Tales of the Snake Men: Book Three – Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Shed Your Skin
In Tales of the Snake Men: Book Three – Chapter 5, the Snake Men face their most brutal test yet as Kobra Khan’s corruption deepens and the war with the Horde takes a devastating turn. This chapter pushes the emotional, psychological, and mythic intensity of Book Three to its breaking point.
As the magical bindings wrapped around Kobra Khan’s body and dropped him to the stone floor, the last two Horde Troopers turned toward the restrained Khan. Their metal boots rang against ancient tile with mechanical precision—clank, clank, clank—each step echoing through the sacred chamber like a countdown to extraction. Weapon barrels hummed to life, energy cells charging with a rising whine.
Their red visors swept the chamber in stuttering arcs, servo motors twitching as targeting algorithms calculated threat vectors. The crimson glow painted jagged shadows across serpent-carved walls, turning ancient art into menacing silhouettes. One Trooper’s arm snapped upward, signal beacon crackling to life against its chest plate.
“Initiating extraction protocol—”
Too late.
The First Clash in the Temple
From between the pillars, Tung Lashor exploded forward. His tongue shot out—twenty feet of corded muscle and sinew—wrapping around the first Trooper’s arm with a wet snap that echoed like a whip crack. The metallic taste of alien alloys flooded his senses as he yanked, servos shrieking in protest.
The Trooper hurtled sideways, crashed into the pillar with the sound of rending metal. Ancient stone cracked. Dust cascaded. The machine’s red visor flickered, its targeting system sparking like dying stars.
Rattlor surged forward in fluid motion, his massive form coiling and striking with the rhythm of a war drum. His tail—thick as a tree trunk and twice as deadly—whipped through the air with a sound like thunder. It connected with the second Trooper’s chest plate, denting armor designed to withstand plasma fire. The Trooper flew backward, slammed into the temple wall, and showered the chamber with golden sparks that danced like angry fireflies. The first Trooper’s systems rebooted with electronic chirps and whirs. It raised its blaster, energy crackling down the barrel—only for Scales to surge in from the side, eyes blazing with more than battlefield fury. This wasn’t just combat. This was personal for the brother he lost.
Fury of the Snake Warriors
He roared—a sound that belonged in primordial jungles, not ancient temples—as he drove his sacred blade deep into the Trooper’s chest plate. The weapon Khan had gifted him, symbol of trust and brotherhood, now twisted through circuits and power cores. Sparks erupted like miniature lightning, illuminating Scales’ snarling features in strobing light. The machine convulsed, joints locking, then collapsed to its knees with a grinding thud.
“This is for my brother,” Scales snarled, his voice raw with grief and rage.
He leaned close to the dying machine’s visor, close enough to see his own reflection fractured in cracked crimson glass. His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than his roar.
“Tell your master… the Snake Men are coming for him.”
He shoved the machine backward with a dismissive hiss, watching it crash lifeless to the temple floor. Oil leaked from ruptured lines, pooling like black blood between ancient tiles.
Viper’s Vengeance
The second Trooper fought to rise—systems flickering, servos grinding like broken bones. Warning lights blinked frantically across its damaged frame. But Viper was already moving, a shadow with steel teeth. He leaped from behind, his sacred spear catching torchlight as it descended in a perfect arc. The blade plunged deep into the base of the machine’s skull, severing control cables in one brutal twist that sent sparks cascading down his arms.
The Trooper jerked like a marionette with cut strings, mechanical spasms wracking its frame.
“That is for Khan…” Viper growled, his voice thick with venom as he twisted the blades deeper, feeling circuits snap beneath the steel. “And I hope your master felt every second of it.”
The Trooper’s lights died with a final electronic sigh. Viper released his grip, letting the machine fall like discarded scrap metal.
Viper stared down at the lifeless machine, fury still coursing through his veins. The sacred spear trembled in his grip as rage demanded one final act of desecration. His foot connected with the Trooper’s damaged skull with savage force.
The head separated cleanly from the sparking neck joint, rolling across the temple floor in a shower of loose circuits and dying light. Even in destruction, the machine’s hollow eye sockets seemed to mock him—a reminder that no amount of violence could bring back what they had lost.
Silence crashed over the chamber like a physical weight.
