In the far reaches of the western desert lands, hidden behind scorched cliffs and wastelands too dry to bear life, stood a monstrous arena known only as the House of Death.
This was no ordinary battleground. It was carved from the earth itself, an open-air coliseum of blood and sand. A ring of sharpened wooden spikes encircled the stage, and crumbling stone steps rose in a circle to form a crude amphitheater, packed with roaring spectators—brutes, thieves, outlaws, and warlords from across the forgotten borderlands.
At the highest seat, resting upon a wide iron-carved throne flanked by serpent-like dragon horns, sat the famous tyrant himself—The Black Scorpion.
He was a man of sheer dominance and cruelty, with skin like dark bronze and cold, piercing eyes that never blinked during a match. He wore no crown—only a robe of black wolf fur draped over his broad shoulders, and a long fang-shaped pendant that hung against his bare chest. Three women hovered around him. One poured wine into a goblet carved from an ox horn, the second stroked his arm with painted fingers, and the third sat boldly upon his lap, whispering words only he heard.
He paid them no mind. His attention was locked on the match below.
The arena shook with cheers and pounding feet as two warriors faced off in the center ring—both bloodied, both deadly. One was a towering man named Tiger, a ruthless fighter with a long scar across his jaw and a chain wrapped around his fists. The other was a warrior of prestige—Yu Xiong, a top-ranking champion from the Lion Clan, the highest-ranking clan in the arena, known for their unmatched strength and pride.
The gong struck.
Tiger roared and lunged, wild as a beast, while Yu Xiong stepped aside, graceful but fierce. The fight was brutal, swift. Fists cracked bones. Blood splattered onto the sand. Every blow was met with howls from the crowd.
Tiger moved like lightning—he slammed his knee into Yu Xiong's chest, then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him around the ring like a trophy. The crowd surged with excitement.
"Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!" they roared.
The Black Scorpion grinned, raising his goblet. Wine sloshed. The girl on his lap laughed cruelly, echoing the crowd's madness.
Then, in one final move, Tiger twisted Yu Xiong's neck with a sickening snap, lifted the limp body high in the air, and smashed it to the ground. He crouched over his fallen opponent and stuck his tongue out mockingly toward the crowd.
The arena erupted.
"FINISHING!" shouted the Black Scorpion, laughing with pure satisfaction.
This was what he lived for—power, death, domination.
This arena was not just for sport. It was how the Black Scorpion ruled. His warriors were his soldiers, trained in pain and brutality. Those who survived long enough in the House of Death earned places of honor—or became tools for his greater ambitions.
Stories told of how he burned villages for sport. Entire clans were wiped out simply because one member refused to bow. He took daughters from noble families and turned them into servants or worse. No one opposed him. Those who tried never returned.
There was once a noble city named Jinlei that stood tall in the hills with high walls and scholars who believed in peace. The Black Scorpion surrounded it for twelve days, refusing food or sleep, until the gates were broken. He took the queen as his bride and forced the young princess to serve in his palace, stripped of title and hope. The prince was thrown into the House of Death, where he was made to fight night after night until his mind shattered.
Another time, a group of wandering monks tried to stop him with sacred scrolls said to summon divine protection. He laughed, killed them one by one in front of their temple, and used the scrolls as fuel to light his bathwater.
A desert chieftain once begged for mercy after losing a duel. The Black Scorpion spared him—only to send his troops later to poison the chieftain's well and hang his people from their own palm trees.
He had no honor. Only appetite.
He kept no advisors—only killers.
He ruled many kingdoms, and all feared him more than any emperor. For he was the leader of many kingdoms he had conquered.
Inside the House of Death, the clans bowed to his will. There was the Lion Clan, proud but often slaughtered. The Snake Clan, known for their speed and deceit. The Ox Clan, brutal and heavy-handed. Dozens of others, all fighting for dominance under one iron rule.
But no clan ever matched the one the Black Scorpion formed himself—the Scorpion Fangs—handpicked fighters trained since childhood in bone-breaking, nerve-targeting techniques. They were his shadow army, ready to be unleashed at his command.
In one particularly gruesome event, he lured a visiting royal family from the southern jade province to his arena under the guise of alliance talks. When they arrived, he presented them with a feast—then chained the son to a pole in the middle of the arena and forced the father to watch him die in combat. The mother died of grief. The rest of their nobles were sent back with burned symbols of scorpions on their backs—a mark of humiliation and surrender.
Whispers spread across the borderlands: "If you hear drums in the canyon, the Black Scorpion is hunting again."
The name of the Black Scorpion was feared and cursed alike. He was a plague across kingdoms. Those he didn't rule, lived in constant dread of his shadow falling upon them.
He was not immortal. But his terror made him seem so.
And in his arena, while the crowd still roared and Tiger raised his arms in victory, the Black Scorpion leaned back into his iron throne and smiled.
The next war, he thought, would begin soon.
And it would be bloodier than the last.
He was indeed a monster.
Even the smallest act of defiance against the Black Scorpion was punished with savage cruelty. In one coastal kingdom, when a village chief refused to send his youngest daughter as tribute, the tyrant ordered the entire settlement burned to ash. Survivors were hunted down and branded with hot iron in the shape of a scorpion's tail. Their cries echoed for days in the mountain passes.
He once invited the rulers of five minor kingdoms to a banquet under the guise of peace. They came with offerings and hopes of alliance—but none left alive. Their heads were mounted on spikes outside the House of Death for all visitors to see.
In another case, he struck a deal with a queen from the southern marshlands, only to poison her water source weeks later when she hesitated to marry him. Her lands shriveled, her people starved, and she was forced to crawl to his feet. He paraded her in chains through his courtyard before throwing her into the arena—unarmed.
His reputation stretched beyond borders, whispered in camps and courts alike: "Better a ghost in the wild than a slave in the Scorpion's grasp."