Tales of the Snake Men: Book Three – Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The Mission Begins
Viscous trails of Slime traced down Kobra Khan’s shoulders as he stepped from the Fright Zone’s perpetual shadow, each drop hitting the cracked earth with a soft hiss. His movements had lost all serpentine grace—now he walked with the mechanical precision of a programmed weapon, red eyes scanning the wasteland ahead like targeting sensors locked onto prey. The Horde Bat burned on his chest—a pulsing signal of loyalty not earned, but rewritten.
The crimson skies above Hordak’s domain slowly faded into an eerie twilight as he entered the Dead Lands—a twisted wasteland where life once tried to thrive but failed under Horde corruption. Thorned vines curled around the bones of fallen beasts, and skeletal remains cracked beneath Khan’s every step. Each footfall landed with metronomic certainty, crushing dried leaves into powder rather than the soft rustle of a natural predator.
The whisper of Hordak’s command still echoed in his mind like a hymn:
“Deliver him to me—alive, broken, kneeling.”
Beyond the Dead Lands, the world changed. Khan was entering the outer reaches of the Serpentis jungle. The transition was sharp: Horde blight gave way to living green, where vines hung heavy like nooses and roots seemed to writhe with purpose. Bioluminescent spores drifted lazily through the air, glowing soft green as if reacting to the Horde symbol burning faintly on Khan’s chest.
The jungle’s familiar perfume hit him like a physical blow—rich earth, crushed ferns, the metallic tang of morning dew on stone. Beneath it all, threading through the green density, came the sacred scent of burning snake oil from distant temple braziers.
For one heartbeat, something buried stirred behind his red-lit eyes. Names surfaced like a drowning man breaking water, dragging fragments with it—Rattlor’s laugh, the weight of ceremonial armor, the pride in Hiss’s voice the day he’d been named General.
Then the Slime pulsed through his veins like liquid ice, and the memories sank back into darkness. His stride never faltered, pressing forward —through mist, through memory, through the last strands of the life he used to know.
The Serpent Spines rose before him—jagged limestone cliffs that had challenged even seasoned Snake Men warriors. Khan ascended without hesitation, his claws finding purchase in hairline cracks with mechanical precision. No testing of holds, no careful weight distribution—just relentless upward progress that defied both gravity and caution.
At the summit, he paused. The wind carried familiar voices from his past—echoes of training exercises on these very cliffs, Rattlor shouting encouragement, his own younger self laughing at a failed attempt. But the sounds felt distant, like transmissions from a dead frequency. His red eyes registered the data without emotion.
Below, the temple of the Snake Men emerged from the mists—massive, coiled like the god-serpents of old. Stone fangs framed its entrance, and glowing torches cast serpent shadows against the walls.
Serpent idols, long since claimed by moss and time, marked sacred ground once patrolled by brothers. Khan’s glowing red eyes didn’t even blink as he passed them. His limbs moved like clockwork, driven not by memory, but mission.
The Sacred Snake Temple loomed ahead—half-swallowed by vines, but still defiant. A sanctuary. A fortress. A home. Khan didn’t hesitate. Shadows slid over his form as he moved, not with stealth, but instinct—as if the jungle still remembered him… but now recoiled from what he had become.
As the stronghold rose before him, Khan knew the secret paths. He had walked them as a brother. Now, he would walk them as their undoing. The moonlight was slicing through twisted trees as Khan approached the entrance to the Sacred Snake Temple.
The Sacred Snake Men Temple emerged from the jungle mist like a fortress carved from living bone. Massive stone columns spiraled skyward, their surfaces etched with scales that seemed to shift in the torchlight. The entrance gaped wide—twin fangs of polished granite framing a doorway that had once welcomed him home.
Khan’s corrupted gaze swept the familiar architecture with cold calculation. Structural weak points. Guard positions. Blind spots in the ancient defensive design he had helped plan. The temple’s sacred beauty registered only as tactical data—cover, concealment, angles of attack.
The great gate was carved into the open mouth of a hooded cobra, its fangs forming the doorframe, venom forever frozen in stone rivulets down the sides.
Moss clung to the crevices, but the ancient sigils etched into the stone still pulsed faintly with amber light—a warding spell, once meant to protect its warriors. Khan had helped inscribe them. Now, they flickered in his presence, as though unsure whether to recognize him… or reject him.
At the highest spire, the Serpent’s Crown, a great fire brazier burned—always lit when the King resided within. The flame was low tonight, a wary beacon in a time of mourning.
Carved murals flanked the stairway—depictions of great battles, sacred rites, oaths taken under twin moons. Kobra Khan’s likeness was among them, a younger version of himself, fangs bared in triumph. But to him now, that face felt like a stranger wearing his skin.
Stone sentinels lined the path leading up the temple steps: warriors in full serpent armor, eyes cast downward in solemn vigilance. Their spears crossed above the threshold as an eternal warning.
The air shifted—it was denser here. Filled with incense, Snake oil, and something older: memory.
A strange pressure built in his chest, as if the temple itself were breathing and watching. It had once welcomed him home. Now, it stood in judgment.
And then, there were no warnings and no honor. He didn’t hide. He didn’t knock. He crossed the threshold as if the gods had never mattered — not to him, not anymore.
