Battle in the wilds

Landrid - The battle in the wilds

Long ago, humanity settled the stars, building empires that stretched across the known galaxies.

But they were not alone.

They fell prey to beings beyond their comprehension—forces that twisted reality itself. Salvation came in the form of the Lefferet, an ancient race of scholars and warriors who wielded knowledge as both weapon and shield.

The Lefferet gave humanity Volnyte, the power to reshape matter, and with it, they created the Volundr—warrior-smiths who could defend their kind without breaking the Pact.

For there were rules.

Humanity could not develop technology unchecked. They could not challenge the balance of power in the void. Because, survival was not guaranteed. They were not the apex predators.

In exchange for Lefferet knowledge, humanity had to uphold the Bond—a law older than the stars.

The Lefferet did not see life and death as opposites, but as threads woven into the same vast design. To them, everything was connected: what lives, what has lived, what will live, and even what does not live. This was not faith. It was fact. A law as immutable as gravity.

To break the Bond—to wage war without balance, to build without respect for what came before—was to court disaster.

And it was not the Lefferet who enforced it.

It was the Landrid and the Thool’Varen who ensured the Bond remained unbroken. To defy them was to be erased—not conquered, not subjugated. Simply removed.

For centuries, the Accord and the Volundr held the line, ensuring that the Pact remained unbroken.

But the Pact is being challenged.

Landrid has returned. And the Volundr may not be enough.

The fate of humanity rests in the hands of one Volundr—Xelric, a lone survivor haunted by his past and his connection to the creatures that now hold humanity’s future in their grasp.

The Fall

(Above, on the cliff’s edge, Prince Landrid stood. The wind cut through him, carrying the frozen mist of the sea into his face. His golden eyes stared down into the abyss below. Ice, water, darkness. A single thought took shape—fall.)

(He hesitated, but not out of fear. Something called to him, something deep inside, something that had always been there. The wind pushed against his back, whispering, inviting. He never looked back.)

(The ground vanished beneath him.)

(For a moment, there was only weightlessness. Then—the plunge. The frozen world above shattered into fragments as he broke through the surface. Water, thick and heavy, rushed over him, wrapped around him. His clenched teeth braced for the cold—but there was none.)

(It was warm. It felt like home.)

(Starlight pierced the darkness, thin columns of silver cutting through the abyss, illuminating the silent world beneath the waves. The vast ocean stretched endlessly below him, shifting, breathing. Alive. He drifted deeper, carried by the unseen tides. Somewhere, far below, something waited. Watching.)

(The Prince closed his eyes, and let himself sink.)

A Boy Against an Army

Hierarchy Merc: (eyes darting around, whispering)

“Where is he—?”

(A blur. A flicker of golden eyes. Before anyone can react—)

CRACK!

(A merc’s armor caves inward as something strikes his chest with bone-breaking force. He flies backward through the trees, crashing through branches before slamming into a boulder, unconscious before he hits the ground.)

(The others barely have time to register what just happened before—)

THUD.

(Another merc is sent spinning through the air, flipping violently before slamming face-first into the dirt. His body twitches, then goes still.)

(A breeze passes through the battlefield.)

(Then they hear it—a light, amused laugh.)

???: (mocking, almost bored)

“This is your best? I was expecting real hunters.”

(The mercenaries snap their weapons toward the voice, but it’s too late.)

WHOOSH—

(A golden blur weaves between them, effortlessly dodging the wild shots. A foot connects with a merc’s face—his helmet cracks. Another is ripped off his feet, sent crashing into the underbrush.)

(The boy dances through them, completely untouchable.)

Hierarchy Merc: (terrified, stumbling back)

“What is he—?!”

Hierarchy Champion: (gritting teeth, eyes narrowing)

“Focus! He’s toying with you!”

(The boy lands in a crouch, dust kicking up around his bare feet. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, his golden eyes glinting with predatory amusement.)

The Boy: (grinning, voice light, playful)

“You know… I expected more.”

(The mercs regroup, their numbers already cut down. The air hums with energy weapons powering up.)

Hierarchy Merc 2: (shaking, adjusting aim)

“J-just hit him with everything!”

(The boy sighs, stretching his arms lazily.)

The Boy: (mock disappointment)

“All this noise for one little fight? You guys are no fun.”

(And then, before they can fire—he moves. Faster than they can see. Faster than they can comprehend.)

