"I beg you...Please King H--" 6 cubits of gorgeous hot Vascsteele blade ended the ruination of my name. Buritian tongue was not meant to utter such scalding Noble syllables that encased my magnific name, I would see to that more thoroughly.

My grip reversed, yanking the sword from the gaping wound that gushed impure blood onto the glistening sands while sending this filthy animal-man before me to Dhira's inferno. "Send another...BRING ME THE TAHULI!"

A small man no larger than the average Buritian stood before me, the quaking knees behind his provided armor gave way to a fit of sobbing. Weakness and pity were marks of shriveled men.

I sent my hand forward with a jagged motion, penetrating the temple of the crying man's helmet with a blow to the head. Large golden claws were my preferred weapon--The feeling of blood matting my regal hair was exhilarating!

He stumbled back as the collision registered to him, horror showing on his now exposed face. "Yamari (Devil)!" Sand blasted into my eyes causing me to double over. Fury. Fury! HOW DARE THIS BEAST OF BURDEN PLAY SUCH DIRTY TRICKS!

I threw the blade with all my might. Though he tried to run out of the way he failed, his body becoming stuck greviously with the King's Wrath. My father's sword spun as it whittled its serrated edges deeper into the convulsing Tahuli savage. "BRING ME MORE! BRING ME THE WARRIORS!"

The roar of the crowd was music to my ears, a symphony of fear and adoration that fed the inferno of my ego. I stood tall, my seven-foot frame casting a shadow across the blood-soaked sands. Let them gaze upon perfection, I thought, let them tremble before the might of Vasca incarnate.

The gates groaned open once more, disgorging two Buritian warriors into my domain. Their oiled skin glistened beneath the merciless sun, muscles rippling with each step. I sneered at their elaborate tattoos, pitiful attempts to mark themselves as worthy. There was only one mark that mattered in this arena...the mark of my claws rending their flesh.

"Come, dogs of Buriti," I growled, flexing my fingers. The golden claws caught the light, and I saw my reflection in their polished surface - crimson eyes blazing with bloodlust, dreadlocks freshly matted with the gore of fallen foes. "Let us see if your blades are as sharp as your tongues."

They circled me like the curs they were, eyes darting between me and each other. I could smell their anxiety, taste their anguish in the air. It was intoxicating.

One of them finally found his courage, lunging at my exposed flank with a curved blade. Fool. Did he think me some lumbering oaf, slow and stupid? I pivoted with the grace of a Doigan dancer and the speed of a striking sandviper, my right hand's claws catching his blade and sending it skyward.

Before he could blink, my left hand raked across his face. The sensation of flesh parting beneath my claws sent shivers of pleasure down my spine. His scream of agony was sweeter than any court musician's melody.

As he stumbled back, blood pouring from the ruins of his face, his companion charged in. A flurry of strikes rained down upon me, the crowd gasping with each clash of metal on metal. I met every blow, my claws singing as they deflected his pathetic attempts to wound me.

In his frenzy, he managed to land a glancing impact. A thin red line appeared on my bicep, a trickle of royal blood staining my ebony skin. The crowd's collective intake of breath was deafening.

How dare he? HOW DARE HE MAR THE FLESH OF A GOD?

Rage, white-hot and all-consuming, flooded my veins. I roared a sound that shook the very foundations of the arena. The Buritian's eyes widened in terror as he realized his fatal mistake.

I closed the distance between us in the blink of an eye, my hand clamping around his throat. I lifted him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather, his feet kicking uselessly in the air. His sword clattered to the sand, forgotten.

"You dare to mar the flesh of a god?" I snarled, tightening my grip. The feeling of his windpipe collapsing beneath my fingers was exquisite. With a final, sickening crunch, I ended his miserable existence and tossed his corpse aside like the refuse it was.

A battle cry from behind alerted me to the other warrior's charge. Did he think me so easily deceived? I spun to face him, my claws finding purchase in his chest. The sound of rending flesh and cracking bone filled my ears as I tore his still-beating heart from his body.

Silence fell over the arena as I held the pulsing organ aloft, blood running down my arm in rivulets. "Is this the best the Doutros can offer?" I bellowed, my voice carrying to every corner of the colosseum. "Are these the warriors who would challenge the might of Vasca?"

As if in answer to my challenge, another combatant entered the arena. This one was different - taller, more muscular, his body a canvas of battle scars. In his hands, he wielded a massive war hammer, its head stained dark with dried blood.

