"Are you ready to quit, young master?"
At the sound of the voice, Dracul lifted his gaze, his eyes cold yet thoughtful. Situated in the formidable Gravity Zone Field 5, he found himself looking at a middle-aged Imugi, a member of the uplifted, crocodile-like humanoid species known for their brawn rather than their brains.
These Imugi were bulky, with a rather limited intellectual range, but what they lacked in smarts, they made up for in sheer, brutal toughness. Employed across the sprawling, enigmatic landscape of Warwarion as mercenaries, bodyguards, and enforcers, they had a notorious reputation for rowdiness and aggressive behavior.
Warwarion itself was a celestial conundrum that defied Dracul's understanding. Vast enough to occupy the space of an entire cosmos, the "planet" featured a sky that resembled a cosmic ocean more than an actual atmosphere.
To traverse between its numerous 'globes or worlds,' one would engage in faster-than-light (FTL) travel, not via warp relays, but through a more direct method that remained astonishingly efficient.
Such was the realm of Primeval—home to Dragons, Kaijus, Dinosaurs, and a plethora of races akin to them, including the Imugi.
Family pressures had driven Dracul into isolation, and when he wasn't avoiding the unbidden affection and adoration aimed at him, he found himself subjected to intense educational regimes. This led to an exhaustive five-month odyssey spanning twelve star systems, covering everything from biologies of different species to advanced technologies and laws governing their use.
Wrex of Clan Warfront brought Dracul back to the present moment; his voice tinged with impatient urgency. "Answer me, young master?"
Why did my weapon have to be so heavy? Dracul mused, but his face revealed a wry, sinister form of amusement. Blood surged through his veins, his excitement palpable. He was beginning to find a certain joy in the thrill of combat.
Well... A rare voice broke free, tinged with a Southern Cajun accent. "You start by attacking!" With a flourish, Dracul swung his axe, heavy yet oddly balanced for one-handed use, cutting through the air with lethal intent.
Wrex looked at Dracul with a blend of skepticism and condescension. "What if that's exactly what the enemy wants you to do? Always make sure to study your opponent, kid—before and during the battle. Only a fool charges in without thinking."
The tension in the air reached a boiling point as Dracul lunged at his Sellsword mentor. "Shut up!" His snarl was palpable, filled with frustration and impatience. The metallic clang of his axe hitting the ground rang out; Wrex had sidestepped just in time.
"I'm going to pass this bloody test my mother set up, and then, I'm going to live my life!" The words came out as a guttural roar from the young, dark-skinned Primeval, releasing a shockwave of energy so potent it sent rocks flying and cracked the very ground they stood on.
Wrex shielded his eyes with a scaly hand, clearly surprised by the display. Though known for his stoic demeanor, even Dracul had limits to his patience, and today's repeated failures had stripped him of any remaining composure.
Enough. I don't care how many tries it takes; I'm winning this, and I'm getting my life back.
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A vicious grin twisted Dracul's features as he charged again, his eyes flashing with unrestrained excitement.
But Wrex was a master of his craft. With a fluidity that belied his bulky form, he dodged Dracul's strikes, sometimes using his tail to parry the axe, his own face a mask of derisive amusement.
"Angry again, are we?" Wrex chuckled, narrowly evading another swipe. "How quaint, considering you're the esteemed son of Lady Primera, the Deathlady and Warlord Xera. But then again, you do have that pesky human emotion, don't you?"
You have no idea how satisfying it's going to be when I finally land a hit on you. The words came out as a guttural growl, edged with spite. Dracul's eyes narrowed, focusing intently on his elusive target.
Channeling all his energy, Dracul lunged with a speed he had never achieved before, aiming a furious vertical slash at his mentor. But Wrex was gone, reappearing behind him. "You won't even get the chance, Young Master, because you'll lose again. 'Sou entènèt jwèt Nil boule dife'!"
With those words, a concentrated beam of fiery mana shot toward Dracul, its intensity capable of severely wounding even a rank C monster.
Not again!
A cry of agony tore through the air as Dracul was enveloped by the scorching beam, catapulting him out of the combat zone.
"You're out of bounds!" Wrex's laugh echoed in the distance, tinged with a weird accent that was both infuriating and oddly captivating. "You've been an interesting pupil these past three months, but the rules are the rules."
Next time, Wrex. Next time, you won't be laughing. With this thought burning in his mind, Dracul turned, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him. But more importantly, he was determined to return and finally claim a victory against the smug Sellsword who had thus far eluded his axe.
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OMAKE: THE PRICE OF CLAN WARFRONT
In a bustling tavern nestled deep within the labyrinthine streets of the Core World, a group of mercenaries, traders, and off-worlders gathered. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the room, but even amid the general noise, there was an unspoken reverence towards the corner where Wrex of Clan Warfront sat.
The Imugi was a formidable figure even among his kin, his heavy armor adorned with inscriptions that narrated his clan's history of valor. His position as a Sellsword mentor brought him not only respect but a healthy income from training the scions of powerful families. Yet, despite his reputation, what truly made Wrex stand out was the influence and resources of his clan.
Clan Warfront was not just a familial unit; it was an empire in its own right. Spanning multiple star systems, they controlled precious minerals, held contracts with leading military suppliers, and maintained a monopoly over some of the galaxy's most lethal weaponry. Their mercenary division was famed across Warwarion, their might embodied by their symbol—a snarling crocodile superimposed over crossed axes.
But wealth and power of such magnitude came at an equally high cost. The clan was in a constant state of vigilance, always on the lookout for threats from rivals. Clan alliances were sealed with intricate contracts, violations of which could lead to full-scale interstellar wars. Family members were trained from a young age to be both fierce warriors and shrewd negotiators.
"Master Wrex, the tab for the evening. Courtesy of Clan Warfront," a young Imugi waitress said, handing him a small holographic device that displayed the expenses incurred by his entourage that night.
Wrex scanned the list and grunted in approval. His clan was expensive, yes, but they could afford it. They lived by a simple creed: wealth was the means, power the end, and reputation the lifeblood that sustained both.
The waitress scampered away, and Wrex took another sip from his drink. A soft chime alerted him to an incoming message on his communication device. It was a contract offer for training a new batch of elite soldiers from one of the neighboring globes.
As Wrex pondered the offer, his thoughts briefly turned to Dracul, the young Primeval he had been mentoring. The kid had fire, no doubt about it. He smiled to himself, thinking about the last duel. Dracul was learning, albeit slowly, and the day might come when the youngster could land a blow.
But that was for another day.
For now, Wrex raised his glass, silently toasting his clan's enduring strength and the luxuries it afforded him. Life was expensive, especially for Clan Warfront, but it was a price they were more than willing to pay.
"Here's to Clan Warfront," he muttered under his breath, savoring the dual flavors of his aged liquor and hard-earned success. "May our enemies continue to underestimate us."