Chapter 9: Chatper: 9 A step towards power
Skarbrand's mind was a seething pit of anger and frustration, boiling over like a cauldron of molten lava. He could feel the hot, pulsing rage coursing through his veins, fueling his every move.
He could feel it in his bones, a sense of foreboding that hung heavy in the air like a shroud. There was something more to him, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he knew that it was there. It was like a nagging itch at the back of his mind, an insistent voice that whispered to him in the dead of night.
The chaos gods were involved somehow, he could feel their presence lurking just beyond the edge of his consciousness. They were ancient beings, older than time itself, and they revelled in the destruction and chaos that they caused. They were the embodiment of everything that was wrong with the world, and he knew that he was somehow connected to them.
It was like the visions that haunted Skarbrand, the ones that came to him in the dead of night, just as he closed his eyes to sleep. They were vivid and real, almost like memories, but he knew deep down that they were not. It was his mind playing tricks on him, reminding him of what he had lost.
Skarbrand couldn't remember the details of her final days, his memories were foggy as he tried to remember her. But the visions were clear as if they were trying to tell him something.
Skarbrand's howl was heard throughout the Brass Citadel as if he were a modern-day Samson issuing a challenge to the heavens. He screamed for his god, Khorne, to hear his plea for more power, and offered a trial by combat against any demon or warrior who dared to face him. The air crackled with the tension of Skarbrand's fury, and all who heard his cry knew that something terrible was about to happen.
As if in response to Skarbrand's challenge, a voice boomed from the heavens, deep and powerful, promising to grant the warrior his wish. It was the voice of Khorne, and Skarbrand knew that his god had accepted his offer. Without hesitation, he was transported to an arena, surrounded by cheering crowds of demons, all eager to witness the bloodshed that was about to take place.
The arena was a sight to behold, with towering pillars of obsidian rising from the ground like a forest of jagged teeth. The ground beneath Skarbrand's feet was slick with blood, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of sulphur and brimstone. As he looked around at the twisted faces of the demons surrounding him, he knew that he was in for the fight of his life.
In the blood-soaked arena, Skarbrand stood with his eyes fixed on his opponent, a Soul Grinder with a blade that gleamed with the promise of pain. This was not a fight for the faint of heart, nor for those who lacked the mettle to see it through to its violent end.
The battle raged on, a vicious dance of steel and blood. Skarbrand, the bloodthirsty warrior of Khorne, faced off against the Soul Grinder, a creation of the Chaos Gods. The stakes were high, and the tension was palpable. The air was thick with the scent of fear and excitement, and the sound of metal clashing echoed through the arena.
The combatants circled each other, their movements lithe and precise. Skarbrand's eyes blazed with a fierce determination, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. The Soul Grinder, its metal frame gleaming in the harsh light, seemed almost nonchalant in its movements as if it had done this a million times before.
The two warriors clashed, their weapons ringing out like a symphony of destruction. Skarbrand's axe whirled through the air with deadly precision, each blow aimed at a vital spot. The Soul Grinder's blade was no less deadly, slicing through the air like a scythe. But Skarbrand was faster, dodging and weaving with the agility of a dancer.
As the battle wore on, Skarbrand felt his muscles burning with exertion. The Soul Grinder was a formidable opponent, and it seemed as though it would take more than brute strength to defeat it. Skarbrand knew he had to be clever, to outmaneuver the beast and strike when it least expected it.
With a grunt of effort, Skarbrand launched himself forward. The Soul Grinder met him head-on, its blade flashing through the air. Skarbrand dodged to the side, his axe biting deep into the metal frame. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the arena, punctuated by the grunts and roars of the fighters.
As the battle wore on, the audience grew restless. They wanted blood, wanted violence, and they were not afraid to show it. Skarbrand could feel their eyes on him, their hunger for carnage almost palpable.
But Skarbrand was not like them. He fought for something greater, something more primal. He fought for the glory of Khorne, for the honour of his tribe, and the thrill of battle. He fought because he was a warrior, and that was all he knew how to do.
The battle reached a fever pitch, the combatants trading blow after blow. Skarbrand could feel his heart racing, his breath coming in short gasps. He knew he was close, knew that victory was within his grasp.
With a final surge of strength, Skarbrand launched himself forward. The Soul Grinder met him head-on, its blade flashing through the air. But Skarbrand was ready. He dodged to the side, his axe whirling through the air like a tornado. The blade sliced through the metal flesh of the Soul Grinder, sending sparks flying in all directions.
The audience erupted into cheers and applause, the sound echoing through the arena like a tidal wave. They had come from all corners of the realm to witness the battle between the Bloodthirster Skarbrand and the horde of Khorne demons.
