Page 22

Dracoth

Blood

I continue my charging pursuit, guided by my warvisor, which highlights the condemned aliens like flames in an abyss.

They dare steal my females. The thought ignites my blood, twisting my lips into a savage snarl.

The bloodroot still burns hot in my veins, every muscle clenched like coiled springs trembling on the verge of rupture—yearning for violence, for murder.

Arawnoth surges through me, blurring my vision in pulsing green and red flames.

He demands death. And I will not fail my molten God, for we are of one mind.

My rage carries me to the opened cell in moments. Desperate, piercing screams echo off the walls, and I know one of my females is suffering. It drives me forward in murderous fury.

The one with beautiful orange fire hair—Sandra. The only human female who offered me her name. She thrashes wildly beneath the bulk of a Crongarian, his claws ripping at her clothes, leaving her nearly naked, bloody gashes marring her pale skin.

Rage, white-hot and all-consuming, seethes within me, hotter than the heart of a supernova. I surge forward, my presence looming over them like a shadow of death.

Sandra freezes, her blue eyes widen noticing my murderous approach over the Crongarian’s shoulder. She senses what is coming.

The Crongarian must feel death shivering down his spine—he stumbles in a clumsy, desperate turn.

His pathetic, jagged cock shrivels before my hulking shadow.

I’m drenched in gore, the stench of his comrades’ blood, clinging to me like a dark miasma.

I can see it in his eye: he knows . He smells his own doom approaching.

Every step I take drags him closer to the abyss.

“A voiding Klendathian!” the Crongarian cries, his voice trembling with raw terror.

He scrambles into the corner. His beady eyes darting to the rattling, gore-covered vertebrae he’ll soon join.

His horror is as thick as the blood-tainted air.

“Wait! I would never have touched your whores if I had known they were yours!”

All belong to me, for I am the strongest and the weak must bow before the strong.

That is the way of the universe. This Crongarian’s miserable life is no different.

I would split open his ribcage and tear out his still-breathing lungs for this insult.

But the other females are nearing the docking hatch. There’s no time for suitable vengeance.

My crimson eyes bleed mist, the fury within me blinding as I tower over the cringing Crongarian. He lowers himself further with every step I take, his clawed hands raised in pitiful surrender. “Please!” he begs, his voice little more than a whimper.

His weakness sickens me as I drive my foot down upon his horned head. He shrieks in agony; his skull resists my first blow, refusing to pop like it should. Crongarians possess thick bones—broad and durable—but to my molten eyes, they are nothing more than stunted prey.

I will break him.

With a second stomp, his sharp teeth shatter like brittle stone, and the fractured remnants of his skull crackle beneath the force. His pathetic whimpers, choked and dying, only stoke the bloodlust raging in my veins.

I slam my foot down again, and this time, the satisfying crunch of bone and horn collapsing beneath my weight reverberates through the corridor.

Blue gore splatters the floor, and I lift my boot, now dripping with brain matter and bone fragments, disgust curling my lip.

Yet his death only fuels the fury burning within me.

Movement catches my attention. Sandra rushes toward me, her fragile form clinging desperately to my gore-encrusted leg.

“Thank you, thank you!” she cries, her voice a frantic wail as tears stream down her flushed cheeks. Her small, trembling body presses against the cold arcweave of my armor, her near-naked softness stark against the visceral scene of carnage.

And in that moment, something foreign stirs deep within me. Her frantic sobs and repeated words of thanks echo in my ears, somehow cutting through the haze of violence that consumes me.

What is this?

Relief? The idea claws at my mind like a venefex.

I am the son of War Chieftain Gorexius, a hero forged in blood, fire, and endless violence.

And yet seeing her fragile, tear-streaked face pressed against me, something tightens in my chest—a sensation too close to pride, too close to something softer, something. .. weak.

It unsettles me, twisting in my gut like a blade lodged between the ribs. The fury in my veins still burns, but this strange feeling persists, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

I place a soothing hand on Sandra’s shoulder, stroking her gently. “You’re safe now,” I grumble. She clutches me tighter, her weeping becoming less intense.

Strange, I should be repulsed, usually such garish pathetic displays sicken me. Is it her absurd softness seeking my strength which holds my disgust?

