Rebirth of the Tyrant: The Exiled King’s Revenge

The first bandit barely had time to react before Kairos's blade found his throat. The steel cut cleanly, parting skin and flesh, a perfect execution of a fatal strike. The man staggered back, hands clawing at his neck as blood poured through his fingers, his voice escaping in nothing more than a wet gurgle.

He collapsed.

The others hesitated.

Good.

Fear was a weapon.

Kairos stood over the fresh corpse, his grip firm around the stolen blade. His first kill in this new body. It felt different. The strength behind the swing was lacking, but the precision remained. His muscles remembered war, even if his body was unfamiliar.

His golden eyes flicked to the remaining three bandits.

They shifted uneasily, gripping their weapons tighter. A wounded animal was dangerous, but a cornered one was unpredictable. They had expected an easy kill, a lone traveler with nothing to his name.

Instead, they had found death itself.

The one on the left—young, foolish—lunged. His rusted sword was raised high, swinging wildly, his form sloppy, desperate.

Predictable.

Kairos sidestepped, fluid and controlled. His footwork was slower than what he was used to, but it was still enough. The blade whistled through empty air, striking nothing but wind.

As the bandit overextended, Kairos's hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

Twist. Snap.

A sharp, gut-wrenching scream tore through the clearing. The bandit's hand hung limply, twisted at an unnatural angle. His sword clattered to the ground, forgotten in his agony.

Kairos didn't let him fall.

A brutal knee to the ribs sent the man flying backward, crashing into the dirt.

Two left.

The larger one—the leader—snarled, gripping a broad, chipped axe. He was smarter than the others. He didn't rush in blindly.

The smaller one, though, panicked.

He lunged, desperation overtaking his reason.

Kairos caught the movement immediately. A mistake.

He ducked low, sweeping his dagger across the man's stomach in a single, controlled motion. The bandit gasped, staggering, looking down at the scarlet bloom spreading across his tunic.

A slow, agonizing death.

His knees gave out. He collapsed, eyes already dimming.

Kairos straightened, unbothered.

One left.

The leader gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around the axe. "Who the hell are you?" he spat.

Kairos tilted his head, considering him.

This was the part he enjoyed.

The moment when they realized they had made a mistake.

The moment before they died.

"I am the man who will bury you," Kairos said simply.

The warlord roared, charging. His heavy boots pounded against the dirt, the weight of his axe lifted high. If it connected, it would split Kairos in half.

Kairos let him come.

At the last second, he twisted, dropping low. The axe slammed into the ground, dirt and stone exploding outward.

Kairos was already moving.

A sharp elbow to the ribs. A quick sidestep. His dagger flashed, slicing through tendon and muscle.

The warlord howled, dropping to one knee. His arm hung uselessly, his axe slipping from his grasp.

Kairos grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.

He leaned in, his golden eyes burning.

"You are nothing," he whispered.

The bandit tried to speak. Beg, maybe.

Kairos didn't let him.

With a single motion, he drove the dagger through the man's throat, twisting the blade for good measure.

The body slumped.

Blood pooled at Kairos's feet.

The last bandit—the coward—dropped his weapon and ran.

Kairos watched him go, unconcerned.

The world was small.

And soon, his name would be known again.

Aftermath: The Mind of a Tyrant

The silence after death was always the same.

Kairos wiped the blood from his dagger, his movements slow and deliberate.

His first battle in this body was over.

It had not been perfect. His strikes were still too weak, his reactions slower than what he was used to. But there was potential.

His golden eyes swept the battlefield. The corpses of his enemies lay still, their expressions frozen in horror.

Among the wreckage of the caravan, supplies remained—packs of food, scattered coin pouches, and something else.

Armor.

Kairos knelt, inspecting the set of leather and metal pieces.

It was crude, but it would do.

He fastened the chest plate over his tunic, adjusting the straps until they fit snugly. It wasn't the royal armor of an emperor, but for now, it was enough.

A dagger rested among the bodies, its steel dull but sturdy. He took it, twirling it in his fingers before tucking it into his belt.

He had woken up weak. Unarmed. Vulnerable.

Now?

Now, he was armed, armored, and ready.

Kairos turned toward the dirt path leading away from the massacre.

The blood on the ground would dry. The bodies would rot.

But his path was only beginning.

The Road to Duskfall

Duskfall.