The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of blood and sweat mingling together to create a heady mix. The demons charged at Skarbrand, their claws and fangs gleaming in the dim light of the arena.
Skarbrand roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of the building. He swung his massive axe with deadly precision, cleaving through flesh and bone with ease. The demons fell at his feet, their bodies twitching in death throes.
But still, they came wave after wave, their numbers seemingly endless. Skarbrand fought on, his muscles straining with the effort. He could feel his strength waning, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. But he refused to yield. He was Skarbrand, the Bloodthirster, and he would not be defeated.
The battle raged on, the demon's rage growing with each passing moment. Skarbrand fought with all his might, his axe flashing through the air like lightning. The Khorne demons were strong, but Skarbrand was stronger.
He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of destruction. All around him, the arena was filled with the sounds of combat. The clash of weapons, the screams of the dying, the roars of the Bloodthirster. It was a symphony of violence, a tribute to the glory of Khorne. Skarbrand was a colossus, towering over the demons that dared to face him.
His muscles bulged with each swing of his axe, his veins pulsing with the power of his rage. He was a sight to behold, a living allegory of destruction and death. But the demons were relentless, and Skarbrand was only one.
He fought on, his body battered and bruised, his skin slick with blood. His movements were slower now, his breath coming in short gasps. The demons sensed his weakness, and they pressed their advantage.
Skarbrand gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with fury. He knew that he could not give up and that he had to keep fighting until the bitter end. With a mighty roar, he charged forward, his axe swinging in a wide arc. The Khorne demons were taken aback by his sudden burst of energy, and they faltered for a moment.
Skarbrand took advantage of their hesitation, cleaving through their ranks with renewed vigour. Blood sprayed in every direction as the demons fell to the ground, their twisted bodies writhing in agony. Skarbrand stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion. But the battle was not yet over.
The demons regrouped, their numbers still vast. Skarbrand knew that he had to keep fighting, that he could not give in to fatigue or despair. With a snarl, he charged forward once again, his axe biting deep into the flesh of the demons. They fought back with all their might, their claws and blades slashing at his armour as they tried to bring him down. But Skarbrand was not so easily defeated.
With a roar that shook the very foundation of the arena, he swung his axe in a wide arc, cleaving through the horde of demons. Blood sprayed in every direction as the demons fell to the ground, their twisted bodies writhing in agony.
Skarbrand stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion. The arena echoed with the clash of weapons, the screams of the demons, and the roar of the crowd. The demons were relentless, swarming Skarbrand like a pack of wolves. But he fought with a ferocity that could not be matched.
His axe cleaved through flesh and bone, his blows sending demons flying across the arena like rag dolls.
Skarbrand was a force to be reckoned with, a being of pure rage and fury. His eyes blazed with a fierce intensity as he fought, his muscles rippling with every movement. He was like a god of war, unstoppable and unyielding, cutting through the Khorne demons with ease.
The battle was a blur of motion and violence, a symphony of death and destruction. Skarbrand moved with a fluid grace, his axe flashing in the dim light. He was a master of combat, his every move calculated and precise. The demons fought with a desperation born of fear. They knew that Skarbrand was not just a warrior, but a living weapon, a being of untold power. But even their fear could not save them from his wrath.
Skarbrand swung his dual axes with deadly precision, cutting through the Khorne demons with ease. Blood and gore sprayed across the arena as the demons fell before him, but Skarbrand knew that this fight was far from over.
He could feel his strength beginning to ebb, and the wounds on his body were a reminder of the demons' ferocity. But he refused to give up. He would fight until his last breath until every demon was dead. Suddenly, the ground beneath him began to shift and writhe, and Skarbrand braced himself for whatever was to come.
In moments, pillars rose from the ground, transforming the arena into a maze of brass and iron. Skarbrand was trapped, surrounded by walls of flames and pulsing brass. The demons came at him from all directions, their blades flashing in the dim light of the arena.
Skarbrand spun and dodged, his axes biting into brass and iron with every strike. But the demons were relentless, and Skarbrand soon found himself backed into a corner. It was then that he saw his opening.
With a roar of fury, Skarbrand launched himself forward, his axes whirling in a deadly dance. The demons fell before him as their bodies were torn asunder by his blade. But the arena was not yet done with him. As the last demon fell, the pillars shifted and changed again, the walls closing around him. Skarbrand was trapped, and he saw more demons pouring in from the opening of the pillars of brass and iron.
