Page 270 of Scorching the Alien Empire
As I approach, Voryx slinks away. Aelioth claps Krogoth on the back and bounds from the arena, sand trailing behind him like torn cloth in the wind.
“Hail, High and War Chieftain,” Borrthak bellows, voice heavy as thunder over the hush. I don’t answer. I just stare at Krogoth,hands flexing on Stormcleaver’s hilt. His breath rasps behind a respirator—a weakness.
My heart hammers in time with the war drums and the red lightning’s crackle. I’ve dreamed of this moment since the day he shamed me—shaved my head and stole an unearned victory. Back then, the blood rage was total. Every waking thought bent toward vengeance, towardthisKrak-Tok.
That hatred only deepened when I learned he murdered my father—betrayed our people. My rage became a furnace. I nearly lost myself to it—an inferno consuming my soul.
But fire forges, too. I’ve bled for this. Fought through storm and slaughter to stand before him—not as a victim, but as his equal.
Then I learned of my father’s corruption. The nightmarish nature of the Voidbringer. The fate of our females... That hatred faded—a flickering ember cooling to something like respect for a fellow Chieftain burdened with impossible decisions.
Until... hehurt her.
That ember reignites—an inferno, roaring anew. A blaze only his blood can extinguish. Even the memory of it almost drives my axe into his skull.
I respect his strength. Finally, a worthy foe—a gift from Arawnoth.
But respect ends where his brutality began.
The joy burning in my chest now is not honor—it’s the anticipation of tossing his severed head at Princesa’s feet.
“Dracoth, do you choose the old ways?” Borrthak bellows, arm sweeping across his massive belly toward the weapon racks, glinting with crude metal blades. “Or the new?” He raps my vambrace, tapping where the arc blaster and plasma claws rest dormant.
“The old,” I growl, raisingStormcleaver. Its plasma channels stay dark—I want to feel its raw edge cut through his bone and marrow.
A deafening drone of approval from the crowd ripples across the cracked, blistering plateau.
“Very well.” Borrthak turns. “Krogoth, do you choose the old ways?” His arm sweeps wide again. “Or the new?”
Krogoth’s gaze lingers. Not on my weapon. On me. Like he’s searching past armor and scar tissue, digging for something beneath the flesh.
“How do I know,” he says slowly, “you’re not just another corrupted machine—like your father?”
“My father was broken by the Voidbringer,” I growl, slamming a fist against my chest. “Butnot I. I am trueborn of Klendathor. My heart beats proud and strong with Arawnoth’s molten blood.”
Krogoth’s face remains unreadable—stone resolve, carved in silence. Until, finally, his gaze shifts to his Mortakin-Kis, as if searching her face for answers.
“DO NOT LOOK TO YOUR FEMALE!” I roar, stabbing Stormcleaver’s hilt into the cracked obsidian ground. “Krogoth Star-Eyes—demigod who gutted the Scythian Empire—now reduced to a coward who brutalizes fragile females.” I spit, lips quivering with fury. “The Ancestors turn their heads, weeping at your name. Deny my challenge and your shame will echo for eternity.”
His mouth curls into a sneer, fangs bared. “Your Mortakin-Kis was killing my Pebbles—my unborn children.” His voice shakes with rage. “I will bear any punishment. Face any judgment with my head held high for protecting them.” His eyes burn like twin violet suns. His hand clenches.
“Then bear itnow, coward.” I snarl.
I pull the obsidian ring from my finger—the one Consul Juliara gave me.
“See this?” I hold it aloft between my thumb and forefinger. “A stun ring. A gift from the Nebians.” I spit, the taste of it bitter as poison. “But I don’t seek victory through trickery. I seekvengeance—won by blood and fire.Honordemands it.” I crush the ring effortlessly in my fist and cast its remains at his feet.
Krogoth breathes deep. Nods. His gaze lingers on the crumpled metal.
“I choose the old ways,” he says finally, turning to Borrthak.
The crowd surges—a drone of approval rising like a hive stirred to life.
“Very good,” Borrthak bellows, lifting both arms to the ash-choked heavens. “The Gods have heard your pledge. The old ways shall bind this duel.”
He lowers his arms, gesturing to the weapon racks glinting under dim crimson sunlight. “Now bare your flesh. Choose your arms.”
A million throats still—a deafening silence among thundering red lightning and howling ash gales.