Metal smoldered. Sparks flickered across the floor like dying fireflies, their light reflecting off pools of leaked fluids and scattered debris. The smell of burned circuits mixed with the ancient incense that still clung to the temple walls—technology and tradition, both bleeding.
The Snake Men stood over the wreckage, chests heaving with labored breaths that misted in the suddenly cool air. Blood seeped from minor wounds. Their weapons dripped with oil and sparks. Victorious, perhaps, but shaken to their core.
No one spoke. No one celebrated.
Their eyes drifted—not toward the shattered machines they’d destroyed, but toward their restrained General who lay bound and broken on the sacred floor. The warrior they’d followed without question. The brother they’d trusted without doubt. The leader who now stared back at them with eyes that held no recognition, no gratitude—only the cold, alien hunger of something that wore his face.
The silence stretched between them like a chasm, heavy with unspoken truths. Because deep down, beneath the adrenaline and battle-fury, they all understood: this war had just become personal.
And now? It wouldn’t be fought with blades or fangs, with strength or cunning…
But inside the heart and soul of one of their own.
Skeletor Arrives
Skeletor stepped into the torchlight like a lead actor claiming center stage, his cape billowing behind him with theatrical precision. The shadows seemed to part for him, revealing that signature death’s-head grin stretching impossibly wide across his skull.
“Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent Hiss! You break him, I catch him—it’s like a demented dance number! I’m practically weeping tears of… well, I don’t have tear ducts, but if I did!”
He offered a slow, mocking applause—each deliberate clap of palm against gauntlet echoing through the chamber like gunshots in a cathedral. The sound hung in the air, sharp and sardonic, met only by stunned silence that seemed to thicken like fog.
Rattlor’s jaw dropped, his massive head swiveling between Hiss and the Sorcerer like a broken security camera. His rattle went silent—a sure sign of complete system shock.
Tung Lashor’s tongue flicked rapidly, tasting the air for answers that didn’t exist. His entire frame coiled tighter, confusion short-circuiting his warrior instincts.
Scales knuckles went white around his spear shaft, his grip tightening like a vise. He shifted half a step in front of the King—not following protocol, but pure protective programming kicking in.
Even Viper, who’d face down a battalion without blinking, stood frozen like a crashed computer. His eyes ping-ponged between the crackling energy restraints around Khan and the bone-white nightmare who’d materialized from the darkness.
None of the Snake Warriors had expected this.
Not Skeletor.
Not here.
Not helping.
Skeletor savored their shell-shocked expressions like fine wine, his empty sockets drinking in every dropped jaw and wide-eyed stare. He let the moment marinate—timing was everything in comedy and psychological warfare—then unleashed that trademark sneer.
“What’s with the slack-jawed staring? Were you expecting He-Man to burst through the wall spouting moral platitudes? Maybe the Sorceress fluttering in with a self-help scroll titled ‘Friendship is Magic’?”
He gestured grandly toward the restrained Khan with the flair of a game show host revealing the grand prize.
“Oh, please. Who else has the sheer artistic vision for this level of psychological warfare? The timing! The irony! The panache! I should charge admission!”
His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, then built like a rising crescendo.
“If you want mercy, you should’ve called a priest. If you want justice, dial a hero. But if you want power—”
He raised his Havoc Staff high and slammed it into the ancient stone floor. CRACK. The impact rang out like a lightning strike, sending tremors through the temple foundations and sparks dancing across the carved serpent reliefs.
“—you call Skeletor.”
The echoes of his declaration hadn’t even faded when Khan erupted into violent motion. His body convulsed against the arcane restraints like a live wire, limbs jerking in spastic, alien rhythms. The Slime’s corruption boiled through his system, turning his blood into liquid fire. Toxic green vapor leaked from his mouth with each ragged breath, and his eyes strobed red like malfunctioning warning lights.
Still fighting. Still infected. Still Horde.
Khan’s Corruption Deepens
And then—
“Alive… broken… kneeling…”
The words leaked from Khan’s lips like steam from a cracked radiator—but the voice wasn’t his. It bubbled up from somewhere deeper, darker. Not a thought, but a transmission. Not Khan speaking, but something broadcasting through him.
A voice that wasn’t Hordak’s…
It sounded like the Slime itself had hijacked his vocal cords, rewired his larynx, turned him into a living speaker system for its alien hunger.
“Hold him still,” Hiss commanded, his voice cutting through the air.
