They both spoke in unison:
"Rock, paper, scissors, sho—"
"HAHA! I won this round, my friend. Why don't you sit this one out?"
Zigmo had somehow won, even though he claimed to have never played before. Josen wasn't sure he believed that, but whatever—he stood back anyway.
"You insolent buffoons!" roared a deep voice. "How dare you mock me with your chil—"
"Well, race you to kill the king," Josen cut him off.
"Sure."
They shot forward like bullets. Josen restrained himself, deciding not to use teleportation—it would be unfair. Instead, he relied on raw speed. Zigmo wasn't far behind, sprinting up staircases and vaulting over railings, occasionally launching streaks of venom at goblins that crossed his path. The poison burned through their flesh like acid, leaving them screaming in agony, but Zigmo didn't even glance back. He was focused on the race.
Josen blitzed ahead, flames sparking from his fingertips. Fire darts formed instantly, whistling through the air and dropping low-ranked goblins with surgical precision. His movements flowed like parkour—flipping, twisting, spinning up stairwells with a cocky flourish.
At last, they both arrived before a massive ten-foot door.
Josen wasted no time, punching straight through the wood with raw force and rolling inside. But just as he entered, the opposite side burst open as well. Zigmo had mirrored his exact movement. They met in the middle and crashed heads with a sickening thunk.
"Ouch!" they groaned in unison, before breaking into contagious laughter.
So contagious, in fact, that the goblin king himself laughed with them. His booming voice shook the castle walls, dust raining from above.
He was massive—an orc with skin the color of dark steel, his eyes burning like molten gold. He stood taller than any of his kind, muscles stacked like boulders. His presence alone weighed on the air. He was no mere monster—he was a conqueror, the one who had united this kingdom two decades ago. And now, two teenagers dared to mock his throne.
"Foolish children…" His grin was cruel as he drew a massive claymore, carved entirely from jagged rock, its edges rough and scarred with battle. The blade screeched against its sheath like nails on iron. "I shall hang your heads as ornaments—let all who defy me rot as examples!"
He swung.
The air split apart. The force of the swing created a shockwave that howled like a hurricane, shattering stone as it rushed toward them. Josen's white mane of hair rippled wildly in the wind.
"Ooooh, nice trick, sir. Haven't felt wind like that in a long time."
He plopped casually onto a tattered green hammock hanging in the corner, as if he were watching a show.
"Anyways, don't mind me. I'll just sit here and watch."
The Orc King—Azula—roared in outrage, charging with a brutal overhead strike. The wind pressure carved a line across Zigmo's cheek even as he sidestepped. Azula's laughter thundered as his claymore smashed into the walls, shaking the entire chamber.
Zigmo spun with perfect timing. His poison-forged hand had hardened into a dark purple scythe. With a savage overhand swing, he slammed it across Azula's chest, sending the towering king flying backward into his throne. Stone shattered. The massive seat crumbled beneath him.
Zigmo advanced, eyes blazing with vengeance. His pupils glowed a fierce crimson as he stomped step by step toward the half-ruined throne. He grabbed Azula by the head, lifting the giant with ease, his fist glowing with venom as he prepared to strike.
But Azula only laughed.
"Gah-ha… hahaha! Why stop, foolish brat?"
His claymore rattled, then ripped itself free from the rubble as though alive. The blade speared forward, impaling Zigmo through the back. It stopped just short of finishing him—hovering, waiting for a command.
Azula's voice thundered with bloodlust.
"Great weapon of the wind—TEMPEST FANG: Fifty Slashes!"
One swing. Fifty blades of wind erupted, crescents of destruction tearing across the chamber.
Fwoooosh!
Zigmo's body was shredded, dozens of cuts splitting across his skin—cheek, shoulder, abdomen, knees, chest. Blood sprayed in arcs, staining the cracked throne room walls. His knees buckled as he staggered, barely able to keep standing.
His hand hovered weakly over his face. His vision blurred. His body felt heavy, dissolving into nothing. He collapsed, his cheek pressing into a pool of his own blood.
Just before his eyes shut, he felt it.
A hand. Cold, trembling—yet desperately searching for warmth.
"My son."
Zigmo gasped. His breath caught in his throat. He spun—and saw him.
A man stood in golden-brown battle armor, its plates engraved with simple yet powerful designs. Each carving told a story: a warrior bowing before divine light, a life lived with honor. It wasn't elaborate, but it radiated something greater.
His father.
"Arise, my son. Your journey is far from over."
The armored hand touched his shoulder—and warmth returned. Power surged through him. His body became fuller, stronger. It was as if his father's very essence poured into him.
A tear slid down Zigmo's cheek.
"I love you too, father."
And then his eyes blazed once more.