The night of Boris’s birth was etched in the family annals as one of foreboding. A crimson moon hung heavy in the inky sky, casting long, skeletal shadows across the ancestral halls of the Bloodfist clan of Obelus. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, mirroring the anticipation within. For generations, the Bloodfists were renowned for their unmatched ferocity in battle, their lineage a tapestry woven with tales of legendary berserkers. And on this night, the seventh son of the seventh son was born.
Whispers of prophecy had long circulated within the family, foretelling the arrival of an offspring who would surpass all previous berserkers. He was destined to be the ultimate warrior, a force of nature unleashed. So, his father, a man whose own rages could level forests, bestowed upon his newborn son the imperial B – Boris the Berserker.
However, fate, it seemed, had a peculiar sense of humor. Growing up, Boris was a far cry from the raging behemoth his name suggested. His older siblings, eager to witness the legendary berserk in action, subjected him to relentless bullying, hoping to ignite the fabled fury within.
They would taunt him, push him, and try to provoke him, inadvertently achieving the opposite effect. Boris, sensitive and easily overwhelmed, retreated into himself. He found solace not in the clash of steel, but in the rustling pages of books. He learned to control his emotions, to suppress the burgeoning rage that his lineage promised. He became a quiet, frail young man with ink-stained fingers and a gentle smile, his berserk potential meticulously polished away by childhood torment.
Despite his unassuming demeanor, Boris’s reputation preceded him. The name "Boris the Berserker" carried a certain weight, and so he found himself drawn into the world of adventuring of Obelus. Parties, intrigued by the legend, would reluctantly accept him, hoping for a hidden wellspring of power.
But in battle, Boris was just average. He was competent, certainly, his reflexes honed by years of avoiding his brothers, but he lacked the explosive fury expected of him. This became the norm for Boris – a life of mild peril and mediocre performance.
Until he joined a party led by a man named Malakor. Malakor’s eyes held a glint that promised trouble, and his smile was sharp and unsettling, like a predator sizing up its prey. He was a shrewd leader, however, and it wasn't long before he noticed the discrepancy between Boris's reputation and his reality. He observed Boris’s quiet nature, the flicker of something intense that occasionally crossed his features, and a plan began to form in his wicked mind.
Their current quest had led them deep into a forgotten dungeon, and now, on the seventh battle of Boris’s adventuring career, they faced the dungeon’s monstrous guardian – a hulking beast with razor claws and eyes that burned with malevolent intent. The battle was fierce, and the party struggled to hold their ground. It was then that Malakor’s plan began to unfold.
The boss lunged, its claws raking across the warrior’s shield. As the warrior stumbled back, Malakor’s hand shot out, cracking across Boris’s cheek. “Useless!” he snarled. “Can’t you even block a simple attack?” Boris, startled and hurt, could only stammer an apology. The boss attacked again, sending a shockwave through the floor. This time, Malakor shoved Boris forward, sending him sprawling. “It’s your fault!” Malakor roared. “You’re distracting him with your patheticness!”
With each subsequent attack from the boss, Malakor’s treatment of Boris escalated. A sharp slap here, a vicious insult there. “Look at you, trembling like a leaf! Your ancestors would be ashamed!” he’d bellow. The blame piled onto Boris, heavy and suffocating. With every blow the boss landed, Malakor’s verbal and physical assault on Boris intensified, a cruel symphony of pain and humiliation.
Then, after the seventh earth-shattering attack from the boss, something within Boris finally snapped. The years of suppressed rage, the weight of expectation, the sting of Malakor’s relentless abuse – it all coalesced into a single, earth-shattering roar. His frail frame seemed to expand, his quiet eyes blazing with incandescent fury. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, his gentle features contorting into a mask of primal rage. The legendary berserker had finally awakened.
He moved with a speed and ferocity that none of them had ever witnessed. The hulking boss, which had moments before seemed invincible, was now met with a whirlwind of brutal attacks. Boris’s blows landed with the force of a battering ram, his roars echoing through the cavern. The battle was swift and brutal, ending with the monstrous guardian collapsing in a heap, defeated by the very man who had been moments before cowering in fear like the rest of the party.
As the adrenaline faded, Boris slowly returned to his former self, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and exhilaration. Malakor, standing a safe distance away, approached him cautiously. He bowed his head, a rare display of humility. “Boris,” he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I… I am deeply sorry. My methods were… unorthodox, to say the least. I was half-afraid you would turn on me.”
Boris, however, was beaming. A genuine, unburdened smile lit up his face. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice still a little rough. “I… I felt… powerful. Free.”
Malakor looked at him, a flicker of understanding in his usually sharp eyes. “So,” he said, a hint of his usual smirk returning, “next time, just trust me, alright?” He then added, his tone becoming serious, “But mark my words, Boris. If I see or hear anyone else ever treat you like that, I'll make sure he's a dead man.”
Boris, still slightly dazed but undeniably happy, nodded. In the most brutal and unexpected way, he had finally discovered his true potential. And in the most unlikely of circumstances, Boris the Berserker had found his first friend.
