Page 272 of Scorching the Alien Empire
But Krogoth doesn’t relent. His arm flows like water, an unbroken river of motion. A conductor of living arcweave. Thewhip dances, sings—a cyclone of razors whirling with such God-blessed speed the ends blur together.
Then—a flick of his wrist. A blur. A hiss. Pain blossoms just beneath my eye. A shallow line. Green blood falls to feed the dying planet.
I step back. Ash crunches underfoot. Gasps rise from the crowd—first blood, drawn by a coward. My blood boils. MyRushignites—molten and crimson.
Krogoth advances—an impenetrable wall of blades wrapped around a stalking demigod, extending beyond my axe’s reach.
Instinct takes over. I yield ground, biding my time, eyes scanning for an opening. For fatigue. But all I see are those blazing purple eyes piercing through a storm of dark-gray metal. A god’s judgment made flesh, casting down lightning from the heavens.
He’s not slowing. He’s accelerating.
The whip’s whine builds—no longer a whistle, but a droning swarm of barbs. He senses my hesitation, my doubt. Press harder. Faster. My retreat shifts from measured to desperate. My steps scrape, stumble.
Another lash. Another promise of pain. I raise my shield.Screech!—the whip ricochets in a shower of sparks.
Now.
I lunge.Stormcleavercleaves down—an executioner’s blow meant to split him in two, cleaving only bitter ash. Too late, I realize my mistake. Pain stabs between my ribs—a punishing sting, another slicing lash. Even while fending my attack, he kept the cyclone spinning. Always moving. Always cutting.
Impressive. Maddening.
His skill, speed, tactics—all perfectly honed to nullify my size and strength.
I spring back again, buying space. But Krogoth doesn’t pursue.
Instead, he speaks—voice muffled through his respirator, words slick with venom.
“Compared to Xandor, you move like a stuck snarlbroc,” he sneers, fangs flashing. “Submit. Relinquish the tainted title of War Chieftain—and your Mortakin-Kis’s grievance. Do it, and I’ll spare your life. As I did before.”
Green blood drips in heavy tears onto scorched stone. I touch the wound at my side, smear the gore across my face, and taste the bitter tang.
His words rot in my ears. Again, he declares victory without earning it. Is it hubris—or fear—that drives him?
“You compare me to your lowlySecond?” I spit with seething contempt. “Youclaimvictory.But the storm always breaks before the dawn.”
I raise my shield.Stormcleaverrises. My stance hardens.
Krogoth exhales steam. “So be it,” he growls. His whip hums, slicing the air in vicious arcs. “I’ll peel your skin until onlyreasonremains.” He stalks forward, a whirlwind of blades and fury.
Our dance of pain begins anew—faster now, more feral. I leap back, keeping space between us. But Krogoth surges forward with terrifying speed. His wrist flicks—the droning whip becomes a shrieking bullet, slicing past my ear. Another lashes out, screeching against my shield.
I retreat again. Then again. But he’s already there, a blur of purple mist and ash-swallowed motion. Relentless. Tireless. Ruin made flesh. His gaze drops to my leg. The barb cracks downward—predictable. I lower my shield, catching the blow. Sparks burst like stars in a crimson sky.
Stormcleaverhowls down to cleave his cursed whip—but it vanishes. A sliver of light, gone before the metal lands. My axe smashes into blackened slag, erupting a geyser of steam and stone. A meteor strike. From the debris, I hear it: the keeningsong of pain. Then—impact.Agony erupts in my thigh. The wound flares hot and sharp, a green blossom in the gloom.
I grunt, staggering back, blood spilling over steaming obsidian like ale over tankard. Krogoth pressures with merciless resolve, moving with unnatural speed. The droning buzz of his swarming blade whip a death dirge in my ears. Each step is a retreat. A defeat—a humiliation repeating. My mind scrambles for a tactic, some ploy to turn this disgrace around—finding nothing but panic and shame.
The crowd gasps, a deafening flood of concern washes over me, like the searing heat lapping at my back. A glance over my shoulder—the arena’s edge yawns a few paces away. Flames waiting like a hungry god.
That curiositycostsme. Arcweave sings. Pain answers. A fresh gash opens along my cheek.
I snarl with furious rage. Fangs bared. Trapped. Hunted.
My heart pounds a war rhythm as I circle left, seeking escape from this tightening snare. Krogoth flows with me—cutting me off like lightning wearing flesh. His eyes pour violet mist into the haze, like some vengeful god come to pass judgment.
I pivot hard, darting right, all muscle and momentum. He’s there again. A rain of barbs slams into my shield. Each one a stone for my tomb.
Rage seethes in my veins. Rush bubbling like liquid hate. It pours from my eyes, red as the blood he drew from my Princesa. This is not justice. Not this... this farce. It’s a disgrace. A mockery. A dishonor to us both. His spine should be shattering in my grip—not dancing beyond reach while I bleed like a wild borack.
