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A swing aimed at his head turns into a brutal backhanded slap with my free hand. But the cagey old veteran dodges the first blow and catches the second on the haft of his spear. Foolish of him. My strength jars the weapon, nearly ripping it from his grasp.

He spins around, quick but predictable, and my heart races with excitement.

An opening.

I lash out with a savage kick that could shatter boulders.

To my amazement, Jazreal leaps, twisting midair as his spear spins like a deadly storm. The triple prongs slice the air. I shift my head just in time, feeling the cold stone swoosh past my ear like shrapnel.

Impressive. I see why my father chose him. But I will break him—it is our destiny.

Before Jazreal’s feet touch the ground, my hammer is already in motion, a vicious chop aimed at his skull.

He barely escapes, twisting his body just in time as my blow crashes into the earth, cracking the jagged rocks beneath our feet. The sound is louder than the gasps of the crowd or the tempestuous lightning and thunder pounding in the heavens.

Jazreal lands just outside the crater that should have been his tomb. His movements remain calm, but his heart betrays him. I can hear it—pounding like war drums. His breaths come fast and ragged, the ash choking his lungs. He cannot withstand my strength forever. He knows it—I know it.

I surge forward again, my hammer a blur of lethal intent. Blow after blow, forcing him back, pushing him closer to the mountain’s edge. He’s quick, his feet dancing over the uneven ground, but he is tiring. His flowing hair, once a symbol of his skill, now clings to his sweat-slicked body.

Still, I press him.

My heart races with exhilaration. I’m forcing him to the edge—pushing him toward the abyss that waits to claim him.

Finally, a worthy opponent!

Are you watching, Father? Can you see your son dominate one of your finest? Does your heart swell with pride, knowing that I am your rightful heir?

Jazreal glances behind him, sensing the chasm calling his name to the beyond. He dances to his left—the only path for his survival. Desperation flashes in his gaze as he pivots away, trying to outmaneuver me. But I am ready. My hammer whistles like a falling bomb, seeking to end this contest.

In a last, desperate move, Jazreal raises his trident. The volcanic stone grinds against the head of my hammer, absorbing part of the impact, but still my strength drives through the weapon into his arm, forcing him crashing to his knees, a satisfying grunt escaping his lips.

He kneels before me—as is just and natural.

One hand clutches his swollen arm, the other grips his trident, pressing it into the ash-covered ground.

I savor this moment, imprinting the image of his heaving form into my mind, my molten Rush still burning through my veins.

He should submit now, end it with dignity—but he doesn’t.

A pity.

My grip tightens around the hammer, and I raise it high, ready to send him to his ancestors.

Suddenly, his hand springs forward like a vipertail, flinging hot ash into my eyes.

The world goes dark as I reel back, my vision clouded by the stinging dust. A roar rips from my throat, my fangs bared in rage at his cowardice.

Pain explodes from my chest, then my stomach, as I leap back, struggling to clear my eyes. His spear jabs at me with brutal speed and precision, the strikes relentless.

Already my body is covered in swollen welts as he mercilessly presses his dishonorable advantage.

I will not fall. I will not yield!

Agony bursts through my mind as the triple blows continuously slam into my body with brutal accuracy. I snarl with outrage, seeing him stalk after me through hazy vision. I hear his labored breaths, feel his desperation in each strike.

“Fall!” he mutters, breathless with fury. “Fall, damn you!”

I will never submit—never again. Unquenchable hatred seethes within me. Through the hazy darkness, I catch sight of his spear as it whistles toward me once more.

Now!

My left-hand snaps out like the purple lightning tearing through the sky above, seizing his spear mid-thrust. With a savage pull and push, I jerk it toward him, the butt slamming into his stomach. A grunt of pain escapes him as he doubles over.

He stumbles back, almost falling to his knees, while I finally clear my eyes of the blinding ash. My body throbs with agony, my skin raw with bruises, but I ignore it. I stand tall, coldly watching as Jazreal straightens, spitting blood onto the ground that will soon be his tomb.

“You fight like a coward,” I sneer, my grip tightening around the hammer’s handle.

Jazreal wipes the blood from his mouth, smearing ash across his scarred and sweat-slicked chest. His green eyes, still burning with Rush, lock onto mine. Good. Let us bathe in each other’s blood as Arawnoth desires.

“Only a fool fights his opponent where he is strongest, shorthair pup!” he snaps, the calm veneer slipping from his voice. Now, there is fervor, desperation.

He reaches into his pocket, a smirk curling across his lips. “I’ll die before I let you drag us to extinction, son of Gorexius.”

With that, he pulls out a handful of green roots—bloodroot. Without hesitation, he swallows them.

“No, Jazreal!” Garzum’s shout echoes from the crowd, but Jazreal silences him with a single defiant gesture, his spear raised aloft.

My heart surges with exhilaration as I watch the transformation begin. Bloodroot—a sacrifice for the momentary strength to match me.

So much of it...

I can only admire his resolve, his unyielding spirit. He sacrifices everything for this final, desperate battle. My blood burns hotter. Yes, let him throw everything at me. Let us become the gods of war Arawnoth demands.

Jazreal’s eyes blaze with unnatural fury.

The green Rush spills from them in great plumes as though his very soul is aflame—it is.

Arawnoth resides within him now, stoking his will, bending his mind toward pure, wanton carnage.

