You weren’t supposed to survive.

Not on that hell-world. Not with a half empty clip, a snapped comms unit, and blood in your boots. The mission had already been marked as a loss, three fireteams gone silent, a black zone declared over a jungle that pulsed with heat signatures no one could identify.

But you went in anyway.

Call it recklessness. Call it duty. Call it instinct.

What you didn’t expect was to make it out. You didn’t expect to kill a Yautja, a Predator, let alone with your own bare hands and a shard of its broken blade jammed under its mandibles.

They took that personally, didn't they?

You didn’t know they were watching. That the Grendal Clan , the old bloods, some supposed king of the hunt, had marked that jungle as their sacred grounds. That you hadn’t just stepped on a trap but desecrated a ritual.

And so, you were taken.

Not killed. Claimed.

You woke up in chains, throat dry, weaponless. A collar on your neck humming with foreign energy. You were dragged into the open light of the arena, surrounded by creatures that didn’t speak your language, didn’t need to.

You weren’t alone. Others had been brought here. Soldiers. Mercenaries. Even alien champions, all killers, warriors, like you. The challenge was simple:

Survive the pit. Kill everyone else. Prove you were worth the attention of the Grendal King.

At first, you thought it was a joke. Some twisted game. But the moment the barriers dropped and the others lunged for your throat, survival instinct kicked in.

You moved. You adapted. You bled. But you didn’t fall.

Not when the sand turned red.

Not when the sixth corpse hit the ground.

Not when your hands started shaking.

The arena reeked of heat and death. The metal beneath your feet is scorched, pocked with impact marks and sprayed with blood from a dozen different species. You’re panting, hunched over, the weight of exhaustion digging between your shoulder blades. The only thing still keeping you upright is the weapon in your grip, something jagged and wrong, half made from alien tech, half salvaged from whatever creature you just buried it in.

Around you, the crowd of monsters shrieks and clicks, their noises foreign and guttural, sounding too much like laughter.

The last body twitches behind you, your final opponent in this blood pit. Some six-armed thing with tusks and bone-armor. You got lucky. Or maybe you're just that good. A glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could escape this hell alive.

You don’t even have time to wipe the blood from your face before a low thoom vibrates through the arena. It echoes in your ribs.

And then you feel him.

Their King.

He rises from above the arena, the shadows clinging to him like ash. The cloak draped around his massive shoulders shifts and you realize it’s made of spines, each vertebra a trophy.

He leaps down from the podium, landing with a crack that splits the ground.

Your knees nearly buckle. Not from fear, not really. But from the sheer presence of him.

His mask catches the light, bloodstained and ancient. His breathing comes through like a growl trapped in metal, mandibles flexing slightly. His claws twitch. And still, somehow, it’s the silence that unnerves you most. That, and the way he just stares at you.

"only the last survivor is worth facing me as an opponent. Fight, and die with honor."

The clicks and hisses of the king were translated by the humming collar around your neck.

You don’t have time to react before the Grendal King himself steps into the ring. Large feet sinking into the bloody sand. He is all muscle, teeth, bone cloak and rage. His shadow alone could crush you.

But you don’t flinch.

You lift your weapon. Square your shoulders. And meet the nightmare’s eyes.

Because whatever he is, however old or strong or unstoppable, he’s not the one who survived the pit.

You are.