(One after another, he drops them effortlessly—dodging, weaving, breaking bones with single strikes, dismantling them like a child knocking over toy soldiers.)

(Then—everything stops.)

(A shadow falls over him.)

The Champion Joins the Fight

The Champion stepped forward, calm, unshaken. Unlike his men, he didn’t panic. He didn’t hesitate.)

Hierarchy Champion (voice like steel, measured)

“Enough.”

(The boy paused, mid-motion, standing over a broken merc. He tilted his head, curious.)

The Boy (mock surprise, wiping dust off his hands)

“Oh? You finally decided to play?”

(The Champion didn’t respond. He simply moved.)

(A step—then a blur.)

*(Faster than the boy expected.)

CLASH!

(A blade lashed toward the boy’s throat—he dodged, barely. A sharp whistle of air cut past his ear as the Champion pivoted, reversing his grip, swinging for the ribs. The boy twisted, leaning back just enough for the blade to scrape past his chest—so close he could feel the heat of the Volnyte edge.)

(He landed lightly, rolling his shoulders.)

The Boy (grinning, impressed)

“Huh. You’re fast.”

Hierarchy Champion (watching him closely, adjusting stance)

“You’re predictable.”

(The boy smirked—but there was something sharp behind it now, something watchful.)

The Boy (mocking, circling him)

“Am I? Let’s test that.”

(And then he attacked.)

(The first strike was playful—a feint, meant to bait a reaction. The Champion didn’t fall for it. He parried cleanly, his blade twisting to lock the boy’s arm in place for a counterattack.)

*(But the boy wasn’t there anymore.)

(He shifted, sliding beneath the strike, flowing like water. Before the Champion could recover, a knee snapped toward his ribs—he blocked, boots skidding against the dirt from the force. The boy grinned, pushing forward, launching into a rapid series of strikes—elbows, knees, precise jabs aimed at weak points.)

(The Champion blocked them all.)

(Not easily. Not cleanly. But enough to stay standing.)

(His footwork was tight, his guard solid. Every strike that landed, he rolled with. He didn’t panic. He didn’t overextend. He fought like someone who had been doing this for a long time.)

*(The boy’s grin widened.)

The Boy (low, amused)

“Finally.”

*(His next strike was different.)

*(Faster. Sharper. More precise.)

(The Champion moved to counter—but his balance was already off. The boy’s feints had done their work. He twisted inside the Champion’s guard, palm snapping forward, stopping just short of the man’s throat.)

*(A deliberate pause.)

*(The boy’s golden eyes glowed, watching for a reaction.)

The Boy (mocking whisper)

“Checkmate.”

(The Champion didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His grip on his weapon tightened, knuckles white—but his voice stayed calm.)

Hierarchy Champion (even, quiet)

“No.”

(The air crackled.)

(Volnyte surged through the Champion’s gauntlet, a pulse of raw energy roaring to life—too fast to dodge, too close to escape.)

(Then—)

BOOM!

(A blinding column of pure energy erupted, consuming the boy in light.)

(The impact shattered the ground, leaving a crater of molten earth.)

(Silence. Smoke rose. The mercenaries caught their breath, eyes wide, chests heaving.)

Hierarchy Merc (panting, triumphant)

“We got him—”

*(A gust of wind blew away the smoke.)

(And there, at the center of the blast zone—)

*(The boy stood.)

*(Unscathed.)

*(Not even a scratch.)

*(His grin was gone.)

*(His eyes had changed.)

(Not amused. Not playful. But hungry.)

The Boy: (voice quiet, almost disappointed)

“That was your best?”

(His skin begins to glow, veins of raw Volnyte energy pulsing beneath the surface. His body shifts, grows.) His bones crack, lengthen. His muscles contort, his jaw elongates, his hands become claws. His breath comes out in heavy, bestial huffs.)

(The Hierarchy forces freeze.)

Hierarchy Merc: (whispering, horrified)

“T-this isn’t normal… he’s—evolving.”

(The Champion tightens his grip on his blade, eyes locked onto the creature before him. For the first time—he hesitates.)

Hierarchy Champion: (whispering, to himself)

“What are you?”

(The creature that was once a boy tilts its head slightly, golden eyes burning through the darkness. Then, it grins—jaws stretching wider than they should.)

The Beast: (voice layered, deep, guttural)

“Let’s see if you’re worth eating.”