His lean torso bulges, veins pulsing with berserker rage, while his muscles swell with the immense power of the bloodroot.

“Come, Death Herald,” I snarl, crimson Rush spilling from my eyes, eager to test what power his life has bought.

Jazreal moves like a tempest, dashing forward with impossible speed, a blur of emerald smoke trailing in his wake. His spear becomes a storm, a whirlwind of jabs and slashes that force my molten heart to race. I stagger back, barely dodging or blocking the furious onslaught.

I twist and pivot, hammer raised in defense, parrying his strikes—but not all. Some break through. Each hit slams into me like lightning, pain searing through my limbs. The calm, precise warrior that once faced me is now gone, replaced by a frenzied beast. His blows are relentless.

The onslaught drives me back. I—Dracoth, the chosen—am being driven back like a frightened Prospect.

The indignity sears worse than the pain. My mind reels as his spear gouges deep into my defenses, crashing against my flesh like stone smashing through glass. The ground beneath me shifts as I stagger under his barrage, each step backward more humiliating than the last.

How has it come to this?

Pain lances through my ribs as another strike slips past my guard.

Yet he gives no reprieve, moving in a green blur of unending frenzy.

My muscles ache, and my lungs heave with strained breaths, growing more desperate every heartbeat.

I barely have time to think, moving on instinct, turning aside the most harmful blows, forced to accept the others—there is no choice.

How can I win against this fury?

A cold chill creeps over me... doubt. Is this Arawnoth’s will? A treacherous thought claws at the back of my mind. Has he abandoned me?

I barely register the spear thrust until it strikes me, snapping my head back.

Agony flares, my skull feeling as though it has been split apart.

Blood fills my mouth—metallic and bitter—dripping down my face.

The world flashes white. But there is no time for pain.

I cannot allow myself that weakness—it only invites more.

The crowd falls deathly silent, sensing the end—my end.

Only the sound of stone striking stone, the grunts of pain and effort, and the deafening rumble of thunder surround us.

Violet lightning flashes across the mountains, casting jagged shadows.

It is as if the Gods themselves loom over this final struggle.

The ash-filled air claws at my throat as I struggle to breathe. Each gasp burns. Jazreal presses on relentlessly, a green blur of rage and violence. His spear jabs and cuts at me, every strike vicious and honed by decades of battle.

I am losing. The truth gnaws at me, more painful than any blow. My strength, my power—it’s not enough.

I never believed such a moment would come. The strongest of all, outmatched. My eyes dart around, searching desperately for something— anything —to turn the tide.

And then, I see it.

The cracked ground where my hammer struck earlier. A reckless plan forms. My only hope.

Jazreal charges at me in a blur. Nothing remains of the noble warrior he once was—just a snarling beast, driven by a single desire: my destruction.

My heart races, but my mind sharpens. I begin circling back toward the cratered ground I created earlier.

I leap into its center, waiting with ragged breaths.

He takes the bait.

With reckless abandon, Jazreal launches himself at me, green fire still raging in his eyes. Just as he does, I slam my foot into the fractured earth with all my might. The rocky mountaintop splits under my immense strength, sending fissures and broken rubble exploding into the air.

Everything seems to slow as Jazreal stumbles, his previous grace consumed by bloodroot’s berserker fury.

The fate of our civilization—my destiny—hinges on something so small, so insignificant.

A stone.

He slips on it, falling backwards, crashing onto the jagged ground.

I’m upon him instantly, my hammer tossed aside, hands driven by pure molten rage.

They shoot toward his throat, but his hands meet mine, locking us in a titanic struggle.

His muscles bulge, veins pulsing with his bloodroot-fueled power.

Emerald Rush leaks from his eyes, green smoke drifting away in the wind as our bodies strain against one another, locked in this deadly embrace.

Lightning strikes nearby, the sky itself crying out as dust and debris rain down upon us.

But I am singularly focused. My fury reaches its peak.

I press down with all my might as the strongest of our kind—this is my arena now.

Jazreal’s body shakes, his fangs biting deep into his lip until blood flows freely.

“I AM!” I bellow, my rage vibrating through every fiber of my being, his fingers and arms trembling under my power. “THE WAR CHIEFTAIN!” I roar, bending his limbs back at grotesque angles. His bones snap with a sickening crunch.

To my disgust, my opponent doesn’t stop. Still, he thrashes to strike me with floppy, broken limbs. But it is futile now.

I seize his jaw, prying it open as he tries to bite me. His body thrashes, but I hold him steady, my grip unrelenting. It’s too late—he cannot stop me now.

With a sneer, I drive my other hand deep into his throat.

His body convulses, choking and spluttering.

I repeat the process, forcing my fingers deeper until he retches, coughing up green liquid mixed with chunks of bloodroot.

The green fire in Jazreal’s eyes finally extinguishes, his eyelids fluttering shut.

I rise, standing tall, chest heaving with labored breaths as the countless wounds on my body begin to register. But I have won. I have vanquished. I throw my fist into the air, my triumph punctuated by the deafening roll of thunder above and the ceaseless howling of the ash-laden winds.

Silence.

A deafening hush. Garzum steps forward, his face stricken with sorrow, his eyes lingering on the broken body of Jazreal. He raises his eyes just enough to meet mine, his voice heavy with the weight of this moment.

“Dracoth is the victor... may the Gods have mercy on us all.”