NOVEL WEB Chapter 3: Chapter 2: A Tyrant Reborn
Pain.
It was the first thing he felt. A deep, consuming agony that clawed through his flesh, as if the very essence of his being had been shattered and reforged.
Vaelthorn gasped, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. He could still feel it—the cold steel of Aldric's blade plunging into his heart. The torches flickering in the throne room. The silent, stunned faces of the nobles who had orchestrated his death.
But that moment had already passed.
He was no longer in the Throne Hall of Dominion. No longer drowning in his own blood as his empire turned against him.
Something was different.
Slowly, his senses returned. The damp scent of earth, the distant crackling of a dying fire, the rough texture of a thin blanket draped over him. Candlelight flickered weakly against the uneven wooden walls of what appeared to be a cottage. The air was cold, carrying the faint, crisp freshness of early morning.
This was not the palace.
His fingers curled into the sheets beneath him, his body tensing instinctively.
Where was he?
His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he forced himself upright, his muscles weak, sluggish. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain rolling through his body, but he ignored it. He had survived far worse.
His eyes darted around the dimly lit room, searching for something—anything—that would explain how he was still alive.
Then, his gaze locked onto a crude metal mirror hanging from the opposite wall.
His body tensed.
A flicker of unease rippled through him as he swung his legs over the edge of the makeshift cot, his breath shallow. His limbs felt different—lighter, unfamiliar. His balance was off. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.
Slowly, unsteadily, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the mirror.
What he saw made his blood turn to ice.
The face staring back at him was not his own.
He inhaled sharply, his golden eyes widening as he took in his reflection.
The long, silver-streaked hair that had once framed his face was gone, replaced by jet-black strands that fell messily around his sharp, youthful features. His once-battle-worn face was untouched by age, his skin smooth, unmarred by the scars of war.
But the eyes—those piercing, golden eyes—remained the same.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
This was not just survival.
This was rebirth.
His body had changed, but his mind—his memories, his hatred, his thirst for vengeance—remained untouched.
A slow, dark smirk curled at the edges of his lips.
"I told you," he murmured, his voice quieter, softer than before. But the resolve within it was unshaken.
"I will return."
And this time, he would not be merciful.
The Weight of Time
A creak of wood snapped him from his thoughts.
His body tensed instinctively, his muscles coiling for an attack—only to falter as a figure stepped into the room.
A girl.
No older than sixteen, dressed in simple peasant robes, her arms cradling a small basket filled with herbs. Loose strands of dark hair framed her pale face, her blue eyes widening in shock as she froze in the doorway.
"You're awake," she whispered.
Vaelthorn said nothing.
His mind was already racing.
Who was she? Was she the one who had saved him? How long had he been unconscious? How much time had passed since his death?
The last question sent a chill down his spine.
He had died. He had felt his heart stop, had seen the darkness take him. If he had returned, then time itself had moved forward without him.
His empire…
His throne…
He needed answers.
The girl hesitated under his unblinking stare before stepping closer, placing the basket on a small wooden table near the bed. "You shouldn't be standing yet," she murmured, moving to his side. "Your body is still weak. You were burning with fever for days. I wasn't sure if you would survive."
She reached for his arm, but Vaelthorn sidestepped smoothly, ignoring the ache that flared in his muscles.
"How long?" His voice was sharper than he intended, edged with the authority of a ruler, though this girl did not recognize it.
She blinked, startled. "I… I found you three days ago, collapsed in the woods near the village."
Three days.
Too much could change in three days. But no—his death had been absolute. This was not a simple recovery.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself before asking the question that mattered most.
"What year is it?"
The girl hesitated. "Year 872 of the Solarian Calendar."
The number struck him like a hammer.
His blood ran cold.
That was fifteen years after his death.
Fifteen. Years.
His fingers curled into fists, his breath sharp and measured. His empire had been without him for over a decade. Aldric had sat upon his throne, ruling his kingdom, shaping his world in his absence.
The realization burned through him like fire.
Fifteen years was a long time.
The Celestian Empire had either thrived in his absence… or rotted.
A slow exhale left his lips.
It didn't matter.
No matter how much time had passed, no matter what had changed, one truth remained.
The empire was his.
And he had returned to take it back.
A Tyrant's First Step
The girl was still watching him carefully, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
He needed information. He needed to understand what had happened in his absence, who still held power, and—most importantly—if anyone still remembered his name.
He turned to her, his golden eyes sharp. "What is this place?"
She blinked. "Elwind. A small village east of the borderlands."
He had never heard of it. That alone was telling.
He glanced down at himself—his clothes were plain, a simple tunic and trousers, far removed from the regal armor and silk he once wore. His hands were smaller, his frame leaner. This new body… it would take time to adjust.
But power was not in the body.
It was in the mind.
And his mind remained as sharp as ever.
He looked back at the girl. "What do you know of the Celestian Empire?"
She tilted her head slightly. "The empire? You mean the old kingdom? It fell years ago. Most of the capital was destroyed when Emperor Aldric—"
His entire body stiffened.
She kept speaking, but the sound drowned beneath the roar of his own pulse.
The Celestian Empire had fallen.
His empire.
His throne.
Everything he had built, everything he had bled for, had been reduced to dust in his absence.
His breath was steady, but inside, his fury burned hotter than ever.
This was no longer just revenge.
This was reclamation.
He turned toward the mirror once more, his golden eyes flickering with something dangerous.
Aldric had destroyed his legacy.
Now, Vaelthorn Drakarion would tear his world apart piece by piece.
This time, no blade would be swift enough.
No betrayal would strike before he saw it coming.
This time, he would not just conquer the empire.
He would carve his name into history itself.