King Hiss stepped forward without hesitation. His hand striking like a guided missile—three fingers driving with brutal precision into the base of Khan’s neck frills. The Frill Ner’kah Bind.
The Frill Ner’kah Bind
The Frill Ner’kah Bind is an ancient and excruciating technique known only to the royal bloodline, passed down through generations like a terrible inheritance. Three fingers, applied to a hidden neural junction, triggered immediate system shutdown. Muscular paralysis cascaded through the victim’s frame while agony amplified with each passing second, building like feedback in an overloaded circuit. Full pressure could flatline even the strongest warrior in moments. This wasn’t combat—this was emergency surgery. Reserved for traitors, the possessed, and heirs who’d lost themselves to something darker.
This was exactly such a moment.
Khan’s scream tore through the chamber like an alarm siren—sharp, guttural, and wrong on every frequency. His body locked up mid-convulsion, spine arching like a bent antenna as the neural override took hold. Every muscle froze in place, arms rigid as steel beams, legs twitching in helpless static bursts.
But still—still—something inside him pushed back. The Slime fought the shutdown, overclocking his nervous system, pushing his endurance to unnatural limits.
King Hiss narrowed his eyes and tightened the grip.
More pressure.
Then maximum pressure.
Khan’s voice cracked like breaking glass—a sound that belonged in no living throat. His eyes rolled back, showing only white, while foam bubbled from his lips like coolant from an overheated engine. The ancient pain protocol ran through every nerve fiber, bypassing conscious thought, drilling straight into his brain stem. He screamed again—a warbling cry that sounded like dying machinery—until finally his body convulsed… and slumped.
His head dropped. Limbs hung limp in Skeletor’s binding field, suspended like a puppet with cut strings. His eyes flickered once, twice, then went dark.
Only silence remained.
The King maintained the hold for several more seconds, monitoring for any sign that Khan was feigning defeat. But his breathing was ragged now – shallow and real.
Hiss finally exhaled—a single release of held tension. He withdrew his fingers with careful precision, like disconnecting delicate circuitry. But as his hand pulled away from Khan’s skin, he felt something transfer to his palm.
Wet. Warm. Wrong.
He looked down.
A faint smear of green coated his scales like toxic oil—viscous, slow-moving, catching the torchlight with an unnatural sheen. Residual Slime, still active at the molecular level. It pulsed with its own sick rhythm—alive but weakened, like a virus searching for a new host.
Hiss’s expression shifted to pure revulsion. He scraped it off on his sash in one swift motion, as if touching acid.
“Filth,” he muttered.
But beneath the fabric, invisible to the naked eye, a microscopic trace remained. And somewhere in the depths of the King’s consciousness, something flickered—like a distant signal trying to establish connection. Cold. Familiar. Not quite his own thoughts.
It faded as quickly as it came, leaving only an odd chill and the growing weight of what he’d just had to do to save his heir.
He stared down at the unconscious form sprawled before him—his General, his successor, his son in all but blood. The warrior who’d once stood at his right hand now lay broken and hollow, more casualty than champion.
And felt it. Guilt. But the feeling passed quickly—replaced by something colder. Sharper. Command.
“Forgive me, my son,” he thought, not aloud. “You are the future. But today, I must be the King.”
He turned away, his fingers were still trembling.
Skeletor dropped into a crouch beside Khan’s motionless form, cocking his head.
“Ooh, still some spark left in him. Excellent! Hordak’s going to absolutely adore what we do to his precious little puppet.”
His grin spread like cracks in glass, bone-white teeth gleaming beneath his hood.
“Though next time, try asking him to behave before snapping his neck like a glow worm.”
King Hiss’s expression remained locked in neutral—but his eyes narrowed.
“This isn’t a game, Skeletor.”
Skeletor let out a bark of laughter that echoed off the chamber walls.
“Oh, of course it is. We’re just playing by our rules now.”
He unfolded from his crouch like a shadow gaining substance, darkness pooling around his feet.
“Phase one was containment. Now comes the fun part…” His voice dropped to a theatrical whisper that somehow carried more menace than shouting.
“This is where things get creatively brutal.”
He turned that empty-socketed stare directly on Hiss, his tone shifting to something almost clinical.
“Let’s see if your General is as tough as you claim—and survives phase two.”