The only escape was through the demons that now blocked his path. With a growl of frustration, Skarbrand charged forward, his axes flashing in the light from the flames. He fought his way through the horde, carving a path of destruction through their ranks. But the demons were relentless, and they seemed to come at him in an endless wave.
Skarbrand fought with everything he had, his axes cleaving through demon flesh and bone. The battle raged on, with Skarbrand holding his own against impossible odds. It was a fight that seemed to go on forever, with no end in sight.
Skarbrand was battered and bruised, his body aching from the countless wounds he had sustained. But he refused to give up. He would fight until his last breath until every demon was dead. He was through.
The arena shifted once again, the walls falling away to reveal a clear path to victory. Skarbrand raced forward, his axes swinging with deadly grace. The demons fell before him, their bodies torn apart by his unrelenting fury.
Skarbrand stood alone in the arena, his muscles rippling with tension as he surveyed the carnage around him. The once pristine sands were stained red with the blood of his fallen foes, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of sulphur and sweat. But Skarbrand was not yet sated. No, he hungered for more. He craved the thrill of battle, the rush of adrenaline that came with every swing of his axes.
The maze had been a worthy challenge, its twisting corridors and shifting walls testing even Skarbrand's keen senses and honed instincts. But he had emerged victorious, his axes biting deep into the flesh of the demons that had lurked within. And yet, even now, as the last of his foes fell before him, he could feel the stirrings of a new challenge, a new battleground.
With a fierce roar, Skarbrand charged forward, his axes flashing in the dim light of the arena. The demons that rushed to meet him were no match for his fury, their feeble claws and fangs no match for the deadly precision of his strikes. But even as he cut them down, more came, pouring forth from the shadows like a tide of darkness.
Skarbrand laughed as he fought, his voice booming through the arena like thunder. He revelled in the chaos, the pure, unadulterated violence of it all. He was a creature born for battle, a living weapon honed by centuries of bloodshed and warfare.
And yet, even as he fought, he could sense something stirring in the depths of the abyss. A new foe, perhaps, one more fearsome than any he had yet faced. Skarbrand grinned, his eyes flashing with anticipation. He welcomed the challenge, the chance to prove his worth once more.
With a mighty swing of his axes, Skarbrand plunged into the fray once more. The demons fell before him like wheat before the scythe, their screams and howls echoing through the arena. But still, more came, their numbers seeming to swell with each passing moment.
Skarbrand roared in defiance, his axes whirling in a deadly dance. He could feel the blood pounding in his veins, the thrill of battle filling him with savage energy.
He would not be defeated, because he fighting for a greater purpose within himself.
For her...
Skarbrand stood alone in the arena, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he surveyed the carnage around him. He had fought long and hard, his muscles aching and his skin slick with sweat and blood. But he had emerged victorious, his axes flashing in the dim light of the arena as he cut down his foes one by one.
And then, suddenly, there was a sound. A deep, rumbling growl that seemed to emanate from the very earth itself. Skarbrand looked up, his eyes wide with surprise, as he saw a vision before him: a great, hulking figure wreathed in flames and clad in the armour of black iron. This was Khorne, the Blood God, and he had come to claim Skarbrand as his own.
"Skarbrand," the voice boomed, echoing through the arena like thunder. "You have proven yourself worthy of my favour. And so, I grant you a gift: a power beyond your wildest dreams."
Skarbrand stood transfixed, his heart pounding in his chest. He had heard tales of Khorne's power, of the gifts he bestowed upon his chosen warriors. But he had never dared to dream that he might be one of them.
And then, suddenly, he felt it. A surge of energy, a rush of power that flowed through him like wildfire. He could feel his muscles bulging, his veins pulsing with raw, savage strength. His axes seemed to glow in his hands, as though imbued with a power beyond mortal understanding.
Khorne's voice rumbled again, deep and resonant. "This power is yours to command, Skarbrand. Use it well, and let the blood of your enemies flow in my name."
Skarbrand grinned a fierce, feral expression that sent a chill down the spines of all who saw it. He could feel the power coursing through him, a savage intelligence that was beyond his comprehension. But he knew one thing: he was stronger now, faster, more deadly than ever before.
He raised his axes to the sky, letting out a roar that shook the very foundations of the arena. "For Khorne!" he bellowed, Skarband leave the arena and was able to achieve a minor goal for more power.
The Sky of the Realms of Chaos was a kaleidoscope of colours that shifted and danced across the horizon. But now, it was bathed in a deep crimson hue, a warning sign to all for Khorne, the Blood God, had gained power, and his army was preparing for battle against the other Ruinous Powers that resided within the Realm.