(And then it lunges.)

The Champion’s End

(The Champion swings his Volnyte blade, the energy arcs searing through the air. But the beast is faster. Too fast. Before he can blink, it’s already on him.)

(Massive jaws clamp down on his torso, crushing metal and flesh alike. The Champion shouts in agony, but the sound is muffled as the beast swings him wildly, slamming him through the battlefield like a ragdoll.)

(The trees splinter and explode with each impact. The force is inhuman, unrelenting. And then—one final swing—CRACK. The Champion’s body slams into a giant tree, the wood groaning under the force before snapping in half.)

(Silence.)

(The other mercs stare in horror.)

(Then, one turns and runs. Another follows. Then all of them. Scattering into the forest, desperate to escape.)

(The beast watches them go. Slowly, his body shrinks, contorts, reverts—until, standing in the clearing, is just a boy once more.)

(He exhales, rolling his shoulders, golden eyes flickering.)

The Boy: (soft chuckle, shaking his head)

“Tch. That’s more like it.”

The Hunt Never Ends

(The mercenaries scatter, crashing through the underbrush, desperate to put distance between themselves and the battlefield. Their boots pound against the earth, lungs burning, hands shaking on the grips of their rifles.)

(But the forest doesn’t let them go. It presses in—darker, heavier, alive. The air thickens, the sound of their own breathing too loud, too sharp. Something is watching. Waiting.)

(A low rumble rolls through the trees, not like thunder, but like a living thing. The ground shudders beneath them. The feeling is primal, undeniable. They are not running anymore. They are being hunted.)

Hierarchy Merc 1: (panting, eyes darting wildly)

“What—what is that—?”

Hierarchy Merc 2: (whispers, voice cracking, gripping his rifle tighter)

“It’s him.”

(From the shadows, they emerge.)

(Figures low to the ground but impossibly fast, their muscles shifting like coiled springs beneath smooth, armored skin. Their golden eyes glow in the dim light, burning with a terrible knowing. Their bodies are sleek but impossibly dense, built for raw, relentless power. Their long limbs end in clawed hands, thick with calloused, stone-like ridges. Their movements are silent, the grace of a predator that has never been prey.)

(The mercs freeze, unable to move, unable to breathe. There are too many. They spread through the trees like shadows given form. No fur. No softness. Only hunger.)

Hierarchy Merc 3: (choking out a whisper, hands trembling)

“It’s all Landrid… It’s all him.”

(One of the creatures moves first. A streak of muscle and golden light, it slams into the closest merc, lifting him clear off the ground. The man lets out a choked scream as he’s ripped backward into the trees, vanishing into the dark. His rifle drops, spinning uselessly into the dirt.)

(Then the rest descend.)

(One merc tries to fire—too slow. Clawed hands wrap around his head, twisting before snapping his neck like dry bark. Another is dragged to the ground, his armor useless against the sheer force of the assault. He barely has time to struggle before his throat is torn open.)

(They do not fight. They overwhelm. They are relentless, perfect hunters. The mercenaries are dead before they even realize it. Their weapons fall silent, their bodies left broken in the dirt.)

(It is not a battle. It is a feeding.)

(The last survivor doesn’t even try to shoot. He stumbles backward, breath hitching, tears in his eyes, whispering to himself as if it will change anything.)

Hierarchy Merc 4: (gasping, staring at the slaughter, voice barely audible)

“Monsters. All of them. Just…monsters.”

(A shape moves behind him. Something massive. A hand closes around his skull. The last thing he hears is his own heartbeat, slowing to nothing.)

(Then—silence. Nothing left but the hushed sounds of the hunt concluding.)

(At the edge of the massacre, Landrid stands. His bare feet press into the dirt, his golden eyes calm. He watches as the creatures finish what he started, their movements effortless, perfect. This was always how it would end. No survivors. No mercy.)

(He exhales slowly. Then, without looking back, he steps into the shadows. The forest is his again. The hunt is over.)

The Hierarch’s Wrath

The chamber pulsed with golden light.

Not fire. Not warmth. Data, living and dying in endless cycles. The voices of his people whispered within it—fractured minds, unraveling slowly, slipping beyond recovery.

The Undying were failing.

The Hierarch stood at the heart of it all, silent, listening. These were his people, his ancestors, his empire. And they were dying.

Not from war. Not from weakness.

From time itself.

The gift of eternity had become their poison.

