Yilafren was a bona fide old resident of Commorragh. Well, compared to those trueborn who had actually been carried through pregnancy, this one born from a cloned womb was still somewhat inferior.
After all, in a hellhole like Commorragh, having a powerful mother who could carry you for over a decade without both mother and child dying was no easy feat. A noble family with children was itself proof of strength.
Like all her kind, Yilafren, a fast-grown specimen from a test tube, had a shorter lifespan than normally born dark pointy-ears and a greater craving for devouring souls. But the emptiness of the Drukhari's soul wounds, which could only be healed through pain and torment, was hardly something worth comparing over who was better or worse.
Did torturing a thousand slaves to death today make you nobler than me for torturing ten thousand slaves to death? Obviously not. Everyone was trash, so there was no need to pretend otherwise.
Throughout Yilafren's life, betrayal and ambushes had filled every part of her brief century-plus existence. By Aeldari standards, she was still very young—practically underage, even.
As a result, the girl had made countless enemies and caused endless trouble. Yet every time, she managed to preserve her life through her exceptional mastery of Raider bikes and her precise instincts for danger.
Then, under the cover of dark nights and high winds, she took revenge. She tied every one of those enemies to her precious bike, dragged them across Commorragh's bloody floors to paint them with a thick coat of red, then rode through toxic nests to leave green, corroded silhouettes upon her bike.
And now, she felt the parched emptiness of her soul wound being filled by a small figure—that ordinary monkey slave...
Dodging several blast lasers, Yilafren flipped her bike