The battlefield still smoldered. Blood soaked the earth in dark rivulets, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt flesh. The echoes of battle had long faded, but Zareth's mind was still locked in the fight.
He stood at the center of it all, breathing steadily despite the sharp sting of his wounds. Around him, bodies lay strewn in broken heaps—yet none of them belonged to the true monsters the Dominion had sent.
The Vice Captain he had fought before—the one from Kaldros' group—had been smart. tactical, adaptable. And the vibe this vice leader gave was also the same. but even more so. The rhythm of battle should have felt chaotic, instinctual. But it hadn't.
There was too much control. Too much strategy.
The way this Vice Captain moved seemed suffocatingly precise, mirroring the same eerie control he'd sensed before. And that detail unsettled him far more than their raw strength.
"Why did their Captain never appear?"
Not this Inquisitor group's Captain—the previous one.
His gaze darkened as he recalled the name. Kaldros. The first Dominion Captain who had been sent after him… and yet had never once shown himself.
A dangerous thought formed in his mind.
"Are all Inquisitor Captains like this? Moving unseen, leaving only their subordinates to fight?"
Or was this something unique to Kaldros? And if so—why?
The Dominion was not foolish. They never hesitated to crush their enemies with overwhelming force. But instead of sending their strongest, they sent another Vice Captain.
Was it arrogance? Caution?
Or was there something else at play?
Whatever the answer, one thing was certain—he wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
Zareth wasted no time in seeking power. The moment his wounds were tended to, he shut himself away, pushing his body and mind beyond the threshold of pain.
There were two paths forward.
The first: He could delve deeper into his Tyrant's Essence, seeking a way to steal power beyond simple Essence absorption.
The second: He could attempt to reclaim an Aspect from his past.
He focused on the latter first.
There had been a time when he had wielded something devastating—an Aspect that could break through the limits of even the strongest foes. But now, it was locked away.
He forced himself to remember. The sensation, the way it had flowed through his veins, the command that had once been second nature.
He reached for it.
Nothing.
No surge of power. No flicker of the ability he once mastered.
His fingers twitched in frustration. It's there. I know it is.
Something was missing. Something vital.
Zareth took a steady breath, forcing himself to remain patient. The battlefield would give him the answer when the time came.
It started subtly at first.
A missing scout. Delayed supply chains. A misstep in their plans, small but noticeable.
At first, it was easy to dismiss. War was chaos, and unexpected setbacks were inevitable. But then the pattern grew clearer.
Conversations that should have remained private were somehow acted upon before word even left their camp.
Planned movements were intercepted with unnatural precision.
His people—those who had survived alongside him—began to feel the weight of something unseen pressing down on them.
In the dim light of a flickering fire, Zareth sat at a stone table, his allies gathered around him. The tension in the room was palpable.
Veyron was the first to voice it.
"It's not luck," he muttered, arms crossed, his expression grim. "Someone's pulling the strings. Someone who isn't just reacting to us—they're leading us exactly where they want us to go."
Zareth leaned forward, fingers drumming against the stone. "The Dominion already sent an Inquisitor force after us." His eyes narrowed. "So why does it feel like we're being hunted by something else entirely?"
Rhea, one of his more perceptive scouts, hesitated before speaking. "I noticed something strange in the last ambush."
All eyes turned to her.
"The attack patterns... they were too perfect." She furrowed her brow. "They knew exactly how we'd react, exactly where we'd be. Almost like they had fought us before. But that doesn't make sense—none of them should have had experience fighting against someone like you."
Veyron exhaled sharply. "Unless..." His gaze met Zareth's, a realization forming between them.
Zareth spoke the words first. "There's another group."
Silence hung in the air.
Veyron nodded. "Not just any group. Another set of Inquisitors. Not the ones we've been fighting openly—someone working in the shadows, ensuring we never gain the upper hand."
Rhea's jaw tightened. "That would explain why the Vice Captain fought the way he did. If there's another force guiding things from behind the scenes, then this battle was never just about brute strength. They're controlling the flow of information. They're watching us, moving us like pieces on a board."
Zareth's fingers curled into a fist. "Then we're no longer just facing the Dominion's front-line enforcers. We're fighting ghosts."
The realization settled over the group like a suffocating weight.
Whoever these Inquisitors were, they weren't making themselves known.
Which meant they were waiting. Watching. Preparing.
Zareth stood, his voice cutting through the tension. "We won't sit and wait for them to make their next move."
His gaze swept across his gathered allies.
"We strengthen ourselves now. We prepare for war—on our terms."
His fighters weren't ready to take on the Inquisitors directly. That much was certain. But that didn't mean they were useless.
Strength wasn't just about raw power—it was about strategy. Positioning. Execution.
He would test them. Forge them. Turn them into something more than they had ever been before.
They would become weapons, sharpened to strike at the heart of the Dominion's tyranny.
And when the time came, he would shatter the illusions of these unseen Inquisitors—dragging them into the open to face the wrath they had been trying so desperately to avoid.
This war was only beginning.