Their oldest minds were already lost to the void, their thoughts spiraling into madness. Even the youngest, transferred into new, perfect bodies, had begun to fracture.

The sickness was spreading.

And the clock was running out.

The Only Path Forward

The Hierarch lifted his gaze. A single thought pulsed through the golden streams.

Survival.

If his people were to endure, the answer lay elsewhere. In the Landrid.

They did not age. They did not decay. Their bodies rewrote themselves endlessly, adapting, evolving.

The secret was within them.

And he would tear it from them if he had to.

Of course, the empire did not move as one. Not anymore.

There were those within the corporate elite who saw the Landrid as nothing more than a resource to be carved apart and exploited. They were blind—shortsighted profiteers who did not understand what was at stake.

Then there were the human strays, the Volundr who had once been scattered remnants of a lost people. They had found purpose within the Hierarchy, serving as shock troops, enforcers, weapons.

But their numbers were growing. Their influence is spreading.

For now, they remained tethered—held in check by a single bargain.

Extended life.

The Hierarchy controlled the technology that let them live beyond their years. A gift drawn from the DNA of the Landrid, harvested from the war that never ended.

They would serve as long as they had something to gain.

But even that would not last forever.

Everything was shifting. The balance was fragile. And if the Hierarch lost control of it now, everything would crumble.

That could not be allowed.

A War of His Own Making

He exhaled slowly, watching the golden streams flicker and pulse.

This was only the beginning.

The war with the Landrid would not be a war of survival.

It would be a harvest.

The corporate elite would be managed. The human strays would be reminded why they served.

And when it was over—when the secret of the Landrid was his—

His people would be saved.

No matter the cost.

The Undying Rebirth

The chamber was cold, sterile, illuminated only by the pulsing glow of bio-sarcophagi lining the walls. Inside each, a suspended body—cloned flesh, reinforced with cybernetic enhancements, waiting for a soul to inhabit them.

One of the tubes cracked open, thick vapor spilling into the dimly lit room. The body inside convulsed, lungs filling with air for the first time. Wires detached from the base of the skull, the mechanical hum of neural integration fading.

The Hierarch’s Champion gasped, his body foreign but familiar, nerves still raw from the transfer. The last thing he remembered was pain—crushing, searing pain, as the boy ripped him apart.

And now, he was here. Again.

One of the Undying. One of the Chosen.

He took a slow, measured breath, flexing his fingers as he adjusted to this new vessel.

Then a voice cut through the chamber like a blade.

The Hierarch’s Fury

The Hierarch appeared on the transmission screen, his form bathed in golden light, face shrouded beneath the ceremonial helm of the Order. His voice was quiet—but filled with uncontained rage.

Hierarch: (low, seething)

“You disobeyed my order.”

The Champion stood motionless, head bowed.

Hierarch: (voice rising, burning with fury)

“You were told to observe. To gather information. Yet you threw yourself into battle against something beyond your understanding. And now, because of your recklessness, I am forced to accelerate our plans.”

The Champion’s hands clenched into fists. He did not flinch, did not tremble. He had no fear.

Champion: (voice cold, measured)

“The boy was a threat. I assessed the risk and engaged accordingly.”

Hierarch: (mocking, filled with venom)

“And how did that end for you?”

(Silence.)

The Hierarch leaned forward, his presence almost suffocating even through the transmission.

Hierarch: (commanding, final)

“The war will reach Vesh’Veluun sooner than anticipated. We will no longer be discreet. We will no longer wait. You will prepare for my arrival.”

The screen flickered off, the golden glow vanishing, leaving the chamber in darkness once more.

The Champion exhaled slowly. He did not argue. He did not plead. He simply turned on his heel, walking toward the awaiting mercenary squad.

The Champion’s Defiance

The mercenaries stood at attention as the Champion approached. Their armor was battle-scarred, their faces worn and hardened from years of bloodshed. These were not soldiers of faith—these were killers, survivors, men who fought for credits and cause alike.

The Champion stopped before them, his gaze sweeping over their ranks.

Champion: (calm, unwavering)

“We continue the search.”

The mercenaries exchanged glances. A hesitation.

One of them—a veteran, older, more cautious—took a step forward.

Mercenary Veteran: (hesitant, frowning)

“That’s… not the Hierarch’s order.”

A beat of silence.

The Champion turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

Champion: (soft, almost amused)

“No. It isn’t.”

