The Warrior of Veyndor

Chapter 3: The Warrior of Veyndor

The Planet of Strength

Far beyond the shimmering stars of Zyphoria, in the heart of a raging solar system, existed Veyndor—the Planet of Strength. Unlike the serene wisdom of Zyphoria, this world was a land of chaos and fire, where only the strongest survived.

Mountains of black obsidian clawed at the sky, towering higher than the tallest peaks of any other world. Rivers of molten lava flowed like veins across the planet, illuminating the night with a sinister red glow. Thunderstorms raged unpredictably, hurling crimson lightning that could turn mountains into dust.

Here, the weak did not exist.

The Veyndari people, forged by the unforgiving elements, were known across the cosmos for their unyielding strength and warrior spirit. They did not seek peace, nor did they crave diplomacy. To them, battle was life itself.

Their entire society revolved around the Crucible—a coliseum where warriors proved their worth. There were no kings, no rulers—only champions. The strongest among them commanded respect, their victories carving their names into history.

And among them, one name reigned supreme.

The Undefeated Gladiator

Drax.

He had never known weakness.

From the moment he took his first breath, he was trained to fight. His childhood was not spent in comfort or learning—he was thrown into the Pits of Fire, a brutal training ground where only the fittest survived.

By the time he was twelve, he had bested men twice his size. At fifteen, he was already feared. By twenty, he had become legend.

His body was carved from years of relentless battle—a fortress of unbreakable muscle and scars, each marking a fight he had won. His fists had shattered stone, his strikes had felled monsters, and his name had become a chant among the bloodthirsty crowd of the Crucible.

For ten years, he stood undefeated.

Yet, despite his victories, something inside him felt hollow.

No matter how many warriors he crushed, no matter how many trophies he claimed, it never felt like enough.

His people lived to fight, but he wanted more.

But he did not know what.

The Grand Tournament

The Grand Tournament was the most sacred event on Veyndor.

Once every decade, the greatest warriors from across the planet gathered in the Crucible to fight for the Rite of Ascendance—a trial said to unlock a warrior's true potential.

On this day, Drax stood at the center of the arena, surrounded by warriors who had sworn to defeat him.

The Crucible roared with anticipation. Thousands of Veyndari warriors chanted his name, their voices shaking the ground. The air was thick with tension, the scent of steel and sweat mixing under the burning sun.

Then, the drums of war thundered.

The battle began.

The Arena of Chaos

It was not a fight.

It was a storm of destruction.

Blades clashed. Fists struck with the force of falling meteors. The air trembled with the sheer power of the combatants.

Drax moved like a beast unleashed. His fists broke ribs, his kicks shattered bones. Every strike was a symphony of destruction, every move a calculated assault honed through years of battle.

One by one, warriors fell before him.

A blade swung at his neck—he caught it mid-air and crushed it with his bare hands. A spear lunged for his chest—he dodged, grabbed it, and snapped it in half before driving it into its wielder.

The ground was painted with sweat and blood.

Until only one remained.

The Duel of Titans

Across the battlefield stood General Korr, the only warrior who had ever come close to matching Drax's power.

Korr was a titan among men. He stood nearly eight feet tall, his armor carved from the bones of creatures long extinct. His weapon—a colossal warhammer that could crush boulders—rested heavily in his grip.

"You have fought many, Drax," Korr said, his voice deep and unwavering. "But today, you will face true power."

Drax cracked his knuckles, smirking. "Then show me."

The ground shook as they clashed.

Every strike sent shockwaves through the arena. Sparks erupted as metal met flesh, as fists met armor. The sheer force of their blows cracked the very stones beneath them.

For the first time in years, Drax felt challenged.

And he relished it.

They fought like gods, neither yielding, neither faltering. But Drax was faster, stronger, unstoppable.

With a final, earth-shattering strike, he shattered Korr's hammer—and sent the titan crashing to the ground.

Silence fell over the Crucible.

Then, the crowd erupted.

Drax had won.

Again.

The Vision

But something was wrong.

As he stood over his fallen foe, a golden light engulfed him. The world around him vanished.

And then—he saw it.

A vision of a battle beyond the stars.

A war unlike anything he had ever imagined.

A darkness, vast and consuming, swallowing entire galaxies.

Seven warriors stood against it, their figures illuminated by divine energy.

And among them—he saw himself.

The Messenger

When the vision faded, Drax collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath.

Then, a voice spoke.

"You have seen the future, warrior. And your fate is sealed."

Drax looked up.

Standing before him was a figure unlike any he had ever seen—a traveler clad in flowing silver robes, his eyes filled with the knowledge of the universe.

It was Elyon, the Scholar of Zyphoria.

"You are needed, Champion of Veyndor," Elyon said, his voice echoing with the weight of countless truths. "A war is coming. A war that will decide the fate of all existence."

Drax narrowed his eyes. "I do not fight for others. I fight for myself."

Elyon smiled. "Then fight for something greater. Fight for the universe itself."

For the first time in his life, Drax hesitated.

And in that moment, he knew—his path had changed forever.

The Warrior's Choice

The Crucible had given him battles.

But the universe had given him a purpose.

He clenched his fists. His blood burned with the fire of Veyndor, but his soul yearned for something more.

He had won every fight he had ever faced.

Now, he would face the greatest battle of all.

And so, the warrior of strength took his first step toward destiny.