Now this... this might prove interesting.

"I am Korzak, Champion of the Northern Tribes," he growled, approaching with caution. "I have come to end your reign of terror, Crimson Tyrant."

I couldn't help but laugh. The sound echoed off the arena walls, and I saw fear flicker in the eyes of the spectators. Good. Let them remember who truly rules here.

"Come then, Korzak," I sneered. "Let us see if the North breeds stronger men than the Old World."

He charged, his war hammer whistling through the air. I ducked under the blow, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my dreadlocks. My claws sought his flesh, but he danced back with surprising agility for one so large.

We clashed again and again, neither gaining the upper hand. His hammer crashed against my claws, the impact sending tremors through my arms. My claws left shallow cuts on his body, but nothing deep enough to slow this northern brute.

The sands beneath our feet grew slick with blood and sweat. The crowd's excitement mounted with each exchange, their bloodlust feeding my own. I had not faced such a worthy opponent in years, and it awakened something primal within me.

Suddenly, Korzak feinted with his hammer, then dropped low. His leg swept out, catching me off guard. I hit the ground hard, the breath driven from my lungs. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard his triumphant roar as he raised his hammer for the killing blow.

Not like this. I would not fall to some barbarian from the frozen wastes.

As the hammer descended, I rolled aside. The weapon's head buried itself in the sand where my skull had been a moment before. In a flash, I was on my feet, my claws finding Korzak's exposed side.

He grunted in pain but didn't falter. Abandoning his hammer, he grappled with me, muscle straining against muscle. For a moment, I felt myself being pushed back. Impossible! No filthy savage could match the strength of Vasca!

Rage and pride surged within me. My eyes blazed with infernal light as I summoned every ounce of my godlike strength. With a roar that shook the heavens themselves, I lifted Korzak bodily from the ground.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as I held the massive warrior aloft. My arms trembled with the effort, but I would not yield. With a final bellow of fury, I brought him down across my knee.

The sound of his spine snapping was like music to my ears.

I let his broken body fall to the sand, my chest heaving with exertion. Turning to face the crowd, I spread my arms wide in triumph. "Is there no one else?" I thundered. "Is there no warrior in all the lands who can stand against the might of Vasca?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Then, from the shadows of one of the arena's tunnels, a new figure emerged. He was smaller than the others, lean and wiry rather than bulging with muscle. In his hands, he held a pair of curved cyan daggers that gleamed wickedly in the sunlight.

"I will face you, Crimson Tyrant," the newcomer called out, his voice carrying clearly despite its soft tone.

I narrowed my eyes, studying this insect who dared to challenge me. "And who might you be, little man?"

"I am called Bakal..." he replied, twirling his daggers with casual expertise. "I come not for glory or freedom, but for vengeance. You slaughtered my family, burned my village to the ground. Today, I will have justice."

I threw back my head and laughed. The very idea was absurd. "Justice? There is no justice in this world, fool. There is only power, and those with the strength to wield it."

Bakal didn't respond. Instead, he began to move, circling me with the fluid grace of a predator. I watched him warily, recognizing the danger in those quick, precise movements. This one was different from the others - a viper among hyenas.

He struck without warning, blindingly fast. His daggers flashed in the sun as they sought my flesh. Caught off guard by his speed, I barely managed to deflect the blows with my claws.

Whisper pressed his advantage, a whirlwind of flashing blades. For the first time in years, I found myself on the defensive, forced to give ground before this relentless assault.

A dagger slipped past my guard, opening a long gash across my chest. Another found my thigh, drawing a grunt of pain from my lips. I heard the crowd's collective gasp, their invincible king was bleeding and backing.

Outrage coursed through me, superheated as molten steel. I would not be defeated by this gnat, this insignificant speck!

As Bakal came in for another attack, I seized my moment. I caught one of his wrists in my massive hand, squeezing until I felt bones crack beneath my grip. The dagger fell from his nerveless fingers.

He cried out in pain but didn't falter. With his free hand, he drove his remaining dagger towards my throat. In a move born of desperation and rage, I caught the blade between my teeth, biting down with such force that the metal shattered.

In that moment of shock, I struck. My claws raked across Whisper's chest, leaving deep, bloody furrows that fountained blood more than any man I have ever seen. He stumbled back, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief.

"Did you truly think you could defeat me?" I snarled, advancing on my wounded foe. "I am a god among men, little Bakal. Your retribution was doomed from the start."