The brass citadel stood tall and proud, a fortress of steel and iron that Khorne's forces had fortified with all manner of traps and defences. The Bloodletters, Khorne's most loyal followers, stood atop the walls, their weapons at the ready, their eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of their enemies.
Skarbrand, Khorne's greatest champion, had ordered the forces to guard the gate and the walls. He knew that the coming battle would be fierce, that blood would be spilled, and that only the strong would survive. He watched as his forces went about their preparations, the clang of steel against steel ringing out across the citadel.
The sky grew darker as the forces of the other Ruinous Powers approached. The air was thick with the smell of blood and magic, a potent mix that filled the warriors with a primal sense of excitement. Khorne's army was ready, their weapons sharp, their minds focused on the battle ahead.
As the enemy forces approached, Khorne's army roared its challenge.
The brass citadel was an imposing sight to behold, rising from the surrounding wastelands like a jagged, metallic tooth. Its walls were thick and pitted with the scars of countless battles, and its towers stretched up towards the murky, storm-tossed skies.
The defenders of Khorne had been preparing for this day for weeks. They knew that the forces of chaos would come for them eventually, and they had made sure that they were ready.
The walls of the citadel were lined with soldiers, each one armed with a sword or axe or spear. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces grim and determined as they gazed out at the approaching enemy.
The skies above were filled with the swirling, writhing energies of the warp. Sorcerers of Tzeentch danced and capered on the backs of giant, mutated beasts, hurling bolts of magical fire down upon the citadel walls. The defenders braced themselves as the first impacts hit, the stone and metal ringing out like a bell.
But the defenders were not just waiting for the enemy to come to them. They had their tricks up their sleeves.
The first wave of attackers, the minions of Nurgle and Slaanesh, came charging forward with their sickly, writhing bodies. They scrambled up the ladders and ropes that had been thrown up against the walls, their twisted faces contorted with fury and pain.
The defenders met them with blades and axes, hacking and slashing with wild abandon. The air was filled with the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.
But it was not enough. For every attacker that fell, two more seemed to take their place. The defenders were slowly being pushed back, their lines faltering under relentless pressure.
And then, just as it seemed like all was lost, the defenders of Khorne unleashed their secret weapon.
A massive, smoking cannon was wheeled out onto the ramparts. It was manned by a team of grim-faced engineers, who worked feverishly to load it with shot and powder.
And then, with a deafening roar, the cannon fired.
A blast of flame and smoke erupted from the barrel, engulfing the attacking hordes in a searing inferno. The sorcerers of Tzeentch were incinerated in moments, their twisted bodies reduced to ashes.
The defenders roared with triumph as they watched their enemies burn. But they knew that they could not afford to rest. The forces of chaos were still coming, and they were not done yet.
So the defenders activated their traps.
The walls of the citadel were lined with secret nozzles, each one primed to unleash a jet of flame upon anyone foolish enough to come too close. The attackers were caught unawares, their ranks thrown into disarray by the sudden, fiery onslaught.
The sound of clanging metal and roaring flames echoed throughout the citadel, as the defenders of Khorne continued their valiant fight against the combined forces of chaos. The Tzeentch warbands sent forth their Burning Chariots of Tzeentch, their Flamers and Screamers, and their Chaos Knights of Tzeentch, all flying across the battlefield to the walls. Meanwhile, Nurgle's plague drones were sent to the walls and Slaanesh's beasts added to the horrific onslaught at the gates, along with the great unclean ones of Nurgle.
The defenders of Khorne fought on, their swords and axes glinting in the fiery light of the battlefield. They had been trained for this moment, and they fought with fierce determination, knowing that the fate of their citadel rested on their shoulders. The Tzeentch sorcerers continued to rain down magical fire upon the walls, their spells crashing against the sturdy fortifications of the citadel.
But the Khorne defenders were not without their weapons of destruction. Their multiple artillery pieces had been crafted in the forges of the citadel itself, and they were brought to bear against the enemy. The cannons fired again and again, the flames leaping from their barrels and engulfing the enemy units in a fiery inferno.
But the defenders of Khorne were not content to rely solely on their artillery. They had prepared for this battle, and they had laid traps throughout the walls and gates of the citadel.
The gates were guarded by a machine that was caged to the gate itself, breathing flames that incinerated attackers at the gates. It was a deadly weapon, designed to take out any enemy that tried to breach the citadel's defenses.
As the Slaanesh beasts and the Great Unclean ones came charging towards the gates, they were met with a wall of flames. The Slaanesh beasts were burned alive, their twisted bodies reduced to ash in moments.
