The air trembled and the Dust scattered as Raghul rose, his massive frame shadowed by a red aura that rippled like wildfire. The scar running across his face pulsed with molten light, spreading veins of crimson across his neck and arms.
Before him, Flint stood, blood dripping from his scales, chest heaving. He didn't move, didn't blink. His golden eyes stared at the monster before him, and in that silence—he saw something.
A flicker.
A glimpse of the man behind the beast.
Years Ago…
Raghul was small once. Frail. A scrawny boy in a quiet village hidden between the woods and the hills.
He used to sit by a fire, watching his father sharpen a hunting knife while humming an old tune.
"A blade's only as good as the hand that holds it,"
his father used to say.
"But a heart, Raghul—that's what decides whether you live or die."
His father was the village's butcher and hunter, strong-armed and kind-eyed. The villagers respected him. But they laughed at Raghul. The boy who couldn't even lift a log.
He'd come home bruised, muddy, and crying.
Every time, his father would pull him close and whisper stories of heroes—men who fought beasts, kings, and even gods.
"You'll be one of them someday," his father said with a smile.
"A hero who protects people like me."
It was a good life. A small, decent life. Until the day everything burned.
The chief's son had gone missing in the forest.
The villagers panicked. The chief promised rewards for anyone who found the boy.
Raghul's father volunteered. He had always been brave like that.
"Father, I'm coming with you!"
The man hesitated, but one look at his son's determined eyes made him chuckle.
"All right, but stay behind me, got it?"
They ventured deep into the forest. The trees were too still, too quiet. Raghul was nervous, trying to keep up with his father's long strides.
"You scared, boy?"
his father teased, grinning.
"You can still run home. Tell the others you tried."
Raghul puffed out his chest. "I'm not scared! I can do it!"
The words had barely left his mouth when his father froze.
Rustling—then shadows moved.
A group of poachers emerged, faces hidden under torn cloaks, crossbows aimed at them.
"Heh. What luck," one said. "A boy and his father, venturing together in this quiet forest, how heartwarming."
Raghul's father pushed him back. "Run, Raghul!"
He didn't. He just watched. Watched his father fight—slashing, dodging, cutting down one, then two—until an arrow pierced his skull.
The world broke.
Raghul screamed, but it didn't matter. The poachers dragged him off.
They locked him in a cage.
It stank of blood and sweat. Around him were other children—some crying, some too weak to move.
And there, in the corner, sat the chief's missing son, shivering.
Raghul stared. Rage boiled inside him.
"It's your fault!" he shouted.
"If you hadn't come here, my father—he'd still be alive!"
He lunged at the boy, nails scratching, fists pounding. The poachers laughed instead of stopping him.
When the screaming stopped, the boy was dead.
Raghul's small hands were red.
The leader of the poachers, a man with a scarred jaw, knelt in front of the cage and chuckled.
"Heh. Look at you, kid. You've got fire. Maybe you'll fetch a good price."
That day, Raghul was sold to a slave master—a man who owned the blood-soaked pits of an underground colosseum.
And that's where the boy died.
And the beast was born.
He was thrown into a cage again—this time made of iron bars slick with blood.
They gave him a wooden stick and pushed him into the arena.
The crowd roared.
His opponent was a giant of a man, wielding twin axes.
The match was over in seconds. Raghul was thrown to the ground, an axe cutting through his face, carving the scar that would never heal.
He should have cried. But instead—
He laughed.
For the first time since his father's death, he felt something.
Rage.
And it felt good.
He tore through the man's throat with his bare hands, took his axes, and never let them go.
From that day forward, he killed for survival. Every fight, every wound, every scar shaped him into a monster the crowd cheered for.
Raghul the Butcher.
The Bloodhound of the Pits.
He didn't remember when he stopped being human.
One day, a man entered the arena—a swordsman from the dark elf race, with sharp eyes and a calm, arrogant smirk.
Ardan.
He stood in the center, pointing his sword at Raghul.
"They say you're the strongest here. I'd like to test that."
Raghul grinned, amused.
"You? You look like a twig. Sure, let's see how long you last."
The fight that followed shook the arena.
Axes clashed against sword. Dust and blood filled the air.
Ardan dodged, struck, and countered with precision. Raghul's raw strength met Ardan's skill. Neither yielded.
Then, in a single heartbeat, Ardan's blade stopped at Raghul's throat.
Raghul froze—then laughed.
"Not bad, twig."
"I told you," Ardan said, sheathing his blade. "If I win, you join me. If I lose, you kill me."
"Fine," Raghul grunted. "A deal's a deal."
The slave owner protested, yelling that Raghul was his property.
Ardan's eyes turned cold.
"Raghul," he said, voice low and commanding. "Kill him."
Raghul grinned.
"Gladly."
And he did.
That was the first time he followed an order without resentment. The first time he felt loyalty.
From that day forward, Raghul became Ardan's blade—his executioner, his brother in blood.
The memory shattered.
The battlefield returned.
Flint's vision refocused as the ground beneath Raghul cracked.
The red aura around him grew thicker, burning like liquid fire. His scar glowed blindingly bright.
Raghul lifted his axes, the veins on his arms bulging, the crimson lines crawling up to his neck like veins of molten steel.
"Lizard…"
His voice was deep, almost inhuman.
"You've got guts, standing after all that. Let's finish this—properly this time."
Flint hissed, lowering his stance. Blood dripped down his claws.
The air between them buzzed, pressure rising. Dust and smoke spiraled around them, their battle reaching its climex.
To be continued.....