Page 277 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Only we can endure this. Only Krogoth is worthy of my challenge.
“Come, brother!” I laugh, madness dancing in my molten heart. “Let us bathe in divine blood. Let us ascend to the realm of the gods!”
We stumble toward each other. Bodies broken. Spirits soaring.
He throws a jab with his swollen, battered arm. I deflect his wrist, sweeping my other hand toward him, he dodges my blow, before retaliating.
Claws and punches whistle and swoosh through the air. Each with the power to smash Battlesuits. Both of us too exhausted to launch kicks. No finesse. No distance. Just raw, brutal attrition.
A grinding test of endurance and will.
A parried backhand becomes a strike—slams into my gut. I grunt, twisting. My claws fly off course, grazing his shoulder, tasting blood.
Time drags, or perhaps we are simply slower now—our strength spilling out of us like our blood.
His fist crashes into my jaw. My vision wavers. Legs tremble. He raises his claws for the kill—but I smash into him, shoulder to ribs. He gasps, wind ripped from his lungs.
We break apart, staggering. Panting. Yet our eyes meet, smiles painting our broken faces. Two titans bleeding beneath a broken sky.
We clash again.
Blows rain down—some parried, some landing. Blood splatters. Bone cracks. Pain. Exhaustion. They burn deep, dragging my limbs toward the netherworld.
But still—our hearts soar to the heavens, as we ascend like gods.
This is why I was born. My divine purpose. Blood boils through my veins like molten rivers. My soulburnswith Arawnoth’s might.
And he feels it too. I see it in his eyes. The crook of his bloodied lip. The defiance behind the pain. We collide again and again, each strike echoing like thunder. Klendathor’s greatest sons beneath the Gods’ gaze, our battered silhouettes lit by cackling crimson lightning.
The crowd’s cheers turn rancid. Calls rise for Borrthak to stop the fight. To intervene.
But there is no end.
No retreat.
Only death—or glory awaits demigods.
“I will never submit,” I rasp, voice hoarse and raw. “Not like last time. When you shamed me. When you saw my tears, Krogoth.”
My eyes glisten as our bodies lock in a clench. Exhausted breaths hot on each other’s necks. Souls bared.
“I know, brother,” he growls, low and cracked. “But I cannot yield. I cannot leave my Pebbles.” He chokes a bitter laugh. “If I’d known just how strong you’d become...” He meets my gaze. “I might not have spared you.”
We stagger apart. A mirror of pain. Of pride. Of stubborn, sacred resolve.
“Let us end our females’ anguish.” He nods solemnly.
“Yes,” I reply, grimly.
Then we charge.
One final clash. A whirlwind of claws, punches, and parries. A dozen new wounds burst across our bodies. The wet slap of meat on meat. The crunch of bone. Skin tearing. Blood spraying. Stripes of flesh flap like war banners, offerings to shattered gods.
The crowd mutters in horror. Many turn away. They cannot bear a fraction of the suffering that claws brutally at our minds. Cannot watch what we’ve become. What we’ve given—our glorious example. But this is not for them. This is for us. For the Gods. Forhonor.
I twist, stepping into the final strike.Stormcleaver’sphantom weight behind my arm. A blow to shatter mountains. It whistles toward his face—
Then—agony.