Bah, more pointless distractions!

With careful hands, I pry her from my leg, her small frame reluctant to release me.

“Please, don’t leave me, Dracoth!” she pleads, her voice trembling, her blue eyes shimmering with desperation. Her words stir something deep within me again, and unconsciously, I shift my warvisor, revealing my face to her—a gesture I cannot explain.

“I will return with the others,” I promise with a solemn nod.

She watches me, her wide eyes full of trust and fear.

Whirling to leave, I lower my mask, knowing I must be quick to reach them before they depart with the other two females—the one who speaks endless madness and the other angry spitting hydralith.

The sour idea of letting the Whores Orphans keep the troublesome pair wrinkles my brow in amusement. But no. They belong to me, and the junkers must pay with their lives.

I charge down the corridor like a rampaging aurodon.

The frightened scent of my females twitches my nose, including the musky stench of excited males who dare touch what is mine.

It’s an affront to my maleness, a challenge that they dare encroach upon my territory, taking what belongs to me.

The thought drives me faster, drawing my fangs out.

I will rend the flesh from their bones and scatter their remains across the void.

There are seven of them, various species.

A Tuskarian carries one female over his shoulder, while a Jungarian and Argorian prod another along, who’s suffering injuries, including a concussion.

How brave these so-called warriors are, brutalizing weak females.

I will enjoy watching them quake in terror, witnessing the blood and bone of their comrades coming to haunt them, before adding them to my belt.

The group halts, perhaps sensing my approach is near. It’s no matter; nothing can stop me now. “Fire!” A gruff voice shouts just as I round the corner. My arc shield surges to life, flashing brilliant blue, casting shimmering reflections across the black metal walls.

The clang of their pulsar fire and bullets echoes around the corridor like the desperate clamor of prey struggling for survival.

“What the void is that monster?” A terrified voice cuts through the chaos, their question mingling with the futile snaps of energy weapons. My claws twitch with jerky, berserker rage, longing to tear out their throats.

The impact of their weapons thud into my plasma shield like a strong breeze. Their primitive ballistic bullets melt into molten droplets as they touch my shield, the pulsar waves fizzing and disintegrating before they can breach my defense.

I smirk behind my warvisor, seeing my prey’s pulses rise as they realize the inevitable—their deaths.

Close now, I leap, crashing like a comet among them. A tiny skittering Glaseroid is the first to die, its fragile body crushed beneath my boots in a sickening crunch.

A sadistic smirk twists my face, my heart soars. Buoyed by Arawnoth, his molten soul roars within me lifting me higher and hotter. I can almost feel his presence, whispering in my ear urging me to unleash my wrath, each kill, each slaughter a glorious tribute to his seething divinity.

The blonde female, her silver eyes narrowing with a look of elation on her face.

It pleases me. She’s a mirror to my molten soul, the offering of blood and bone to Arawnoth just beginning.

I waste no time driving my claws into a cream-colored Jungarian, lifting his torn, twitching remains high into the air.

Blood rains down, soaking the floor beneath us.

An Argorian and Crongarian continue to fire, but I have a new shield now.

Their bullets slam into the mangled remains of their comrade, his body jerks, absorbing the impact before I hurl it at them with brutal force.

The wet thud of flesh against metal echoes as the pair topple to the ground, screaming in horror and disbelief.

Among the chaos, the fierce dark-haired female, despite her hands being bound, scrambles, trying to wrestle a gun from the trapped and stunned Argorian.

I turn my attention to the two remaining Argorians. They exchange a look, their bladed weapons quivering in shaky hands. Pathetic, their resolve now running down their legs in steaming streams.

“Don’t!” one of them begs, his voice cracking.

I silence his irksome begging by slashing my claw through his scaly throat, nearly severing his head.

Such a weak species.

The other throws down his weapon before turning to flee. He doesn’t make it far, my long claws raking down his back, shredding through flesh and bone until he falls in a bloody, spurting heap. Glorious gore coats the walls and floor, filling the air with the scent of victory.

Meanwhile, the fierce female has finally wrenched the gun from the fallen Argorian’s grasp. She rises smoothly to her feet, her gaze cold and focused, before executing him and his trapped comrade with precise bursts to the head.

She is a warrior.