Before anyone could react, he moved.

A blur of motion—a crack of energy.

The veteran’s throat split open.

His body collapsed to the floor, lifeless. Blood pooled at the Champion’s feet, steam rising as it met the cold ground.

The rest of the mercenaries stood rigid, silent.

The message was clear.

The Champion turned back to the rest, voice even.

Champion: (unshaken, absolute)

“Continue the search. Kill the boy if you can. If not, find something I can use.”

(He paused, stepping past them.)

“The gold Hierarch is coming. And when he arrives… we will be ready.”

The mercenaries did not question him again.

Flashback – The Forgotten War

The sky was burning.

Smoke and ash choked the heavens, turning the sun into a dim, blood-red orb behind a thick curtain of war’s aftermath. The ground beneath the Champion’s boots was scorched and broken, littered with the bodies of the fallen.

The Landrid were all but gone.

His forces had swept through them like a storm, obliterating entire battalions, their once-mighty warriors reduced to charred husks and shattered limbs. The battlefield was a graveyard of broken titans, the air still humming with the residual energy of Volnyte bombardments.

Victory was absolute.

Or so it should have been.

As the dust began to settle, as the acrid scent of burning flesh and ionized air faded into silence—

He saw him.

A single boy.

Standing alone among the ruins.

He was small, unarmored, barefoot amidst the wreckage. His golden eyes burned through the haze, staring directly at the Champion.

No fear.

No rage.

Just waiting.

The wind howled across the dead land.

And for the first time in his immortal existence—

The Champion felt something he did not recognize.

Something close to unease.

Flashback – The Boy Who Shouldn’t Exist

The Champion stood amidst the ruins, his forces still sweeping the battlefield, securing what little remained. Smoke curled through the air, the ground scarred and shattered from orbital bombardments.

And yet, amidst the devastation, a single boy stood alone.

Unscathed.

Unmoving.

Watching.

The Champion’s brow furrowed beneath his helmet.

Champion: (motioning to a nearby sergeant, voice sharp)

“You—boy! Get out of there.”

The sergeant hesitated, glancing at the others before stepping forward, his energy rifle raised slightly.

Sergeant: (cautious but firm)

“Hey, kid, you better get out of here before they come back and the bombardment starts again.”

No response.

The boy’s golden eyes didn’t waver, didn’t blink.

The sergeant sighed, stepping closer. He lifted his rifle, nudging the boy’s shoulder with the barrel.

Sergeant: (grumbling)

“Kid, do you hear me?”

And then—

The boy moved.

Faster than thought.

His small hand shot out, gripping the sergeant’s arm like a vice.

The man barely had time to scream before he was yanked forward, his shoulder wrenched from its socket with a sickening pop.

His body twisted, his armor groaning under the pressure of the boy’s inhuman grip.

Then—a fist through his chest.

A wet, tearing sound.

The sergeant’s scream choked into silence, his eyes wide with shock, his body going limp as blood poured onto the boy’s bare feet.

For the briefest moment, the entire battlefield seemed to hold its breath.

Then—the boy was gone.

Vanished.

Reappearing high above, atop a broken tower.

The sergeant’s lifeless body dangled from his grip, his shattered arm swaying uselessly in the wind.

The boy looked down at the Champion.

Expression unreadable.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the corpse down.

The body hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

Silence.

The Champion didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because for the first time in his immortal existence… he understood what it felt like to hesitate.

Champion: open fire!

The soldiers open a furious barrage but the boy is gone

The soldiers start to hear a chant Drak ren Drak

Glowing yellow eyes start appearing from the darkness tall gaunt with warriors holding long spears made of Landrid bone, they begin hurling spears and the beast Landrid around them fright differently they fight like an extension of the warriors

Flashback – The Ambush

The Champion’s grip tightened around the hilt of his blade, his mind processing what had just happened. The sergeant was dead—ripped apart by a child.

Impossible.

But there was no time to think.

The boy was gone.

No movement. No sound. Just vanished.

Flashback – The Forgotten War: The Fall of the Champion

The Champion’s voice thundered across the battlefield.

Champion: (roaring, pointing toward the broken tower)

“OPEN FIRE!”

A storm of energy bolts erupted into the ruins. Explosions rocked the broken structures, sending debris into the air. Soldiers unleashed barrage after barrage, lighting up the darkness with burning plasma.

