The scent of burning wood and blood lingered in the cold air. The battlefield, once filled with the disciplined ranks of Dominion warriors, now resembled a graveyard of shattered conviction. Dead bodies littered the ruined streets, some slain in combat, others by their own commander's paranoia. The once-mighty force sent to hunt Zareth had been reduced to something pathetic—fractured, uncertain, and barely holding itself together.
The vice leader, the last remaining pillar of command, stood in the center of it all. His face, once composed and calculating, was pale beneath the torchlight. The weight of his failures had sunk into his bones. He knew what was coming.
But knowing did not mean accepting.
His breath was ragged, his fingers twitching around the hilt of his blade. The soldiers around him—the same warriors who once obeyed his every command—stood at a distance, their gazes uncertain. Some clenched their weapons, not in readiness for battle, but in some futile attempt to hold onto their own courage. Others refused to meet his eyes at all.
They were waiting.
And then, he arrived.
Zareth emerged from the darkness like a phantom. His stride was slow, deliberate—he did not rush, did not need to. His presence alone was enough to freeze the air around him. The vice leader's breath caught in his throat.
There was something wrong about the way Zareth moved.
His cloak, torn and bloodstained, fluttered slightly in the cold wind. The faint glow of Aetherbrand essence swirled beneath his skin, as if his body itself was a vessel of power barely restrained. There was no arrogance in his approach, no mockery, no excess words.
Just inevitability.
The vice leader swallowed hard and turned toward his men, his voice hoarse but sharp.
"Do you see him?" His hand trembled as he gestured toward Zareth. "Do you understand what will happen if we allow this? If we falter now?"
The silence was suffocating.
"WELL?!"
No answer. No movement.
His fingers clenched into a fist. His warriors—his subordinates—had become ghosts of themselves.
The terror had broken them.
He turned back to Zareth, forcing his stance to straighten. "You think you've won?" he spat, voice laced with desperation. "You think fear alone will shatter the Dominion?"
Zareth did not respond.
His silence was the answer.
And that was when the vice leader knew.
The vice leader lunged.
In an instant, his body ignited with his Aetherbrand power—crimson energy laced his muscles, his speed doubling as he aimed a killing strike toward Zareth's throat. A desperate last attempt.
But Zareth did not move.
Not until the last moment—when the blade was mere inches from him—did he act.
A single step. A shift in weight. A movement too precise to be chance.
The vice leader's blade missed completely, his strike faltering mid-motion.
And then—the counter.
Zareth's hand shot forward. His fingers locked around the vice leader's wrist like iron. And before the vice leader could react—
CRACK.
A single, brutal twist.
His wrist snapped.
A howl of agony tore from his throat as his weapon clattered to the ground. But there was no mercy, no hesitation—Zareth followed through, his knee driving into the vice leader's ribs with devastating force. Bone crunched beneath the impact, the force lifting him off his feet before he collapsed onto his knees, gasping.
Blood dripped from his lips as he looked up. His vision blurred, his body unresponsive.
Zareth loomed over him like a god of war.
"You lost the moment you feared me more than you feared Kaldros."
The vice leader's breath hitched.
Zareth's hand rose. Aetherbrand energy surged around his fingertips, forming a blade of raw, crackling power.
The vice leader barely had time to react before the blade fell.
A clean, swift stroke.
His head hit the ground before his body did.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The Dominion soldiers watched in horrified silence as their commander's lifeless body slumped forward, the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The weight of what had just happened crushed the air out of their lungs.
Some staggered back. Others stared in disbelief.
The strongest force in the city—the elite warriors of the Dominion—had just witnessed their leader executed like a common criminal. And the one who did it stood before them, unshaken, utterly unconcerned.
Zareth's gaze swept over them. Cold. Calculating. Unforgiving.
His words came slow, deliberate.
"Stay. Run. Fight. It doesn't matter." His voice was low, yet it carried with terrifying clarity. "The result will be the same."
A single sword clattered to the ground. Then another.
And then—they broke.
Some ran. Others simply fell to their knees, eyes hollow. There was no grand moment of resistance, no last stand. Only surrender and retreat.
They had lost the will to fight.
Far from the battlefield, in the depths of an unknown stronghold, Kaldros sat alone in a dimly lit chamber. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, his crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness.
The message had reached him.
The vice leader was dead.
His warriors were broken.
Zareth had done more than just kill. He had dismantled.
For the first time in years, Kaldros exhaled a quiet laugh.
"Good." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Then, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Now I know he's worth killing personally."