Despite his injuries, Bakal managed to straighten up. There was no fear in his eyes now, only a burning hatred that matched my own. "Perhaps," he said, his voice barely audible. "But I have achieved what I set out to do."

Before I could react, he pulled a small vial from his belt and smashed it on the ground. A cloud of sickly green smoke billowed up, enveloping us both.

I coughed and stumbled, my eyes burning. I lashed out blindly, but he was no longer there. As the smoke cleared, I saw him lying motionless on the sand, a triumphant smile on his lifeless face.

Something was wrong. My vision blurred and my limbs grew heavy. With dawning horror, I realized the truth....

The smoke had been poisoned.

"Treachery!" I roared, but the word came out slurred. I fell to one knee, fighting against the encroaching darkness. "I am... King H--... I cannot be... defeated..."

But even as the words left my lips, I knew it was a lie. The poison coursed through my veins, unstoppable as the tide. With a final, defiant roar, I toppled face-first into the blood-soaked sand of my own arena.

Silence reigned for a long moment. Then, hesitantly at first but with growing volume, a chant began to rise from the crowd.

"Yamari ORRO. (Devil's Death)!"

As consciousness faded, I heard the native chant and knew that my reign had come to an end. In my last moments, I wondered if this was how all tyrants met their fate--not in glorious battle, but through the quiet vengeance of those they had wronged.

And then, mercifully, darkness claimed me. The last thought that flickered through my fading mind was one of bitter irony - I, who had sustained my father's empire on force and dread, had been undone by a whisper.

--------------------

I awoke with a groan, my head pounding as if a thousand war drums were beating inside my skull. The sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine assaulted my nostrils, a stark contrast to the stench of blood and death I last remembered. My eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus, the harsh Buritian sun already scorching the air despite the early hour.

I found myself sprawled on a chaise lounge in the royal gardens, the lush oasis a mockery of the barren desert that surrounded our great city-state of Vasca. Around me, a small crowd had gathered of my personal physicians, their faces etched with worry beneath their elaborate headdresses and the parasites I was forced to call family. The air was thick with tension, the scent of apprehension mingling with the cloying perfumes of the court.

"He's awake!" one of the doctors exclaimed, his dark hands adorned with rings of office rushing forward to examine me. His fingers, stained with herbs and tinctures, reached for my brow.

I swatted his hand away with a snarl, feeling the weight of my golden claws against my palm. "Get your filthy hands off me, you incompetent fool! How dare you touch the flesh of a god without permission?" The words tasted like bile in my mouth, bitter and harsh.

The man recoiled, terror flashing in his kohl-rimmed eyes. Good. Let them remember who I am, even in this weakened state. The Crimson Monarch does not suffer the touch of lesser beings.

"My king," a cold voice cut through the oppressive air. Marna, my second wife, stepped forward, her ebony skin glistening with scented oils in the morning light. Her dreadlocks were immaculate as always, woven with golden threads and precious gems, her face a mask of indifference that barely concealed her ambition. "We feared you had left us for Dhira's realm."

I could hear the disappointment in her voice, as clear as the ring of steel on steel. No doubt she had already been plotting, scheming how to secure her position in my absence. Perhaps even accelerate my journey to the burning afterlife. "Your concern is touching, dear wife," I spat, my words dripping with sarcasm as acrid as the poison that still burned in my veins.

My gaze swept over the assembled crowd, noting the absence of the one face I longed to see. Bala, my secret love, the mother of my only worthy child, was not among them. Of course not. She remained hidden away in her gilded cage atop the highest tower, a prisoner in all but name, thanks to the machinations of politics and her harpy of a sister. The thought of her soft eyes and gentle touch made my heart ache in a way I refused to acknowledge.

Instead, my eyes fell upon Huckleberry, my third and only surviving son. At merely twelve years old, the boy was already swaying on his feet, the stench of cheap Buritian wine emanating from him like a miasma. His red dreadlocks were disheveled, bits of gold and bone beads threatening to fall from the tangled mess. His eyes, so like mine in color but lacking any trace of strength or cunning, were wild and unfocused. A deep shame welled up within me at the sight of him, this pale shadow of what a prince of Vasca should be.

"Father," he slurred, stumbling forward and nearly tripping over his own feet. "You've returned from the dead! Truly, you are a god among men!" I could tell he was being 'playful'.

I closed my eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the poison. The boy was a fool, a drunkard at an age when he should be learning the art of war and statesmanship. "I was never dead, you addled harlequin," I growl