The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The stolen weapons lay in neat stacks across the stone floor, glinting under flickering torchlight. Swords, spears, crossbows—tools of war that had once belonged to the Dominion but were now in the hands of rebels.

Zareth stood over them, eyes scanning the gathered fighters.

"The Dominion will strike back harder than before," he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "If you can't handle a blade, you'll be nothing more than corpses in their path."

He stepped forward, picking up a finely crafted longsword and tossing it toward a younger rebel. The man barely caught it, fumbling with the weight.

Zareth scoffed. "This is the difference between living and dying. If you hesitate—"

He moved in an instant, closing the gap before the young fighter could react. His fingers clamped around the man's wrist, twisting it effortlessly, forcing the sword toward his own throat.

The rebel froze, fear flashing in his eyes.

"—you're already dead," Zareth finished, releasing him.

The lesson wasn't lost on the others. Only the strong would wield these weapons.

Over the next hour, Zareth handpicked the most capable fighters, arming them first. Those who lacked skill would train until they earned their steel.

By the end of it, the resistance had changed. They were no longer just a band of desperate survivors. They were shaping into something deadlier.

And the Dominion wouldn't stand idle.

By midnight, the city was in lockdown.

Bounty posters bearing rough sketches of Zareth and known rebels plastered the walls.

The streets were flooded with Dominion patrols, searching every alley, kicking down doors.

A new order had been declared—curfew enforced by execution.

For every rebel attack, the Dominion retaliated tenfold.

The people of the city watched in fear and uncertainty. Some saw hope in the rebellion, whispers of a warlord who stood against the Dominion's rule. Others saw only death and ruin in his wake.

But one thing was certain—the city would never be the same again.

Seated in the dim glow of an underground chamber, Zareth and Veyron watched the city's shifting balance from a grated window.

"The Dominion isn't playing games anymore," Veyron muttered. "They want this rebellion stamped out before it truly starts."

Zareth was silent for a moment before asking, "How long has the Dominion ruled like this?"

"Longer than most can remember," Veyron admitted. "But the real power doesn't sit in the Governor's palace. The Imperial Council, the High Inquisitors, the Supreme Generals—they've shaped this world for decades. No one has dared to challenge them."

He leaned forward slightly. "There's one name that stands above the rest. Vaelros, the Hound of the God-King."

Zareth recognized the name instantly. Even in his time, the Dominion had men like him.

Veyron continued, "He's rumored to be one of the strongest warriors alive. A High Inquisitor who never leaves a rebellion unfinished. If he moves against us…"

Zareth's gaze was unreadable. "Power is power. I don't care what rank they hold—if they stand in my way, they'll fall."

Veyron smirked but said nothing. There was something different about Zareth. Something that made him believe, even against impossible odds.

Outside, the city held its breath.

And then came the attack.

The resistance safehouse had been compromised.

The first sign was the subtle shifting of shadows—figures moving on the rooftops. Then came the sound of reinforced boots hitting the cobblestone streets.

Zareth's instincts flared. They weren't ordinary soldiers.

"Everyone, weapons up," he commanded, standing in the center of the room. "They've found us."

The walls shook as the first explosion tore through the entrance, sending debris flying. Smoke filled the air as Dominion Enforcers poured in, clad in reinforced armor, moving with ruthless efficiency.

But it was their leader who drew Zareth's attention.

A figure stepped through the wreckage—his armor adorned with obsidian runes, his presence commanding.

Aetherbrand Aspect: Crimson Chains.

Aetheric tendrils of scarlet energy slithered around his form, lashing against the ground, the walls, the air itself.

He didn't just wield chains. He controlled the battlefield.

The battle erupted.

Zareth dodged left as a crimson chain lashed toward him, slicing through solid stone like paper.

A rebel tried to strike, but the Dominion officer's chains coiled around his arm, tightening like a vice before ripping him apart.

Zareth closed the distance, striking with terrifying force—only for the chains to harden into a defensive barrier, blocking his blow.

This was no mindless brute.

The chains reacted instantly, shifting from offense to defense fluidly, countering every move Zareth made.

But Zareth adapted faster.

Instead of trying to break through the chains, he used them—redirecting their force, weaving through the openings.

Then, he grasped one of the chains.

His Aetherbrand surged.

The Dominion officer's eyes widened as he felt his energy being siphoned—his control weakening.

Zareth ripped the chain from his grasp, twisting it around the officer's throat, before driving his knee into his chest, shattering his ribs.

The man collapsed, choking on his own breath.

Around him, the remaining Dominion soldiers faltered. Their leader had fallen.

The battle ended in blood and silence.

Zareth stood among the bodies, his breath even despite the carnage. Another battle won. Another step forward.

The Governor's chambers were eerily quiet.

The only sound was the crackling of a candle as a figure draped in black robes read through the reports.

The High Inquisitor.

Vaelros.

"Another failure," the Governor muttered. "How many more must die before this ends?"

Vaelros said nothing at first. Then, he set the parchment down, his gaze cold, unreadable.

"The warlord does not understand his place in this world," he said softly. "But he will."

The Governor hesitated. "And if he refuses?"

The High Inquisitor's lips curled into a small, chilling smile.

"Then I will remind him."