The Savage King 2 ozt

THE SAVAGE KING

Before crowns were forged, before thrones were claimed, there was only the hunt.

They say the Savage King was not born to rule—he survived long enough to earn it.

In an age where men measured worth by blood spilled and scars endured, he was the last one standing when every banner had fallen. His kingdom was not drawn on maps. It was carved into bone, ash, and silence. Those who followed him did not swear loyalty with words—they stayed alive by walking behind him.

The Savage King wore no crown of gold. The metal rejected him. Instead, the crown formed itself—molten, jagged, and fused to his skull by war and fire. It dripped like a curse that never cooled, a reminder that power is never clean and never gentle.

He ruled without mercy, not because he lacked a heart, but because mercy had no place in a world already devouring the weak. His roar was enough to scatter armies. His presence alone turned challengers into ghosts. When he screamed, it was not rage—it was judgment.

They say when the Savage King fell, the earth swallowed him whole, unwilling to let something so violent remain above ground. But the crown refused burial. It surfaced again, carried by time, waiting.

Because savagery never dies.

It sleeps.

And when the world grows soft, when men forget what it takes to survive, the Savage King remembers for them.