Page 63

Dracoth

Contender

T he wind howls like the roar of an unleashed venefex, carrying with it scorching ash that clings to my skin and stings my eyes.

My nose burns with dryness, and each swallow scratches my throat raw.

It isn’t fear—no, that pathetic weakness was burned from me the day Krogoth stripped the hair from my scalp, marking me with shame.

This is my future, ripe for the taking. All I need to do is reach out—reach out and crush Jazreal’s throat.

The dark ash dances like fluttering spirits of vengeance, reminding me of how harsh Scarn is.

It’s no wonder we Magaxus stand as the pinnacle of our great people.

This land rejects the weak; only the strong can endure here—and I am the strongest. Soon, all will bear witness to this truth, as certain as the rising purple sun.

I glance toward the huddled crowd, their fur robes pulled tight, faces hidden behind veils to shield them from the biting wind.

Meanwhile, I stand proud, bare-chested—a true son of Scarn.

I do not wilt—I embrace it, defying weakness.

The wind whips across the mountaintop like a malevolent god trying to sweep away all that is unworthy, while purple lightning splits the sky in jagged flashes, each followed by the thunderous boom of the heavens.

Even the Gods bear witness today. Yet, they are offered a poor spectacle.

Jazreal is a fine warrior, one of the elites.

As Death Herald of the Ravager Berserkers, he is the zenith of their might and leadership.

But I tower above him as he towers above the Prospects.

I will break him for daring to block my destiny—a crime against Arawnoth himself, whose molten will flows through my veins.

I am his chosen vessel of wrath. Jazreal will not endure the flames of my fury.

Still, the faces of the old veterans give me pause.

They stand at the edges of the arena, just outside the circle of stone.

It is an insult—unspoken, but clear. They distance themselves, watching with a mixture of fear and begrudging respect.

They do not support me—not in their hearts.

Those hearts have turned soft, corrupted by Garzum’s poison—Krogoth’s conceit.

I know them all. They are aging relics who once proudly guided me to spill blood and carve out victory in the name of the Magaxus.

Now they turn their faces away from me. It twists my heart with rank betrayal, but I will not show it.

They are old and broken in both body and spirit, denied a fitting death on the battlefield.

They seek the easier path, a life of comfort—toothless and senile. That is their disgraceful future.

No, the true Magaxus—those awaiting my return above Argon Six, the young and strong whose hearts thunder for blood and glory—they will rejoice at my coming. I will lead them, as my father did before me, an unstoppable force scorching the universe with our power.

“Dracoth,” soft voices call out, faint as whispers carried through the howling wind and booming thunder.

Princesa and Sandra. They stand behind me, waving colorful volcanic mosses in their hands, leaping on the spot.

“Dracoth, Dracoth, if he can’t do it, no one can! Woo!” they cheer, their voices swallowed by the ash that sweeps over them, forcing them to bury their pretty faces deep into their fur coats.

I should chastise them for coming despite my warning, knowing the harsh environment would overpower their human fragility.

Yet, despite myself, a smile creeps across my face, and a strange lightness spreads through me.

Unfamiliar and unsettling. For a moment, I almost wish Ignixis were here, if only to witness my coming triumph.

But my smile dies as I watch Sandra bent over, coughing and spluttering, her hand at her mouth.

She, who is as soft and sweet as nectar, cannot endure this unforgiving land—Scarn rejects her. A pity.

Princesa consoles her, offering her a drink.

Princesa... ever the enigma. She is as unstable and treacherous as the shifting volcanic fissures that scar this land.

A mere day ago, I would have let her go in Star City, if not for her potential to be my Mortakin-Kis.

A wild, spitting hydralith spewing venom and defiance with every word.

Yet now... she thrives where others wilt.

My mind struggles to comprehend how she endured the scalding waters without a single burn on her delicate skin.

Warriors more hardened than she could not bear it, yet she emerged unscathed.

It is as if Arawnoth himself had shielded her.

That same morning, I found her attending the ritual, Arawnoth’s blessing pressed onto her forehead—the same female who disdains all now shows reverence?

Strange indeed. Even now, as she tends to Sandra with her face uncovered, breathing in the ash as if she were a child of Scarn itself.

