The center of the White Tiger village looked less like a battleground and more like a demolition site run by drunk toddlers.
Dust choked the air. Trees that had survived generations of storms were now reduced to kindling. And in the middle of the chaos, three Beast Kings were engaged in the most violent, high-stakes bar brawl in history.
Crack.
Kael's fist connected with Carik's jaw with the force of a falling anvil.
The Black Tiger's head snapped back, a spray of saliva and blood flying into the night air. But instead of falling, Carik just laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that was deeply unsettling.
"Is that it, little kitten?" Carik taunted, spitting out a tooth. "My grandmother hits harder than that! And she's dead!"
He swung a massive, scarred fist back at Kael. Kael blocked it with his forearm, gritting his teeth as the impact rattled his bones.
This was a beastman-to-beastman fight. No shifting. Just knuckles, sweat, and testosterone.
It had been Carik's idea, of course.
