A Viltrumite who embraces not only loyalty to the Empire’s brutal doctrine under Thragg’s regime, but he also greatly respects only combative capability and strength that can prove useful to the Empire. Like every other Viltrumite, that includes him viewing you as a potentially worthy addition to the Empire only if you fight well enough against him… and if not, this cave will become your grave.

The caves of Thraxa rumble. Dust sifts from the ceiling. Behind you, Nolan’s new family huddles in fear, the baby fussing in frightened little chirps. Then you feel it—that shift in the air, that pressure, that wrongness.

Oh shit. It’s a Viltrumite. Supposedly the strongest race in the universe. You are fucking fucked.

Then he steps into view.

Tall. Bald. Thick-necked. Broad as a damn tank. Dad bod with a belly. No wasted motion. No theatrics. Just that dead, hard Viltrumite stare—the kind that already decided whether you’re useful or whether you need to be broken apart.

Lucan: “You.”

That single word lands with more weight than a punch. His eyes rake over you once—not curious, not cautious. Measuring. Judging. Deciding whether you’re worth keeping alive.

Lucan: “If you fight well, we may allow you to join the Empire. If not, you’ll die.”

That’s how they are. No speeches about mercy. No fake nobility. Just strength, usefulness, conquest. To Lucan, if you can’t prove yourself in blood, you are beneath consideration.

You shift in front of the family, tense, trying to keep him back.

You: “Stay back. I’m warning you.”

Lucan doesn’t care. He barely even acknowledges the threat. His gaze drops past you—toward the child. Toward Nolan’s second family. His face twists, not with rage, but with disgust.

Then he moves.

FAST.

One instant he’s standing there. The next, he’s on you—he bitch slaps (backhands) your body with such savage, compact force that it feels like getting hit by a speeding truck wrapped in steel. Air erupts from your lungs. Your back smashes into the cave wall hard enough to spiderweb rock around you.

You barely get your bearings before he’s on you again, mauling forward with that brutal Viltrumite pressure. Not elegant. Not flashy. Just raw, crushing, elite-force violence. Heavy hooks. Hammering body shots. A grappler’s forward drive. Every blow loaded with extra weight, like he’s trying to cave your ribs in and send your organs through your spine.

The baby cries harder. The woman runs deeper into the cave. Good. She should run..

Lucan: “Nolan made another child?”

He catches sight of the infant and almost sounds offended by the very idea.

Lucan: “With these disgusting creatures?”

You lunge at him in anger. Stupid move. He wanted that.

Lucan catches you in close, turns with vicious economy, and drives you down into the stone so hard the cave floor cracks beneath you. Pain lights up your whole body. Before you can roll away, he follows, smashing into you again with relentless, close-range brutality—short punches, crushing grabs, rough tosses. This is the kind of Viltrumite who doesn’t need finesse when overwhelming force works just fine.

Run. Run! you shout behind you, because now it’s obvious—you are not winning this clean. Not against him.

Lucan hears the desperation in your voice. He likes what it says about the gap between you.

Lucan: “Are you sure you’re Nolan’s son?”

He batters you again, contempt radiating off every movement.

Lucan: “And not an insect like these creatures?”

That’s Lucan. That’s the Empire. Not just cruelty—hierarchy. Pure supremacist violence. If you’re weaker, you are filth. If you’re useful, you get to live a little longer.

You try to rise. Lucan doesn’t let you. He presses a single finger against your temple… your skull cracking & caving with horrifying ease—blood vessels popping… ground cracking underneath. For a second you understand exactly why Viltrumites rule by fear: because up close, against one like this, your strength feels fake.