The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The city was suffocating.

In the wake of the lieutenant's brutal death, the Dominion clamped down like a vice, its response swift and merciless. Patrols doubled, curfews were enforced, and anyone suspected of harboring rebels was either dragged into the streets for public execution or taken away, never to be seen again.

Yet for all their crackdowns, something had changed.

Fear no longer belonged to the rebels alone.

Dominion soldiers now moved in tight formations, their eyes wary, their hands never straying far from their weapons. They spoke in hushed voices, muttering about the phantom warlord who had carved through their ranks with terrifying ease.

"A warrior from another era."

"A demon in human flesh."

"No one fights like that anymore."

The rumors spread like wildfire, growing with each retelling. Some claimed he wielded an ancient and forgotten power. Others swore he was a remnant of a lost age, risen from his grave to take back the world that was stolen from him.

Most dismissed the whispers as superstition and fear, but even the most hardened soldiers couldn't ignore the unease creeping into their bones.

In the heart of the underground hideout, Zareth listened.

Seated at a worn table in the dimly lit chamber, he absorbed every rumor, every whisper, not as idle talk, but as fuel.

"They don't know who you are yet," Veyron murmured from across the table. "But they will."

Zareth's fingers drummed lightly on the wood. "Fear is a weapon. We let it sharpen itself."

The hideout was a converted catacomb, a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city. In its deepest chamber, a map of the city lay spread across a stone slab, illuminated by flickering lanterns. Around it, Zareth, Veyron, and a handful of trusted resistance leaders discussed their next strike.

Three options lay before them:

A hidden weapons cache – A stockpile meant for an entire Dominion battalion, stored in a fortified outpost.

A high-value informant – A Dominion spy who had sold out countless rebels and whose removal would cripple the enemy's intelligence.

The Governor's supply lines – An ambush to choke the Dominion's reinforcements and resources.

Each choice had risks and rewards, but one stood out.

Zareth traced a calloused finger over the map, his eyes narrowing. "The weapons cache."

Veyron studied him. "A direct attack on a Dominion outpost. High risk."

"But the reward is greater," Zareth countered. "Right now, we have fighters, not soldiers. We need steel in their hands."

A younger rebel, a former mercenary named Dain, frowned. "That place is built like a fortress."

Zareth smirked. "Then we take it before they reinforce it."

Veyron gave a small nod, his expression thoughtful. "Back in your prime, you would've been—" He hesitated, then chuckled. "Hell, if the rumors are true, you would've been at Greater Dominion Officer level at the very least."

Zareth exhaled through his nose, something akin to amusement in his gaze. "If that's all the rumors say… they fall short."

That was the end of the discussion. The decision was made.

At dawn, they would strike.

Zareth knew something that the rebels did not.

Weapons alone wouldn't save them. Strength was nothing without discipline.

The next morning, the training began. And it was brutal.

They ran until their legs gave out, until the weaker ones collapsed in the dirt.

They fought until their knuckles split, forced to trade blows to harden their bodies.

They held their blades until their arms shook, the weak losing grip while the strong endured.

Zareth fought all of them himself—not to defeat them, but to teach them what true battle felt like.

Some broke completely. Their bodies gave up. Their spirits shattered.

The ones who remained, however, stood differently. Their eyes had changed.

By nightfall, what had once been a rabble of rebels was something more.

The weapons cache lay beneath a fortified Dominion outpost, nestled within a heavily patrolled section of the city.

Zareth and his chosen warriors moved like ghosts in the dark, their approach silent.

They had planned every detail—the guard rotations, the blind spots, the choke points. Zareth's mind worked like a war machine, breaking down the enemy's weaknesses before they even knew they had them.

Then, like a shadow descending, they struck.

Zareth was the first to move. One guard saw only the glint of his blade before his throat was opened.

His warriors followed, their movements precise, efficient, trained in the brutality he had forged into them.

The alarm was barely raised before the slaughter began.

Dominion soldiers poured from the barracks, only to be cut down in an instant—Zareth moved like a force of nature, his Aetherbrand pulsing with raw, primal power.

The final moments of the battle were a storm of blood and steel.

By the end, the outpost belonged to them.

And in the depths of its armory lay the weapons that would fuel their rebellion.

In the Dominion-controlled district, Governor Astor stared at the reports in cold silence.

The warlord had struck again.

The first attack could have been dismissed as a fluke. But this?

This was war.

The chamber was silent, save for the flickering candlelight and the measured breathing of the officer standing before him.

"The High Inquisitor has taken an interest," the officer finally said.

Astor inhaled slowly, exhaling through his nose.

"Then this will end soon."