The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The scent of blood hung thick in the air.

Zareth stood over the fallen Inquisitors, his breath slow, controlled—but his body was in agony. The stolen Aetherbrand Essence swirled inside him, resisting his grip like a caged beast. The Suppression Aspect he had taken wasn't his yet. It fought back.

Nearby, Veyron emerged from the shadows, his usually impassive face unreadable. He scanned the battlefield, the scattered corpses of Dominion warriors lying in heaps. His gaze settled on Zareth.

"You won, but this was too loud."

Zareth exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He had no regrets. The Dominion had sent their executioners—he had simply refused to die.

But something was wrong. The weight in the air hadn't lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier.

Veyron's eyes darted toward the rooftops, his voice barely a whisper. "They're here."

Then, the assault began.

Four figures descended from the heights above. Inquisitors. No theatrics, no proclamations—only immediate, lethal force.

Zareth barely shifted as a gravitational force slammed into him, pinning his body down.

Vortex Bind. The first Inquisitor's Aspect. Aether twisted around him, forming an invisible cage that locked movement into spirals, disrupting momentum.

Before he could counter, the second Inquisitor rushed forward—Crimson Rend flashing in his hands. The Aspect was simple but deadly: every cut he inflicted expanded into further slashes, the wounds multiplying upon impact.

Zareth's blade rose in defense, but his own movements were sluggish within Vortex Bind's field. The Crimson Rend wielder broke through his guard, the blade carving across Zareth's ribs.

Pain erupted—not just from the initial wound, but from the dozens of phantom slashes that followed, cascading through his body.

Zareth gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move despite the agony. He couldn't afford hesitation.

The third Inquisitor raised his hand, activating Echo Mantle.

The effect was immediate and terrifying.

Every action performed by an ally was copied moments later with the same force. The Crimson Rend user's last slash hit again. The Vortex Bind's pull intensified. Even the air felt like it was repeating itself, slowing Zareth's reactions.

And the fourth?

He required no Aspect.

Pure, unrelenting brutality.

A towering man, his armor scorched from past battles, his sheer strength rivaling Aetherbrand itself. He charged, fists glowing with condensed force, slamming a blow into Zareth's ribs that sent him crashing through a ruined wall.

Zareth barely managed to stagger upright. Four Inquisitors, perfectly synchronized.

This wasn't a battle. It was an execution.

The air was a storm of blades, gravitational pulls, and echoes of past attacks. Every opening Zareth tried to create was already anticipated, already countered.

He dodged left—only to find his own past motion mirrored against him.

He tried to parry a blade—only for the wounds to multiply beyond his control.

Another strike landed. Then another. Blood painted the ruined streets.

His usual approach—raw power, overwhelming presence—meant nothing here.

This was a battle of pure, calculated precision.

And Zareth was losing.

Then he saw it.

The flaw in their perfection.

Their synchronization was not instinctive—it was rehearsed. The Echo Mantle user had to focus to reinforce the others.

If Zareth could break their unity, he could dismantle them one by one.

He acted immediately.

Zareth feigned a stumble. The Crimson Rend user lunged in to finish him—predictable.

Instead of dodging, Zareth twisted the stolen Suppression Aspect around himself—forcing his own body into stillness.

For the first time, the Crimson Rend wielder miscalculated. His blade swung too early, expecting Zareth to dodge.

Zareth's fist crashed into the Inquisitor's jaw, breaking formation.

He followed up immediately—his stolen Aspect flaring outward.

Vortex Bind's own gravitational force collapsed inward—on its original user.

The first Inquisitor screamed, his own power crushing his body.

Zareth moved in the opening, blade flashing—one down.

But that was the only victory he would taste.

Before he could press the advantage, a new force entered the battlefield.

It was not a new Inquisitor.

It was Kaldros.

He stepped into the ruined street with the calm certainty of a man who had already won. The moment his foot touched the ground, everything changed.

The battle did not pause.

It ended.

Zareth's body locked up against his will. His blood, his muscles, his very Aetherbrand felt caged.

Absolute Dominion.

Kaldros did not move. He did not need to.

"I wondered," he said, voice smooth but carrying the weight of finality, "if you were truly the Tyrant reborn. I see now that you are."

His gaze sharpened, and the pressure deepened.

"But you are not yet a King. Just a dead man walking."

Zareth's fingers twitched. Every movement was dictated by Kaldros.

This wasn't an Aspect that countered him.

It was an Aspect that ruled over all things.

And in that moment, Zareth understood: this was not a fight he could win.

Not now.

Zareth's mind worked rapidly. There was only one way out.

Kaldros's power was absolute.

But so was Zareth's Aetherbrand.

It did not submit. It did not obey.

It stole.

With every last ounce of will, Zareth drew upon his Tyrant's Aetherbrand—not to take Kaldros's power, but to disrupt it.

Aether flared—just for an instant.

For less than a breath, Kaldros's Absolute Dominion flickered.

Zareth moved.

It was not clean. It was not a victory. But it was survival.

And as he disappeared into the shadows, bleeding, exhausted, but still alive—he knew Kaldros would come for him again.

The real hunt had only just begun.