The city lay in ruins behind him. Smoke curled into the sky, and the distant echoes of sirens and explosions faded as Khael'Thar walked away. His tail swayed lazily, slicing through the rubble as if it were nothing. His sword-hand folded back into a fist, metal gleaming under the dying sunlight.
Beyond the horizon, a new world awaited—a desert planet, harsh and unwelcoming. Winds tore across the barren plains, carrying dust that stung like knives. Khael'Thar felt it in his bones: another challenge. Another opportunity to grow stronger.
He arrived at the edge of a canyon. The ground shook beneath him. The air trembled. And then he saw them: another group of half-alien destroyers.
Horns curved from their heads, eyes glowing different colors—red, blue, silver. Their metal skins were varied, some smooth, some jagged, each reflecting light in its own way. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their presence alone carried power, and Khael'Thar could sense it.
"You've come far," one said finally, voice like grinding metal. "But this world belongs to us now."
Khael'Thar tilted his head. "Belongs? Nothing belongs. Everything ends. I am the end."
The others didn't flinch. They moved as one, circling him like predators sizing up prey. Khael'Thar smiled, a low, terrifying sound. His tail lashed, striking the nearest destroyer. Sparks flew, metal screeched. But the other moved with equal speed, absorbing the strike and retaliating with a punch that cracked the canyon wall.
The battle began. Sword-hands clashed, tails whipped, and sonic screams tore through the air. The desert shook with each blow. Rocks shattered. Sand exploded in clouds. Khael'Thar noticed something new: each of them had a different fighting style, different abilities, and yet all were half-alien, like him.
His body responded instantly. Metal shifted, muscles thickened, horns lengthened. Every strike, every dodge, every collision made him stronger. He had faced one rival before, then fleets of hunters. Now, multiple half-alien destroyers attacked at once, and the thrill of combat surged through him.
One with silver eyes leapt from above, a weapon forming from thin air like liquid steel. Khael'Thar blocked with his sword-hand, sparks flying. The impact sent him sliding across the sand, but he didn't falter. His tail pierced the ground and flung a boulder at another attacker.
The desert became a storm of metal, energy, and sound. Every scream from his opponents only fueled his growth. He felt it—power building, faster, sharper, more precise. The longer he fought, the stronger he became. Nothing in the galaxy could stop him if this continued.
After minutes—or perhaps hours, time was meaningless—he stood amidst the wreckage. Half of the half-alien destroyers were down, the rest retreating for now. His tail twitched, sword-hand ready. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The new battlefield lay quiet. Winds swept through the canyon, carrying dust and the faint smell of scorched metal. Khael'Thar's dark purple eyes glowed brighter, reflecting the sun setting behind the dunes.
A new realization settled in him. This was only the beginning. Other worlds, other destroyers, other forces—all waiting. Every battle, every opponent would make him unstoppable.
And the galaxy would tremble.
Khael'Thar lifted his head to the sky, listening to the winds and the silence. A low, metallic roar escaped his mouth. The sound echoed across the desert, warning anyone who dared come: the destroyer had arrived, and nothing could survive him.