The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The Dominion had underestimated him before.

Not this time.

The city felt different tonight. Zareth moved through the labyrinth of backstreets, his senses sharp, his instincts restless. Every step carried a whisper of unease, a subtle shift in the air. Something was changing. The Dominion was no longer just searching for him; they were pushing him.

Zareth had spent the past days forcing his body to mend, refining the unstable Aetherbrand Essence he had stolen. His new ability—born from the fusion of Suppression and Severance—was raw, dangerous, but incomplete. Powerful, but not yet fully his.

Still, it was enough for now.

The wounds Kaldros had left behind had mostly healed, but the real damage hadn't been physical. For the first time in centuries, he had felt like prey. That feeling had to die. He would not allow himself to be hunted.

But tonight, something was different.

The Dominion had learned.

Zareth kept moving, staying in the shadows, using every trick he knew to remain unseen. He had evaded Inquisitors before, slipping through their nets, striking before vanishing into the dark. But this time, his usual tricks were failing.

Every time he adjusted his path, he found his options narrowing.

Not because of brute force. Not because of numbers. Because someone had anticipated him.

The watchposts weren't random. They were positioned to force him into predictable routes. The Dominion patrols weren't just scouring the city at random; they were pushing him toward something.

A predator waited at the center of this web.

And then, he felt it.

The presence.

It wasn't Kaldros. That man was a force of nature, a walking storm. This was different. Precise. Methodical. Cold.

A faint sound—almost imperceptible. A shift in the air above.

Zareth reacted instantly, stepping back.

A figure dropped down from above, landing without a sound.

The man before him was clad in Inquisitor armor, but it was modified—not the standard uniform of the nameless enforcers. The edges were sharper, the plating reinforced. A sign of rank.

Not just an Inquisitor. A vice leader.

He was lean but powerful, his stance controlled, measured. Zareth recognized the type instantly. A hunter, not a warrior.

A smirk flickered across the man's lips.

"Zareth Valgarde," he said casually, as if greeting an old friend. His voice was steady, unhurried. Confident. "You've been making quite the mess."

Zareth studied him. The man wasn't attacking immediately. That alone was dangerous. No blind aggression. No need to prove himself.

"You Inquisitors never learn," Zareth said, his tone edged with amusement. "Throwing more bodies at me won't change the outcome."

The vice leader chuckled. It wasn't a taunt—it was the kind of laugh that came from someone who already knew how the night would end.

"You mistake me for a fool," he said. "We don't need more bodies. We just need to know where you'll run."

Zareth's eyes flicked to his surroundings.

That's when he noticed it.

The silent shift in the city's atmosphere.

He had been herded.

The alleys he had passed minutes ago—now sealed off. The Dominion forces he had avoided—closing in from multiple directions.

A perfectly laid trap.

"You've relied on brute strength for too long," the vice leader continued. "That ends tonight."

And then he moved.

Zareth struck first.

A blur of motion, testing his enemy's reflexes.

The vice leader didn't just dodge—he redirected. His body shifted with the precision of someone who understood not just movement, but intention. Zareth's blade sliced through empty air, missing by mere inches.

Then, a flicker of Aetherbrand energy.

A thin, nearly invisible arc of power lashed out toward him. Zareth barely twisted away in time. The air where he had stood disintegrated—not burned, not severed, but unraveled. Aether unraveling.

Zareth's new power reacted instinctively. The unstable fusion of Suppression and Severance lashed out—trying to negate, trying to sever.

It failed.

The vice leader had already moved. Not just fast—completely unpredictable.

Zareth was grinning now. This one was a problem.

The fight should have lasted longer.

But then Zareth saw what was happening beyond this battlefield.

Civilians—dragged from their homes. Families torn apart, their screams swallowed by the oppressive weight of Dominion rule.

Zareth knew the Dominion wasn't just punishing those who helped him. They were punishing everyone.

For every failed capture, the city paid the price.

And that made him angrier than anything else.

For a moment, he wanted to stop running. To fight here and now. To make them regret ever stepping into his path.

But that wasn't what this moment was for.

A battle here, with no plan—that was what they wanted. They wanted him to fight on their terms.

Zareth exhaled sharply. He hated it. But he turned and ran.

Not as prey.

As something else entirely.

He slipped into the depths of the city, losing them in the underground passageways.

The vice leader didn't pursue. He didn't need to. He had won the night.

For the first time, Zareth had been forced to retreat.

Not because he was weak. Because he had played the wrong game.

He leaned against a crumbling wall, his mind racing. This couldn't continue.

He had fought like the warlord of old. But he wasn't leading armies now. This wasn't open war.

But it would be.

He had learned something tonight.

The Dominion had hunters.

But so could he.

He wasn't just going to fight back.

He was going to turn the hunt against them.