The city knelt before Zareth, but fear was not rule. Not yet.
The scent of blood still lingered in the streets, the weight of shattered chains and broken order pressing against the people like an invisible force. The Dominion's grip had been severed, and now the city—raw, wounded, leaderless—was in flux.
Zareth stood upon the remnants of his latest conquest, gazing upon his city. It was no longer just a battlefield. It was a claim. But a claim meant nothing if it could not be held.
The Dominion would not ignore this. The whispers had already begun.
They would come.
And when they did, they would find him ready.
The streets bore the scars of battle. Bodies, some fresh, others burned and bloated from past slaughter, lined the roads where Zareth had made his stand. The people—mercenaries, traders, former Dominion soldiers—moved with hesitation. No one knew what came next.
The Dominion was gone, but that did not mean safety.
Some whispered that Zareth was merely a warlord. Others saw him as a harbinger of something worse. The desperate saw opportunity. If no true ruler stepped forward, then why not them?
Already, the city's remaining strongholds—former Dominion garrisons, influential merchants, power-hungry nobles—were stirring.
Zareth saw it in their eyes. The ones who sought to kneel out of convenience, not conviction.
They believed him to be another warlord who would burn out as soon as a greater force arrived. They were wrong.
Zareth wasted no time.
Fear alone could not rule. Order could. But order required something the city lacked—clarity.
Zareth did not destroy for destruction's sake. He chose who lived, who served, and who died.
Those with value—fighters, tacticians, enforcers—were given a choice. Serve and be rewarded. Refuse and be erased. Those with power but no loyalty—nobles, merchants—were bound to his rule. Wealth, resources, and influence were all redirected. Those who resisted in secret—their time was already running out.
Some hesitated to obey. They did not hesitate long.
One noble had thought to test Zareth. A wealthy trader who had once bent the knee to the Dominion now sought to stall, to maneuver, to find a way out.
Zareth cut off his hands before an audience of his peers.
The rest fell in line quickly.
Despite the fear, despite the raw display of power, not all had submitted.
In the depths of the city, betrayal brewed.
The local leaders—the ones who had once thrived beneath the Dominion's rule—were not content. They whispered in dark corners, gathering in the shattered halls of former rulers, plotting a way to remove the Tyrant before his hold solidified.
Their plan was not open war. It was treachery. A knife in the dark. A carefully placed poison. They believed he could be undone before he became too strong. They did not yet understand what kind of man they opposed.
Zareth was already aware of their movements. He had seen this game played before. And he had always won.
But their execution could wait. He had something far more important to do first.
A lone messenger arrived at the gates.
The Dominion's colors, tattered but still standing. A warning draped in steel.
Zareth allowed him entry. He already knew what would be said.
The messenger, pale but standing firm, unfurled the scroll and spoke in the cold, measured tone of the Dominion:
"You have overstepped. This city belongs to the Dominion. Leave—or be crushed."
Silence.
Zareth studied him, unblinking. The weight of the words did not faze him.
He stepped forward, taking the scroll from the man's grasp. Slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.
"Then come," Zareth said. "And see who is crushed."
The messenger was allowed to leave. His fear-stricken eyes would carry the first seed of terror back to his masters.
The Dominion's response was inevitable.
And Zareth did not intend to face them as he was.
Zareth turned his back to the city's streets, walking toward the training grounds without a word. His enforcers, his soldiers—even his most loyal followers—did not understand what they saw in his expression.
A deep, all-consuming focus.
He needed to become stronger.
Taking the city was not enough. Holding it was not enough. He had fought hard battles—but against lesser prey.
He had not yet faced the true power of the Dominion.
His Aetherbrand had not yet reached its peak. His body could still be honed further. His mind could still sharpen its edge.
Zareth did not train for the sake of training. He trained because the future demanded it.
The battle was no longer about proving his strength. It was about becoming the absolute.
The Training Begins Aetherbrand Mastery: Zareth pushed his control further, refining the essence he stole, reshaping it with ruthless precision.
Physical Dominance: The human body had limits. He would surpass them.
Combat Drills: He did not train alone. Any warrior under his rule who sought strength was made to train with him. Most broke under the strain.
Refining His Killing Intent: True terror was not in rage. It was in controlled, focused destruction.
Each strike, each movement, each refinement of power was a declaration.
He would not wait for the Dominion to come.
He would forge himself into the force that would break them.