The Jungarian’s lifeless body flops to the hard metal floor as I release my blood-drenched grip.
“Wait, wait. I’ve got credits!” the Glaseroid pleads, collapsing to its pathetic knees, its many arm limbs fluttering uselessly. The insect creature’s cowardice sickens me. Unlike the cold void of space or these unforgiving arcweave walls, I am not indifferent—I judge. Only the strong are fit to survive.
I am now an agent of Arawnoth’s will, cleansing the universe of weakness, restoring the natural order.
“There’s no bargaining with death,” I growl, my voice a grim decree. The Glaseroid’s beady eyes widen, sending itsquirming under me, its antennae fluttering wildly. My claws shoot downward, puncturing its fragile exoskeleton as easily as a laser through fabric. I extend my fingers, shredding its insides, creating a gaping hole where its back once was. It doesn’t even have time to scream before its feeble limbs go limp as its resolve.
With a flick of my wrist, I fling the remnants of its gore from my hands. I turn to the human female. She watches, her expression a strange mix of horror and... something else. Interest? Pleasure? It’s difficult to tell. My warvisor reveals the shifting currents of her emotions, but there’s no time to ponder useless emotions. One female remains in the cell with a large Crongarian, while the other two are being led away by numerous aliens. My trophies can wait.
Arawnoth demands blood.
Chapter 11
Dracoth
Blood
Icontinuemychargingpursuit,guided by my warvisor, which highlights the condemned aliens like flames in an abyss. They dare steal my females. The thought ignites my blood, twisting my lips into a savage snarl. The bloodroot still burns hot in my veins, every muscle clenched like coiled springs trembling on the verge of rupture—yearning for violence, for murder. Arawnoth surges through me, blurring my vision in pulsing green and red flames. He demands death. And I will not fail my molten God, for we are of one mind.
My rage carries me to the opened cell in moments. Desperate, piercing screams echo off the walls, and I know one of my females is suffering. It drives me forward in murderous fury.
The one with beautiful orange fire hair—Sandra. The only human female who offered me her name. She thrashes wildly beneath the bulk of a Crongarian, his claws ripping at her clothes, leaving her nearly naked, bloody gashes marring her pale skin.
Rage, white-hot and all-consuming, seethes within me, hotter than the heart of a supernova. I surge forward, my presence looming over them like a shadow of death.
Sandra freezes, her blue eyes widen noticing my murderous approach over the Crongarian’s shoulder. She senses what is coming.
The Crongarian must feel death shivering down his spine—he stumbles in a clumsy, desperate turn. His pathetic, jagged cock shrivels before my hulking shadow. I’m drenched in gore, the stench of his comrades’ blood, clinging to me like a dark miasma. I can see it in his eye:he knows. He smells his own doom approaching. Every step I take drags him closer to the abyss.
“A voiding Klendathian!” the Crongarian cries, his voice trembling with raw terror. He scrambles into the corner. His beady eyes darting to the rattling, gore-covered vertebrae he’ll soon join. His horror is as thick as the blood-tainted air. “Wait! I would never have touched your whores if I had known they were yours!”
All belong to me, for I am the strongest and the weak must bow before the strong. That is the way of the universe. This Crongarian’s miserable life is no different.I would split open his ribcage and tear out his still-breathing lungs for this insult. But the other females are nearing the docking hatch. There’s no time for suitable vengeance.
My crimson eyes bleed mist, the fury within me blinding as I tower over the cringing Crongarian. He lowers himself further with every step I take, his clawed hands raised inpitiful surrender. “Please!” he begs, his voice little more than a whimper.
His weakness sickens me as I drive my foot down upon his horned head. He shrieks in agony; his skull resists my first blow, refusing to pop like it should. Crongarians possess thick bones—broad and durable—but to my molten eyes, they are nothing more than stunted prey.
I will break him.
With a second stomp, his sharp teeth shatter like brittle stone, and the fractured remnants of his skull crackle beneath the force. His pathetic whimpers, choked and dying, only stoke the bloodlust raging in my veins.
I slam my foot down again, and this time, the satisfying crunch of bone and horn collapsing beneath my weight reverberates through the corridor. Blue gore splatters the floor, and I lift my boot, now dripping with brain matter and bone fragments, disgust curling my lip. Yet his death only fuels the fury burning within me.
Movement catches my attention. Sandra rushes toward me, her fragile form clinging desperately to my gore-encrusted leg.
“Thank you, thank you!” she cries, her voice a frantic wail as tears stream down her flushed cheeks. Her small, trembling body presses against the cold arcweave of my armor, her near-naked softness stark against the visceral scene of carnage.
And in that moment, something foreign stirs deep within me. Her frantic sobs and repeated words of thanks echo in my ears, somehow cutting through the haze of violence that consumes me.
What is this?
Relief? The idea claws at my mind like a venefex. I am the son of War Chieftain Gorexius, a hero forged in blood, fire, and endless violence. And yet seeing her fragile, tear-streaked face pressed against me, something tightens in my chest—a sensationtoo close to pride, too close to something softer, something... weak.
It unsettles me, twisting in my gut like a blade lodged between the ribs. The fury in my veins still burns, but this strange feeling persists, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.
I place a soothing hand on Sandra’s shoulder, stroking her gently. “You’re safe now,” I grumble. She clutches me tighter, her weeping becoming less intense.
Strange, I should be repulsed, usually such garish pathetic displays sicken me. Is it her absurd softness seeking my strength which holds my disgust?
