The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The execution grounds were a graveyard. Blood seeped into the cracks of the stone plaza, bodies of Dominion enforcers piled high—an undeniable symbol of Zareth's defiance. But in the wake of his victory, unease settled over the resistance.

Within the shattered remains of a rebel hideout, Veyron spoke grimly.

"This wasn't just an attack, Zareth. It was a declaration of war."

Zareth leaned against a broken pillar, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Good."

The rebels were divided. Some saw his actions as a rallying cry, proof that the Dominion could bleed. Others saw only doom—a battle they could never hope to win.

One of the younger rebels hesitated before speaking.

"The Dominion won't let this go unanswered. What do we do when they come for us?"

Zareth's answer was simple. "We don't wait. We strike first."

But the Dominion was already ahead of him.

The city shifted overnight. Checkpoints doubled. Curfews turned into full lockdowns. Anyone suspected of ties to the rebellion disappeared—never seen again.

Then the Inquisitors arrived.

They did not march in like common enforcers. They appeared. Without sound. Without warning.

At the city's center, within a fortified stronghold, the Governor knelt before a towering figure in obsidian armor. His presence alone felt suffocating.

Inquisitor Kaldros.

A Dominion executioner. A hunter of legends.

The Governor bowed his head. "The Tyrant has returned."

Kaldros's voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that crushed all else.

"Then he dies again."

Deep within the rebel's hidden sanctum, Zareth stood alone in a chamber of stone, his hands outstretched. Tendrils of stolen Aetherbrand Essence coiled around his arms, flickering like fire yet shifting like smoke.

He could feel it—raw power taken from those he had slain.

But there was something deeper than mere absorption. Could he reshape it? Could he twist it beyond its original form?

The air trembled. Aetherbrand Aspects were not just abilities. They were the essence of a warrior's soul.

Zareth exhaled, focusing. If he could take, then perhaps… he could forge.

His grip tightened. A spark of realization ignited.

His power wasn't just theft. It was something far more dangerous.

The first attack came without warning.

A rebel safehouse was turned into a slaughterhouse. Bodies were left in perfect, deliberate arrangements—as if positioned by some twisted artist.

Zareth arrived to find only one man standing amidst the carnage.

An Inquisitor.

His armor was sleek, blackened steel lined with veins of glowing crimson. He turned slowly, the mask over his face featureless save for two burning slits where his eyes should be.

"You are no king. You are an echo."

Then he moved.

The fight was instantaneous and brutal.

Zareth lunged, his blade flashing forward—only to carve through empty air.

The Inquisitor had vanished.

Then pain exploded in Zareth's ribs as an unseen force sent him flying. He crashed through the wreckage, rolling to his feet just in time to see the Inquisitor materialize from nothingness.

His Aetherbrand Aspect… was distortion.

He fought like a phantom—never truly there, never fully absent.

Zareth's grin was sharp.

"Finally… a real fight."

The battle that followed was a clash of pure precision versus overwhelming force. The Inquisitor was unlike anything Zareth had faced—his movements unpredictable, his strikes laced with distortions that warped the very fabric of the air.

But Zareth adapted. He felt the rhythm of the distortions, the slight delay in reality where the Inquisitor's body phased between realms.

And then—he reached out.

Not with his blade. Not with his fists.

With his Tyrant's Aetherbrand.

The moment the Inquisitor struck, Zareth's power seized something beneath the surface—grasping onto the fabric of the man's Aspect itself.

For the first time, the Inquisitor staggered.

Zareth's voice was low, triumphant.

"You're not untouchable."

Then he ripped essence from the man's core.

The Inquisitor collapsed to his knees, gasping as the very foundation of his Aetherbrand flickered. He had never felt this before. No one had ever done this to him.

Zareth loomed over him, rolling his shoulder as power flooded his veins.

"One down."

The message was clear. The Dominion had sent executioners.

But Zareth had executed the executioner.

Inquisitor Kaldros watched from the shadows, his hands resting atop the pommel of a long, jagged blade. He did not move. He did not speak.

He simply observed.

The next move belonged to the Dominion. And this time, they would not underestimate the Tyrant.