A city now ruled by the Iron Lords—warlords who had once served him.

Kairos's lips curled.

They had taken the ruins of his empire and carved out their own domains like parasites.

They thought he was gone.

They thought they were safe.

They were wrong.

The weight of his armor settled over him. The dagger at his side felt familiar. His steps were steady.

The path to reclaiming his throne began here.

Let the world remember.

Let them tremble.

Vaelthorn Drakarion has returned. 

The silence of the road stretched on as Kairos moved steadily forward, the weight of his stolen armor settling firmly on his shoulders. His first steps as the rightful king felt different, sharper than before. The dagger at his side, now an extension of his hand, was an ever-present reminder of the vengeance he would carve into the heart of the world. The bandits, the warlords, the lies they had built upon his empire—each one would pay for their arrogance.

His path to Duskfall was clear.

Through the darkened forest he walked, past the remnants of abandoned villages and broken farms. The land whispered of struggle, of a people long forgotten by their rulers, their spirits bowed under the weight of betrayal. Kairos could hear their cries in the wind, the echoes of lost lives, of those who had once revered him as a god. The thought stoked the fire in his chest, but it was more than just revenge that fueled him now.

It was a promise.

The promise of reclaiming what was his.

Duskfall was the key.

The Broken Gates of Duskfall

By the time the ruined gates of Duskfall appeared on the horizon, the sky had already turned a deep purple, the last remnants of daylight vanishing behind the silhouette of the city. The streets were quiet, too quiet for a place that had once been the heart of an empire. Kairos's boots clicked against the stone as he approached, and the scent of decay met him—a city rotting under the weight of its usurpers.

The Iron Lords had made their mark here, turning the city into their playground, their domain. They thought they were untouchable.

But they were wrong.

The winds stirred as he passed under the broken archway, and Kairos could feel eyes upon him, hidden in the shadows of the alleyways and abandoned homes. There was no immediate threat, no soldiers standing guard. Instead, the city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something.

Or perhaps someone.

Kairos moved forward, his eyes scanning the surroundings, knowing full well that his presence alone was enough to unsettle the scum that had taken his home. They'd taken the throne. They'd corrupted his empire.

But they would pay.

The Iron Lords' Gaze

In the heart of Duskfall stood the great citadel, a once-proud fortress now under the command of the Iron Lords. From within its high stone walls, the leaders of the city watched. They had seen the reports. The whispers. They knew the king had returned.

The leader of the Iron Lords, a man known as Varric Ironhand, stood at the balcony, his hands resting on the cold stone railing. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the streets below, watching the figure of Kairos move through the city like a predator.

He had known this day would come. He had always known the exiled king would return. But he had also believed that, after so many years, Kairos would be nothing more than a shadow, a relic of a past age. A king who had fallen and stayed fallen.

"Varric," a voice called from behind.

The captain of the Iron Lords turned to see one of his lieutenants approaching. A man by the name of Grax, broad-shouldered and scarred from years of war. His face was grim, his expression tense. "He's here," Grax said, his voice low.

Varric didn't turn around. He remained focused on the figure of Kairos in the distance. "I know. I can see him."

"Do we move against him?" Grax asked, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.

Varric turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "No. Not yet."

The lieutenant was taken aback. "But he's come back to take the city. He's a king, Varric. He's not just some fool wandering in the streets."

Varric's lips curled into a slight smile. "I know who he is. And I know what he's capable of. But he's still just a man, Grax. And men can be broken."

The Iron Lord turned his gaze back to the streets. "We'll see how strong he is when he meets the full force of the Iron Lords."

The Calm Before the Storm

Kairos stopped in the center of Duskfall's main square, his golden eyes glinting in the fading light. His pulse was steady. His mind was focused.

He was not here to play games. He was here to take what was his.

His first challenge would be Varric, the leader of the Iron Lords. But Kairos knew the game was bigger than that. Duskfall was a city of warlords, each holding a piece of the empire's power. He could take Varric's head, but it wouldn't be enough. He needed to unite the city. He needed to remind these bastards of who they were serving. Who they had betrayed.

He wasn't just here to reclaim a throne. He was here to take back the empire.

The wind picked up, swirling around him like a storm. The city was waking, and with it, the whispers of rebellion began to stir.

And soon, the blood would flow.

Kairos turned toward the citadel, his eyes set on the prize ahead. There was no turning back now.