The city slept under a pale sun. Streets were quiet, filled with the smell of bread and smoke from morning fires. Children ran to the market, merchants shouted prices, and guards walked lazily along the walls. None of them noticed the shadow that hovered above the city.
Khael'Thar landed in the central square without warning. The impact cracked the stone beneath his feet, sending small rocks tumbling in every direction. Horns curved from his head, metal skin gleaming in the sunlight. Dark purple eyes scanned the plaza, calm and cold. Behind him, his tail swayed slowly, ready to strike.
A group of soldiers rushed forward. Swords in hand, shields raised, they shouted orders to each other. "Stop him! Hold the line!"
Khael'Thar didn't hurry. He didn't need to. His hand shifted, metal folding and twisting until it became a sword. He raised it lazily, as if waiting for the first attack to tire him.
A soldier charged, swinging his sword. Khael'Thar's blade moved in a simple arc. The human's weapon shattered on contact. He barely noticed. With a swing of his tail, a nearby stone pillar exploded, debris scattering across the plaza. Soldiers screamed and fell.
A high, metallic sound erupted from Khael'Thar's mouth, like metal tearing in the wind. Windows shattered, rooftops cracked, and the air itself vibrated. Soldiers were thrown back, their weapons useless against the sonic roar.
From the rooftops, citizens watched in horror. Mothers clutched their children. Merchants froze mid-shout. Some whispered, "What… is that?" Others didn't have the chance to ask.
Khael'Thar didn't care. He didn't fight for glory, for honor, or even for victory. He fought because the world existed—and he would remake it through destruction. Every strike, every lash of his tail, every roar brought the city closer to ruin.
The guards tried one last effort. Arrows, spears, even the town's small cannons. Khael'Thar laughed, a low, terrifying sound that rolled across the plaza. His sword-hand deflected bolts of metal as if they were nothing. His tail struck with perfect precision, tearing through wood and stone alike.
Then he leapt. Soldiers scattered, but he landed in the center of the plaza with a single, heavy step. Smoke rose around him. Buildings were broken, windows gone, streets in ruins. Silence followed the chaos, broken only by the low hum of his presence.
Khael'Thar tilted his head, listening to the trembling city. No one remained to challenge him. The humans, the soldiers, the fighters—they were gone. All that was left was ruin and fear.
And yet, far above, a warship hovered. Alien technology glowed as it aimed energy weapons at him. Khael'Thar didn't flinch. With a single leap, he was on the deck. Blasts struck him, but his metal body absorbed them easily. His tail shredded the hull, his sword-hand cut through their defenses.
By the time he finished, the plaza was rubble, the warship smoking wreckage. Fires burned in the streets, and echoes of screams lingered in the air. Khael'Thar stood amid the ruins, eyes glowing dark purple, tail twitching, sword-hand ready.
He had begun.
The city was only the first. The galaxy was vast, full of life and weakness. And Khael'Thar had no limits. Every battle would make him stronger. Every strike would leave a scar on the world.
He took a deep breath. The sound of the city's collapse still ringing in his ears. The next challenge waited somewhere beyond the horizon.
And he would meet it with the same cruel certainty that had left this city in ruins.