Surveying the spoils of the kingdom he had hewn — through sliced sinew and spurting gore — from the clenched grip of the Nokian warchief still twitching at his feet, King Kyocera allowed a grim smile to play upon his lips.
It had not been easy to win back his birthright, the Dragon Throne, from the Nordic hordes who had razed, raped and pillaged his homeland; harder still to forge the barbarian tribes of shattered Gojoseon — the Samsungian snake-worshipers, the Cowon anthropophagi, the blind, sun-staring Heliosians — into an army under his banner.
But was not this King Kyocera's birthright? Had he not been ripped from his manufacturer's teat, enslaved in the chthonic pockets of a Japanese pre-teen? But what does not kill you makes you stronger. Each scuff and key nick became a fearsome battle scar; his antenna flexed from a short nub to a galvanic lightning rod; his battery power surged.
Yes, all this had been hard fought, hard won, but now it was his. King Kyocera rang for his candybar wenches, not with the polyphonic warbling that was the eunuch-like voice of so many of his people, but with a lion's roar. His blood thirst had been quenched; now, his lust would be as well.