But nothing was there.

The boy was already gone.

And then, they heard it.

A sound, low at first, like a whisper.

Then rising, growing, rolling across the battlefield like a tidal wave.

“Drak ren Drak.”

Again.

“Drak ren Drak.”

It was everywhere.

The soldiers hesitated, their formations faltering as they scanned the ruins, weapons still glowing from the failed assault. Their fingers trembled over their triggers.

A nervous lieutenant stepped up beside the Champion, his voice uneasy.

Lieutenant: (gripping his rifle, voice shaking)

“Sir… that’s a war chant.”

The Champion gritted his teeth, his eyes scanning the ruins, searching for movement.

Champion: (growling, voice sharp)

“I can hear that. Hold formation. Whatever’s out there—”

Then the eyes appeared.

The Ambush

Golden-yellow orbs, glowing through the thick smoke, piercing the night.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

A soldier staggered back, raising his rifle instinctively.

Soldier: (panicked, voice cracking)

*“No… no, no. We wiped them out! They’re dead!”

From the shadows of the ruins, they emerged.

Tall, gaunt warriors, their bodies lined with ritual scars, their flesh stretched over unnatural muscle. Each wielded a long spear, the shafts made of Landrid bone, the tips sharpened to a glass-like edge.

The Thool’Varen.

Their eyes burned like molten gold, their movements silent, unhurried.

They had not come in haste.

They had come knowing they would win.

Then, the beasts came.

Moving in perfect rhythm beside the warriors, their massive, sinewy forms rolling like liquid muscle. Towering creatures, silent, calculating.

They did not move like mindless animals.

They did not fight like wild things.

They were an extension of the Thool’Varen warriors.

Not mounts.

Not tools.

One mind. One will. One war.

A soldier shuddered, stepping back.

Soldier: (whispering, barely breathing)

“What… what the hell is this?”

A deep, inhuman voice answered from the ruins.

A Thool’Varen warlord stepped forward from the smoke, his long spear resting across his shoulders. His golden eyes gleamed in the firelight, his smile slow and cruel.

Thool’Varen Warlord: (mocking, voice smooth as stone grinding against steel)

“What’s wrong, Hierarchy dogs? You thought the Landrid had no fangs?”

Laughter rippled through the ranks of warriors.

Another Thool’Varen, his face painted in blood, twirled his spear effortlessly in one hand.

Thool’Varen Warrior: (grinning, rolling his shoulders)

“They look surprised. Almost… afraid.”

The warlord tilted his head, eyes locking onto the Champion.

Thool’Varen Warlord: (soft, deliberate)

“Your people die well, Champion. They scream so beautifully.”

The Champion’s jaw clenched. His gloved fists tightened.

The Fall of the Hierarchy Forces

Champion: (voice cold, controlled)

“Kill them all.”

The air split with the whistle of spears cutting through the wind.

Screams erupted as soldiers fell, impaled where they stood.

The Landrid beasts lunged, claws carving through armor, teeth snapping bones like twigs.

The Hierarch’s finest warriors crumbled.

Some fought.

Most died.

A lieutenant staggered back, grabbing the Champion’s arm, desperation in his eyes.

Lieutenant: (gasping, bleeding, voice cracking)

“We—we have to retreat! We can’t fight this!”

The Champion ripped his arm free, his eyes burning with rage.

Champion: (snarling, pushing forward)

“Hold the line!”

But there was no line left to hold.

His forces were gone.

The Thool’Varen stepped over the bodies, their golden eyes never blinking, never looking away.

And then, for the last time, the Champion looked up.

And there he was.

The Boy on the Tower

Sitting on the broken spire, his bare feet dangling over the edge, hands resting on his knees.

Watching.

His golden eyes burned through the smoke, unblinking, expression unreadable.

Not smiling.

Not mocking.

Just waiting.

The Champion’s vision blurred.

His legs gave out. His body collapsed.

And the last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him—

Was the chant rising to the heavens.

“Drak ren Drak.” (Fight or Die)

The Champion stood in silence, staring at the reflection of his new body in the cold metal of his armor.

The memories of that battlefield still burned in his mind—the smoke, the screams, the golden-eyed boy watching from the ruins as his forces were slaughtered like animals.

He had underestimated him before.

Not this time.

The Champion clenched his fists, feeling the raw power of his new form.

“This time, the hunt does not end until he is dead.”