Descent Into the Chamber of Renewal
Khan was carried to the Snake Men’s “Chamber of Renewal”—buried deep within the temple’s foundation like a secret heart beating beneath stone ribs.
The Chamber of Renewal lay carved from living stone over millennia, its walls curved with organic grace—smooth as polished bone, cool as morning mist against bare skin. The surfaces bore the unmistakable marks of something vast and ancient that had once coiled through solid stone, leaving behind chambers shaped by titanic movement. The domed ceiling stretched overhead like the vault of a cathedral, its surface ribbed and flowing, while thin veins of amber crystal threaded through the rock like golden arteries, filtering sunlight into soft, honey-colored beams.
Vines of moonvine and bloodleaf cascaded down the walls in intricate spirals, their placement too deliberate for nature, too beautiful for accident. The leaves pulsed with gentle bioluminescence—blue-white moonvine intertwining with deep crimson bloodleaf—creating a living constellation that shifted and breathed with the chamber’s ancient rhythms. The air itself felt thick with purpose. Burning myrrh, snake oil, and crushed jungle petals wove together into an intoxicating symphony of scents—earthy and sacred, designed to calm the savage mind while awakening deeper truths buried beneath layers of pain and corruption.
At the chamber’s heart, a stone basin the size of a small pool bubbled with Essence of Shedskin—a pale green elixir that seemed to glow from within. The ancient formula combined rare mountain herbs, purified venom, and oils blessed by generations of healers. Wisps of vapor rose from its surface like incense smoke, carrying with them the power to numb agony while unlocking memories sealed away by trauma or worse.
The chamber’s perimeter was lined with slit-shaped alcoves, each one a miniature pharmacy carved into the living rock. Glass vials caught the amber light—some containing salves that could heal wounds that should have been fatal, others holding tinctures capable of purging toxins from blood and soul. The labels, written in the flowing script of the Snake Men’s most ancient tongue, told stories of remedies passed down through bloodlines older than recorded history.
Braziers and floor torches provided additional warmth, their flames dancing in patterns that seemed almost hypnotic. The shadows they cast moved like living things—not menacing, but protective, as if the chamber itself was aware of its sacred purpose.
The far wall bore a serpentine mural that seemed to shift in the flickering light—a masterpiece depicting the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. The painted warrior shed layer after layer of corrupted skin, each discarded shell revealing scales more brilliant than the last, until finally he stood transformed—eyes blazing with clarity, body radiating strength, spirit free from the chains that once bound him.
Beneath it all, the gentle sound of water trickled through hidden channels while distant drums and flutes provided a soundtrack of jungle serenity. The music flowed through reedwork woven into the chamber’s very bones, creating an atmosphere where healing wasn’t just possible—it was inevitable.
This was more than a medical facility. It was a forge for souls, a place where warriors came to die to their old selves and be reborn as something stronger. Where poison was drawn from both body and spirit, leaving behind only truth.
Some emerged renewed. Others never emerged at all.
Khan’s unconscious form was carried to the chamber like a fallen monument—four Snake Warriors bearing their General’s limp weight through the temple’s winding passages. His breathing remained shallow but steady, the Frill Ner’kah Bind having forced his corrupted system into temporary shutdown. The magical restraints still flickered around his motionless limbs, casting eerie shadows on the ancient walls as they descended deeper into the temple’s heart.
At the heart of the sacred space stood something that belonged in neither temple nor medical facility—a reinforced containment cell that married cutting-edge technology with mystical protection. Ancient runes carved deep into its frame pulsed with eldritch energy, while hidden circuits hummed with power drawn from both crystal cores and sacred sites.
Sacred Tools and Ancient Medicines
The warriors placed Khan inside with careful reverence, then stepped back as the barriers activated with a sound like breaking thunder. Translucent energy surrounded the cell, bending light and reality in equal measure. Only then did they release Skeletor’s magical bindings. This cell had been designed to hold creatures of myth and nightmare. It would suffice for one corrupted General.
For several minutes, Khan remained perfectly still—a statue carved from flesh and corruption. But gradually, his breathing began to change. Deeper. More deliberate. His fingers twitched once, then curled into fists.
Khan Awakens
His eyes snapped open like ignition switches flipping to active mode.
No confusion. No disorientation. No gradual return to consciousness.
One moment he was absent—the next, he was completely present. Those burning red coals swept the chamber with mechanical precision, cataloging every detail, every face, every potential weakness. When his gaze finally settled on King Hiss, his lips curved into something that might have been a smile if it contained any warmth whatsoever.
And then his lips parted, releasing words that fell like drops of acid:
“You should have killed me.”
The statement hung in the sacred air like a curse, each syllable designed to find its target and burrow deep. They weren’t spoken loudly—they didn’t need to be. They carried the weight of absolute certainty, aimed directly at the heart of a King who still believed redemption was possible.
Khan’s posture remained perfectly still—head tilted at an angle that suggested curiosity rather than aggression, breathing steady and measured. As if the intelligence wearing his face was conducting a detailed analysis of everyone present, cataloging weaknesses, calculating variables, deciding which of them would provide the most… educational experience when the time came.
He had no idea what horrors awaited him in the hours ahead.
But the chamber knew. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath, ancient stones preparing to witness either salvation or the complete destruction of a warrior’s soul.
Dr. Ophidian Arrives
Entering the room was Dr. Ophidian.
He moved with the eerie stillness of a shadow gliding across stone —each step placed with surgical precision, making no sound despite his considerable size. His scales caught the amber torchlight and threw it back in patterns that seemed to shift with each breath—not the muted earth tones of the Rattlesnake Pride, but a striking bluish-green shot through with sharp crimson highlights. The coloration rippled like oil on dark water, veined with blood-red streaks that traced ancient scars and newer wounds in equal measure. It was a rare marking. A badge not of birthright, but of assignment—a legacy whispered about in hushed tones among only the oldest warriors who remembered what came before.
Ophidian’s lineage carried no name. They had transcended the need for such things. They were the phantoms beneath shifting sands—a covert division bred not for glory or honor, but for missions that existed only in nightmares. Infiltration behind enemy lines. Extraction of assets thought impossible to retrieve. The kind of silence that followed screams. The ruthless efficiency that ended conflicts before they could truly begin. They didn’t fight wars. They ended them. They performed surgery on them—cutting out problems with clinical precision. Quietly. Permanently.
Now, one of them walked among the Snake Men again. But this one had chosen a different path.
Ophidian wore the markings of his heritage like medals of shame—a thick, muscular tail ending in a dense rattle of segmented bone and keratin. The rattle hung around his waist like a rosary of violence, each segment a life taken, each ridge a mission completed. Where others of his bloodline used it to announce incoming death with rhythmic warnings, he had kept it silent for decades—wrapped tight against his body like a promise he refused to break.
His eyes held none of the usual molten gold of his people. Instead, they burned with a deep copper-bronze that seemed to reflect firelight from within—the color of old pennies and dried blood. Intelligence flickered in their depths alongside bone-deep exhaustion. These were eyes that had catalogued too much suffering, witnessed too many final moments, and made the conscious choice to walk away from a life built on ending others.
Ceremonial healer’s robes draped his frame like a second skin, the fabric heavy with bone charms that clicked softly with each movement and fang totems that caught the light like ivory daggers. The scent that preceded him told his story better than words—crushed medicinal herbs mixed with the sharp tang of powdered antivenom, all underlaid with the cooling bite of therapeutic oils that could numb pain or induce the final sleep, depending on dosage and intent.
His hands drew the eye—lean but powerful, with fingers that moved with the dexterity of a master craftsman. They were equally suited for the delicate work of suturing torn flesh or the brutal efficiency of snapping necks. Perfect instruments for both creation and destruction, now dedicated solely to preservation.
The air around him seemed to thicken with unspoken history. His voice, when it came, carried the weight of gravel sliding down a mountainside—low, dry, deliberate. Each word placed with the same precision as his footsteps. He never raised it above a whisper. He never needed to. The sound carried undertones of distant thunder and half-remembered screams.
Every soul in Serpentis understood the equation: when Dr. Ophidian approached your bedside, the scales of fate balanced on a razor’s edge. You would either receive a second chance at life… or he would ensure your suffering ended with dignity.
Once a dealer of death. Now a guardian of mercy.
The chamber itself seemed to recognize his presence, shadows shifting to accommodate him as he entered their sacred space.
The Containment Cell Activates
Kobra Khan stood within the containment chamber like a specimen. The vertical stasis field wrapped around him in layers of shimmering energy that bent light into prismatic fragments. His body gave involuntary twitches—muscle memory fighting against the field’s influence—while thick strands of corrupted Slime still clung to his arms and chest like syrup, dripping to the chamber floor in lazy, viscous threads that hissed softly when they made contact with the stone.
His breathing came in shallow, measured intervals—but the rhythm spoke of calculation rather than distress.
He was processing. Analyzing. Cataloging every detail.
The stasis field crackled at the periphery of his vision like static electricity, casting warped reflections of the chamber around him. Ancient serpent reliefs seemed to writhe in the distorted light. Medical consoles flickered with readouts that meant nothing to him, yet everything to his captors. Weathered stone told stories of ages past, while mystical sigils pulsed with energies that made his corrupted blood sing in recognition.
His red-burning eyes moved with mechanical precision, tracking every seam in the chamber’s construction, cataloging each fluctuation in the containment field’s intensity. The way shadows fell. The pattern of air circulation. The slight vibration in the floor that suggested hidden machinery beneath the ancient stones.
He flexed his fingers experimentally—testing response time, measuring the field’s resistance to deliberate movement. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling for variations in the energy patterns that held him. Even rolled his shoulders slightly, gauging how much force the barriers could absorb before adapting.
He was mapping the prison from the inside, one micro-movement at a time.
But throughout his systematic examination, his gaze kept returning to one constant: the silent figure standing just beyond the energy barrier.
King Hiss remained motionless as a carved statue, hands clasped behind his back, watching his fallen General with the intensity of a scientist observing a dangerous experiment. The amber light caught the worry lines around his eyes—new creases that hadn’t been there before the Slime Pit. Before the corruption. Before everything went wrong.
Khan’s head tilted a fraction to the left—a gesture that would have seemed merely curious if not for the predatory stillness that preceded it. His forked tongue flicked out once, twice, tasting the recycled air for information his eyes couldn’t provide.
The scent told him everything. Fear masked by duty. Guilt wrapped in necessity. Love buried beneath the armor of command.
Old, familiar, exploitable.
So was the expression in the King’s eyes—that mixture of hope and horror that Khan had learned to read like text on a page during their years together. The same look Hiss wore when making impossible decisions. When choosing between the lesser of evils. When believing redemption was still possible for those who’d fallen too far.
Khan tested the containment field again with a deliberate flex of his claws, feeling the barrier push back with electromagnetic resistance that made his scales tingle. The energy held firm—a wall of force that could contain beings far more powerful than him.
Too strong for brute force. For now.
But Khan had been trained by the master strategist himself. Every fortress had weak points. Every defense had flaws. Every prison had been built by minds that could be understood, predicted, and ultimately… outsmarted.
All he needed was patience. Time to observe. A single moment when someone’s attention wavered or their confidence made them careless.
His gaze locked onto Hiss once more—unblinking, unwavering, patient as erosion wearing down stone. Behind those burning red eyes, something that was no longer entirely Khan smiled a secret smile.
He remembered the King’s lessons. He remembered every tactical briefing, every strategic discussion, every moment of trust they’d shared.
And most importantly, he remembered exactly how to wait.
The last of the Snake Guard filed out through the chamber’s arched entrance, their footsteps echoing against ancient stone before fading into the temple’s deeper corridors. Each warrior offered a respectful nod to Dr. Ophidian as they passed—acknowledgment of his authority in this sacred space, even as uncertainty clouded their eyes.
But not all departed. Scales, Viper, Rattlor, and Tung Lashor remained posted around the chamber’s perimeter like sentinels guarding a powder keg. Their weapons stayed drawn—not lowered in respect for the sacred space, but held ready for threats that might emerge from any direction. They watched their fallen General through the containment barrier with expressions that mixed loyalty, revulsion, and barely contained dread.
At the chamber’s heart, only four figures remained in the circle of amber light: King Hiss, Dr. Ophidian, the shadow that would soon manifest as Skeletor, and the consciousness that had once been Kobra Khan.
The torches dimmed as if responding to an approaching storm. Skeletor materialized from the darkness between one heartbeat and the next, his presence drawing shadows toward him like iron filings to a magnet. His cloak flowed behind him with unnatural movement—not fabric caught by air currents, but something alive and hungry.
Preparing for the Purge Ritual
He approached Dr. Ophidian with an expression of rare gravity—no theatrical gestures, no sardonic commentary. For once, the skull-faced Sorcerer wore the mask of absolute professionalism.