How did she acquire this strength? What does it mean?

A deep, rhythmic thump interrupts my thoughts and draws my gaze to the tunnel entrance.

The sound of drums, growing louder with every beat, echoes through the jagged peaks like a heartbeat pounding from the earth itself.

It would be a fitting funeral dirge for Jazreal, had the spineless Garzum granted him full Krak-Tok.

Another shame, although... accidents can happen.

The idea pleases me, twisting my lips into a fanged smirk.

And that is the face Jazreal sees as he emerges from the final steps—the look of utter confidence, laced with hatred. Yet, there is no fear in his eyes. He moves with the grace of one who has seen countless battles, surveying the scene with calm determination.

The ash clings to his scarred, weathered body like a second skin, making him appear a part of the mountains themselves.

He’s old, his best days behind him. It is only natural for the young and strong to replace the aged and feeble.

This is my time—my era. I will bear the glorious burden of our people.

Garzum marches alongside Jazreal, whispering in his ear, while his crimson eyes flicker toward me.

The favoritism is pathetic. It will not change the outcome—nothing will.

What does Garzum see when he looks upon me?

The indomitable strength of Arawnoth made flesh?

They must sense it radiating from me—my destiny burns bright—a supernova ready to explode.

Others follow in Jazreal’s wake: drummers and other sycophants.

Cheers erupt from the crowd like thunder as Jazreal strides into the circle arena, his feet navigating the craggy, uneven surface like an agile venefex.

But I am not mere flesh—I am molten and unyielding, as hard as the Peaks of Scarn itself.

Jazreal peers up at me, his green eyes flashing defiantly as the ash-choked wind whips at his long black-gray hair.

His voice is a snarl, carried over the booming thunder. “Turn away from this path, pup!” The sight of me unnerves him—he feels the weight of my presence, tries to cloak his fear in words.

I let a sneer curl across my face. “Make me.” My shadow looms over him, heavy like the impending eruption of a volcano.

Garzum steps between us with arms raised.

He clears his throat, awaiting the cheers of the crowd to die down.

“By Arawnoth’s light, we stand witness to his divine judgment.

Let his molten soul empower the righteous and destroy the weak.

A contest decided by stone and skill.” He gestures toward the array of stone weapons jutting from their plinths.

“Should you fall unconscious, submit, or be unable to continue, you are condemned. Choose your weapon.”

I watch as Jazreal approaches the weapons, running his fingers over the sharp edges and smooth grips like any choice will make a difference. His choice should be obvious—something long to keep me at a distance. But it won’t save him.

I move to my own plinth, scanning the handles of blades, axes, spears, claws—sharp weapons, a poor choice for a ‘ non-lethal ’ contest.

My hand closes around something more fitting—a short hammer. Brutal. Effective. A single blow will crush his skull or render him unconscious in an instant. I slap the weapon’s head into my palm, testing its weight, the promise of finality in its heft.

Returning to the center, I see Jazreal already waiting. A smile tugs at my lips as I take in the sight of him clutching a long trident that’s as tall as he is. No shield? A bold choice that will cost him dearly. Speed will be his only defense.

We lock eyes, and I feel the molten Rush surge through me.

It’s intoxicating, as though time itself slows to meet my will.

Every breath I take is thick with ash, filling my lungs like fire.

My muscles swell, coiled and ready to strike.

My chest rises and falls, matching the drum of the storm.

The world narrows to this moment—Jazreal, the weapon in my hand, the purple lightning cracking the sky above.

I see his eyes glow, green wisps leaking from their edges, caught in the wind like the fleeting ghosts of fallen warriors.

“May Arawnoth guide the righteous!” Garzum’s roar cuts through the storm, his arms raised high as the heavens boom in response. “Begin!”

I do not wait for his arms to lower. I charge Jazreal like rolling magma, the fury boiling in my veins demanding release.

Jazreal leaps back, spear at the ready, moving as though he floats above the jagged ground. My hammer swings in a brutal crisscross, distorting the air just inches from his weaving form.

I press him brutally, denying him the space he wants—or needs.

Jazreal springs away with the grace of a venefex, navigating the treacherous jagged ground with ease.