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—itis. 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 ismyarena 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.
