing me—the harbinger of their demise, like a beacon.

“Firing formation!” a Crongarian leader barks into the silence, his voice sharp with authority. I marvel as they smoothly line up, guns aiming in my direction, respecting their bravery. But it’s a futile gesture. I activate my arc shield, noticing a handful of pulsar rifles in their shaky grips.

I thunder towards them behind my blue shimmering plasma shield, moving with unnatural speed.

Gunfire erupts—ballistic rounds and the searing green streaks of pulsar blasts collide with my shield, painting the obsidian corridor in a chaotic swirl of light.

Their firepower might be enough to overwhelm a lesser warrior, but to me, it’s nothing more than rain on arcweave.

“Is that a voiding giant Klendathian? I warned Hornic!” the Crongarian leader curses bitterly, realizing his imminent death. I could return fire with my arc blaster, end their misery from a distance, but the Rush within me demands I rend them to pieces with my bare hands.

Close enough now, I crash amongst them like a fiery meteorite, throwing their formation into shambles.

My natural claws extend—sharp, deadly, and ready to rend flesh from bone.

I spin through them like a whirlwind of death, my claws slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with ease.

Their screams are a symphony of agony, their blood painting the walls in stunning splashes of green, blue, and yellow.

The bones already dangle on my belt, jingling with each movement, singing in anticipation of more brothers of bone soon to join them. I turn in fury, the emerald-crimson of my eyes leaving misty trails as I focus on the terrified others.

They recoil in horror, as though a bloody hemovyrn stalks them—a fitting comparison.

“Void this!” the Crongarian leader spits, glancing up at me one final time before he turns to flee.

Boring .

Before he and the remaining five can reach the next corridor, I’ve already torn them to bloody pieces. They may have started strong, but their alien weakness denied me the satisfaction of a contest.

I start my gruesome task of collecting their vertebrae.

Each spine snaps and breaks beneath my fingers, adding to the grisly collection hanging from my belt.

Enjoying the different sizes of the various alien bones adorning my belt, except the Glaseroids who appear to lack a spine at all. A future question for Ignixis.

Multicolored gore coats my arms to the elbows, but the carnage does little to satiate the molten bloodlust still raging within me.

I must appear as death incarnate, a titan of blood and bone, my gore-streaked armor adorned in the shattered remains of my enemies.

Good . Let the weaklings bathe in terror at my presence, for only the strongest and bravest shall remain to face me.

Seeking my next prey, I scan the ship with the aid of my warvisor.

What I sense twists my mouth into a snarl.

The human females—my females—once nestled safely in their cell, are now mingling with a gang of Whores Orphans.

No doubt, thinking they’ve captured a great prize.

Their reward shall be their agonizing screams as I send them to their ancestors as twisted mockeries.

The insult burns like a furnace in my chest, driving me towards the cells which lie near the back of the ship.

The craft is eerily quiet, engines and most systems powered down, leaving only basic life support.

My rage-fueled breaths and thundering footsteps reverberate through the stale air, now thick with the scent of fresh blood.

I slow my pace as my warvisor detects movement—an approaching figure. A small human female is running in my direction from a nearby corridor. Her life signs spiking with fear, her heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure elevated—as usual.

Rounding the corner, I see her—the tiny one who cries endlessly.

I’m somewhat relieved to see she’s unharmed.

Her dark eyes lock onto me, slowly traveling the towering length of my bloodied form.

I watch her from my warvisor, which leaks unbidden misty crimson fury, expecting the fainthearted female to collapse in terror or flee.

But she surprises me with a pleasing, short submissive bow.

“Oni,” she mutters, gesturing behind her.

That name again.

“More come, the others—stolen,” the human female manages in a hurried, fragmented voice.

The meaning is clear, confirming what my warvisor already revealed.

Three males—Glaseroid, Jungarian, Argorian—are closing in, their excitement palpable.

They think they can hunt my females. Fools .

I shall break their bones and shatter their spirits.

“Wait,” I command, gesturing to the human, unsure if she’ll heed my words, especially as I appear like a grisly avatar of death. But to my surprise, she nods, and for the briefest moment, I catch a sly, satisfied smirk curling her lips.

She seeks vengeance. I shall deliver it.

I edge along the corridor, knowing my foolish prey approach at speed, about to round the corner.

Now!

My hand lashes downward like a molten whip, catching my Argorian victim in the throat. He crashes to the ground, hands clawing at his ruined windpipe, croaking for blood-soaked air denied to him—he’s already dead, he just doesn’t know it yet.

“What the void!” the Glaseroid shrieks. The pair freeze, terror and shock etched into their faces like runes on their tombstones. I stride towards them like an erupting volcano, compelling the brown-furred Jungarian to raise his rifle.

Too slow.

My hand shoots out, engulfing his entire muzzled face. I twist, snapping his neck as easily as snapping a twig, breaking his face too. Though it’s hard to be certain in my hazy berserker rage.

The Jungarian’s lifeless body flops to the hard metal floor as I release my blood-drenched grip.

“Wait, wait. I’ve got credits!” the Glaseroid pleads, collapsing to its pathetic knees, its many arm limbs fluttering uselessly.

The insect creature’s cowardice sickens me.

Unlike the cold void of space or these unforgiving arcweave walls, I am not indifferent—I judge. Only the strong are fit to survive.

I am now an agent of Arawnoth’s will, cleansing the universe of weakness, restoring the natural order.

“There’s no bargaining with death,” I growl, my voice a grim decree.

The Glaseroid’s beady eyes widen, sending it squirming under me, its antennae fluttering wildly.

My claws shoot downward, puncturing its fragile exoskeleton as easily as a laser through fabric.

I extend my fingers, shredding its insides, creating a gaping hole where its back once was.

It doesn’t even have time to scream before its feeble limbs go limp as its resolve.

With a flick of my wrist, I fling the remnants of its gore from my hands.

I turn to the human female. She watches, her expression a strange mix of horror and.

.. something else. Interest? Pleasure? It’s difficult to tell.

My warvisor reveals the shifting currents of her emotions, but there’s no time to ponder useless emotions.

One female remains in the cell with a large Crongarian, while the other two are being led away by numerous aliens. My trophies can wait.

Arawnoth demands blood.