The temple guards’ heads turned at his approach—routine alertness shifting to confusion, then dawning horror. “Temple Sentinel Scaleward” was the first to recognize the familiar silhouette, his voice catching in his throat:
“General?”
The Slime began to bubble and hiss against Khan’s scales, reacting to the sacred ground like acid on blessed metal. Wisps of green vapor rose from his shoulders, carrying a stench that made the guards’ nostrils flare in revulsion.
Khan struck before Scaleward could finish the word. No warning. No hesitation. His claws found pressure points along the guard’s shoulder and neck—the same technique he’d taught them for subduing prisoners, now used to drop his own unconscious on the stone floor.
Khan moved through the remaining guards with mechanical efficiency. Each strike targeted nerve clusters, pressure points, joints—designed to disable without killing. Scaleward’s brothers dropped one by one, unconscious or writhing in pain but alive. Behind Khan, two Horde Troopers emerged from the shadows, their stun weapons crackling as they bound the fallen guards with energy restraints.
The stone floor bore witness to the betrayal—scattered weapons, unconscious warriors, and the acrid scent of fear-sweat mixing with the sacred incense that still burned in the temple’s braziers.
The inner sanctum’s proximity sensors triggered as Khan breached the second perimeter. Ancient warning crystals throughout the temple began their haunting wail—a sound that had once meant ‘prepare for battle’ but now meant ‘prepare for heartbreak.’
Khan continued his methodical advance. No change in pace. No acknowledgment of the alarm. The sound that should have triggered his protective instincts now registered as mere background noise while he calculated the response time of reinforcements
Fangor rounded the corner at full sprint, spear raised in the defensive stance Khan had drilled into him countless times during training. For a split second, recognition flickered in both their eyes—memories of sparring matches, shared victories, late-night strategy sessions.
Khan’s response was immediate and clinical. A precise strike to Fangor’s weapon arm, followed by pressure applied to the nerve cluster behind his left shoulder blade. Fangor’s spear clattered to the floor as his arm went numb, and he crumpled forward, conscious but immobilized.
“Khan… what have they done to you?”
Fangor gasped, staring up at the red glow where familiar yellow eyes should have been. Khan stepped over him without acknowledgment, leaving his former sparring partner alive but helpless on the cold stone.
Sssqueeze slithered around the next corner, his massive body already moving to block Khan’s path to the inner sanctum. They had practiced this maneuver together dozens of times—Sssqueeze’s crushing strength combined with Khan’s speed, an unbeatable team.
Now they faced each other as enemies.
“Sweet scales of Serpos… General? What happened to you?”
Sssqueeze’s voice was barely a whisper, then rose to a horrified hiss. Sssqueeze backed away, his tongue flicking frantically.
Khan didn’t even hesitate, responding swift and merciless. He feinted left, then dove low, striking the pressure points along Sssqueeze’s powerful tail where it connected to his spine. The massive warrior’s coils went slack as nerve paralysis spread upward, and he collapsed with a cry of anguish—not only from physical pain, but from the crushing realization that his brother was gone.
Khan stepped past the writhing form without a backward glance, leaving Sssqueeze conscious but helpless, tears streaming down his scaled cheeks.
He continued disabling those he once fought beside—crippling them with calculated precision.
And the worst part? He felt satisfaction.
Each precise strike, each brother left writhing in helpless paralysis, sent a pulse of dark pleasure through his corrupted nervous system. The Slime had rewired his reward pathways—what should have filled him with horror now triggered waves of artificial euphoria.
Somewhere deep beneath the chemical puppet strings, the real Khan screamed in silent anguish. He could feel his clawed hands moving, hear his brothers’ pleas, smell the fear-sweat mixing with sacred incense. But he was a passenger in his own body, forced to watch through red-tinted eyes as everything he’d sworn to protect crumbled under his touch.
The mission parameters pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat: Infiltrate. Disable. Acquire the target. Each command wrapped in synthetic pleasure, making obedience feel like choice.
And somewhere beneath that madness… a memory surfaced. Laughter around a jungle fire. Rattlor tossing him a carved fang-shaped charm. Sssqueeze grinning after a hard-won training match. They had been his brothers. His kin. And now he was destroying them.
He could feel it—the Slime’s hunger—feeding on his rage, twisting it into pleasure. And deep within that pleasure… he screamed.
But there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing at all.
The inner corridors stretched before him, carved from living rock and lined with murals depicting his own victories. In the flickering torchlight, painted versions of himself smiled back—a warrior who had once knelt before King Hiss in loyalty, who had sworn sacred oaths beneath these very arches.
Behind him, two Horde Troopers followed in mechanical lockstep, their boots echoing against stone that had never heard such foreign sounds. The temple’s remaining defenses lay disabled in his wake—security systems he had helped design, guard rotations he had established, sacred wards he had once blessed. Each step echoed with the weight of betrayal. His claws clicked against stone worn smooth by generations of Snake Men, the sound marking a countdown to the moment he would face the one person whose faith in him had never wavered. The Slime had turned his every protective instinct into a blueprint for violation. Hordak’s orders pulsed stronger now: Deliver him alive. Broken. Kneeling. The words felt like ice water in his veins, but his corrupted nervous system translated them into anticipation. Soon, he would complete what the Slime had started—the destruction of everything Kobra Khan had once been.