But the Great Unclean ones were different. They were massive, bloated creatures, each one the size of a small house. They lumbered forward, their massive bellies jiggling with every step, their twisted faces contorted with rage. The defenders of Khorne watched in horror as the Great Unclean ones continued to pound at the gate, despite being burned alive by the flames.
Skabrand stood atop the walls of the great fortress, his axes at the ready. He knew that the forces of chaos were coming for them, and he would be the first to meet them.
The Burning Chariots of Tzeentch roared towards the walls, their wheels sparking on the hard-packed earth. Behind them came the Flamers and Screamers, their twisted bodies writhing with chaotic energy.
Skarbrand leapt into action, his axes flashing in the flickering light of the approaching flames. He spun and slashed, cutting down the attackers with brutal efficiency. But for every enemy that fell, two more seemed to take their place.
The walls shook as the Chaos Knights of Tzeentch charged forward, their armour clanking in the stillness. Skarbrand gritted his teeth and braced himself, ready to meet their charge.
But then, out of nowhere, a bolt of change hit the machine guarding the gate. The walls shook as the energy surged through the metal and stone, and Skarbrand stumbled.
For a moment, he was off-balance, his axes held aloft. Skabrand used his wings to regain balance Skarbrand charged forward once more. His axes whirled and flashed, cutting down the Chaos Knights with wild abandon.
The Burning Chariots and their riders fell back, their confidence shaken by the fury of Skarbrand's attack. The Flamers and Screamers vanished into the shadows, their chaotic energies flickering out.
As the battle raged on, Skarbrand felt a surge of bloodlust coursing through his veins. He leapt down from the walls, his axe in hand, and charged into the midst of the enemy forces.
Skarbrand was a whirlwind of death, his axe flashing through the air as he cut down demon after demon. The sound of his axe was a constant background noise to the battle, a dull thud that seemed to never end.
But as he reached the heart of the enemy army, something changed. The demons of Nurgle and Slaanesh faltered and broke under his onslaught, their morale shattered by the sight of their greater demons being torn to shreds. They fell back, their once-courageous charge replaced by a panicked retreat.
Skarbrand stood tall, his chest heaving with exertion. He knew that this was not the end of the battle, that there were still more enemies to face. But he also knew that this was a turning point. The defenders of Khorne had shown that they were not to be trifled with, that they were a force to be reckoned with.
As he looked out over the battlefield, Skarbrand saw that the enemy had regrouped. They were still outnumbered, still outmatched, but they had a renewed sense of purpose. The minions of Nurgle had brought forth their plague machines, and the demons of Slaanesh had begun to sing a discordant song that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it.
The defenders of Khorne braced themselves, preparing for the next assault. But Skarbrand knew that they were running out of time. The great game was in motion, and there was no stopping it. All they could do was buy time, time for the gods to play out their petty conflicts with their mortal pawn and decide the end.
So Skarbrand raised his axe, and with a roar that echoed across the battlefield, he charged forward once more. The other bloodthirsters followed, their own roars mingling with his, and the defenders of Khorne surged forward to meet the enemy.
The battle was brutal, with neither side giving an inch. The skies were darkened by the swirling maelstrom of sorcery, as the warbands of Tzeentch unleashed their magical fury at the gate, they had breached the defenders of Khorne fought bravely, their swords and axes ringing out against the chaos-tainted flesh of their foes.
He ordered some of the bloodthirsters to stop pouring into the citadel, while he and the remaining fought with everything they had. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of muscle and rage, as they battled the enemy forces with almost inhuman ferocity.
But as the battle raged on with a mighty shout, Skarbrand charged forward once more, his bloodthirsters following close behind. The Khornate warriors joined the fray, their own battle cries ringing out across the battlefield.
The sound that echoed across the battlefield was not the clang of swords or the roar of magic, but a deep, ominous hum that seemed to vibrate the very air around them.
It was a sound that Skarbrand had only heard once before, and he knew exactly what it meant. Victory.
The other demons had sensed it too, and one by one they began to retreat to their respective realms. His arms stretched out wide as if embracing the sky. Around him, other Khorne demons did the same,
Below them, the bodies of fallen demons burned, their twisted forms writhing and contorting as they were consumed by the hungry flames as their skulls fly deep into the citadel.
He knew that this moment was core to his very being, it was for her his wife. She was his anchor, his rock, his reason for being. He had to succeed, for her sake as much as his own.
In another plain, the chaos gods chat and argue, But they seem to have a special item on them a shard of sorts.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
Valentino_666
Valentino_666 Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
Like it ? Add to library！
Creation is hard, cheer me up!
Here is another chapter, please enjoy it!
Bye!
From Valentino
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone