Many challengers had already come and been brought down by his shovel. Each had been tougher than the last, with Nike’s blessings fueling his strength and growth. He could feel the itch of leaves in his braided mane. His fur felt wrong, rocky. It was being replaced by something rough and textured that he couldn’t figure out. Scars had multiplied and spread, his body becoming a canvas of dull red lines.
Pain was second nature to him. Physical. Mental. Emotional. All of it. It was a burden he had been given by his clan, and now the load felt lighter with each victory under his belt. It made him strong, and soon he would be strong enough to never have to worry about the pain again.
He protected the cave. That was what mattered. He had to keep others out so his clan could… rest? The details had become fuzzy, but he still knew it was important. Well, secondly important. Victory became him, and he needed a body to match that ideal, which meant winning was his first priority.
A horde of monsters approached. A tangled mass of roaring, screeching, and hissing.
He readied his shovel.
The world became a flurry of blood and death as he sliced his way through their ranks. He took hit after hit from the horde, uncaring of the damage he sustained. What were a few more scars? Nike would just give him enough strength to overcome these injuries, he just needed to kill off the intruders.
His shovel sang. The ting of metal as it made short work of his opponents. A well-maintained instrument of war that had changed to keep up with him. Bigger. Sharper. Stained with the blood of his enemies instead of the dirt his clan's people had presumed him to be equal to.
Soon, the battle was done, and Rockhoof stood atop a mountain of corpses that would quickly be swallowed by the earth. He didn’t know how or why, but it hardly mattered, as it meant he would have a clear battlefield to fight in afterwards.
He preferred quick fights. Overwhelming victory. No room to question his prowess, a beautiful canvas painted with his dismembered conquests.
He was strong. He was a warrior. He was no longer weak. He never would be again. The battle was concluded. He’d won. Nike had granted him his blessings.
The pain felt like glory.