He cut straight to the essential question.
“Is everything ready?”
Dr. Ophidian turned from his instrument console, copper eyes reflecting the chamber’s mystical glow. His hands remained folded in the classic healer’s pose—steady, controlled, betraying none of the tension that rippled through his scaled frame.
“The chamber’s harmonics are stable. The containment glyphs have been reinforced with triple redundancy. We’ve initiated the purification cycle and confirmed all mystical safeguards are operational.” His pause carried the weight of professional concern.
“But I still have reservations about the psychological effects.”
Skeletor’s empty sockets flared with cold fire—not anger, but acknowledgment of an uncomfortable truth.
“Of course you have concerns. You’re not the one who’ll be inside screaming.”
He turned to King Hiss, who stood in tense silence, watching his fallen General through the transparent barrier.
“Once the purge begins,” Skeletor’s voice dropped to a tone that could have frozen blood, “you must understand—there will be consequences that cannot be undone.”
The Slime’s Psychological Warfare
Hiss offered no response. His silence carried more weight than words.
“The Slime didn’t simply contaminate him, Hiss. It performed a complete neural restructure. It infiltrated the deepest archives of his consciousness, overwrote core personality files, and integrated itself into his most fundamental survival instincts. This isn’t parasitism—this is symbiosis. The corruption thinks, learns, and adapts using his neural networks as infrastructure.”
Dr. Ophidian moved to the central control array, his fingers dancing across crystalline interfaces that hummed with contained power.
“And when we attempt to sever that connection?”
“It will resist with everything it has,” Skeletor corrected with the certainty of grim experience. “As the purge burns through his system, the Slime will weaponize every memory it has accessed. It will speak through his voice, wear his expressions, and twist genuine experiences into psychological warfare. When the pain reaches critical levels… he’ll feel every nanosecond of agony as if it were happening to his unprotected mind.”
He moved closer to both the King and the doctor, letting his words sink deep before continuing.
“It will deploy every manipulation protocol in its arsenal. Begging using his voice. Pleading with his memories. Making accusations that will cut straight to your deepest doubts. It will resurrect real conversations, authentic moments of trust and affection, then corrupt them into weapons designed to make you hesitate.”
Skeletor approached the containment chamber. The corrupted General’s claws twitched against the energy barrier—a small movement that suggested growing awareness.
“You must maintain absolute emotional discipline, regardless of what emerges from his mouth,” Skeletor’s tone sharpened to surgical precision. “Do not respond to him. Do not acknowledge him. Do not allow yourself to believe that anything he says represents the consciousness you’re trying to save.”
“But if genuine awareness breaks through—” Dr. Ophidian protested.
“That will be the Slime’s most sophisticated deception,” Skeletor cut him off with finality. “Not your General. Not yet. Possibly not ever.”
He leaned close to King Hiss—near enough that his words would reach only royal ears.
“Compromise the process even once—show mercy, display doubt, respond to emotional manipulation—and what remains of his original personality will be consumed in the psychic fire. The Slime will emerge stronger, having fed on the resistance itself. The deeper he fights, the more thoroughly it will integrate with his core identity.”
Skeletor’s grin held no humor, only the sharp edge of terrible knowledge.
“If you flinch—you will doom him to become a willing servant of Hordak’s vision. Conscious, aware, and grateful for his enslavement.”
He tapped his temple twice with one bony finger, the gesture carrying mockery wrapped around brutal truth.
“Still think you’re the smartest one in the room?”
Skeletor stepped back and cast a measuring glance toward the containment chamber. He drummed his fingers against the energy barrier—each tap producing a small resonance that made Khan twitch slightly.
“Now stop this sentimental attachment to your beloved General and allow me to complete the procedure you dragged me here to do!!”
King Hiss maintained his vigil, gaze locked on the figure that represented both his greatest success and most devastating failure. Khan’s body gave another involuntary spasm within the containment field—caught between the warrior he had been and the weapon he became.
The weight of command settled on Hiss’s shoulders like lead armor. One final consideration remained.
“…And he possesses the only verified intelligence regarding Hordak’s ultimate weapon deployment.”
The Purge Commences
Hiss nodded once—a gesture that carried the authority of absolute monarchy and the burden of impossible choices.
“Begin.”
