Tyrant System: Rise of the Dragonblooded

Dren moved like a whisper through Rin's camp, a silent observer. He was polite, deferential to Varros, and addressed Rin as "Your Highness" with just the right amount of respect. He spoke little, asked even fewer questions, and followed orders with chilling precision.

Too precisely.

And all the while, messages arrived,carried by mechanical hawks with obsidian feathers and riders cloaked in dust. Each letter was from a different master.

One, bearing Kaelion's crest, read:

> "Now is the time. Strike the snake. Cut off the old head so the young one bends. Leave the daughter if you must,but I want Varros dead.">

Dren held the message over a candle's flame, watching it curl into ash with the same emotion he gave when killing.

None.

Dren had already laid the groundwork. Kaelion's spies, tipped off days earlier, had been sent to track Rin. When they "accidentally" found a message Rin had supposedly dropped,one from Varros himself, stating he'd visit his pregnant daughter,they didn't question it. It looked genuine.

Of course, Rin had written it.

The spies brought it to Dren.

A perfect opportunity.

But first,Rin's armor.

Dren went straight to Rin's estate before heading for Varros's villa, silencing the guards Varros had posted himself. He claimed the powerful armor Rin had "carelessly" left behind, a reward Rin had made sure to dangle before him.

Then, with blade and ambition sharpened, Dren vanished into the dark toward Varros's home, ready to cut down anything in his path.

Varros's watchers weren't amateurs. They rotated shifts, tracked Dren's movements, recorded what he ate, who he spoke to, and where he lingered. They thought they were subtle.

But Dren was bred by wars and killing, trained to butcher . On the fourth night, as the sky deepened with mist, he made his move.

The first watcher died silently, his throat crushed under Dren's boot. The second turned, opening his mouth to scream,but Dren's blade slid through his jaw before a sound could escape. The others didn't make it far. Some were garroted. Some were burned. None were left breathing.

Their bodies were left in the well, weights tied to their ankles.

Before the sun rose, Dren donned the armor Rin had "gifted" him,black, imposing, infused with a heatless dragon energy. The enhancements surged through his muscles like fire through dry wood. He felt invincible.

He approached the old villa where Varros kept his daughter hidden,an isolated estate in the countryside, guarded only lightly to avoid suspicion. It was where Varros retreated weekly, pretending he was still a father.

Tonight, he would bleed as one.

Dren moved like a phantom.

The outer guards were neutralized,throats opened, chests pierced. He didn't waste time. His movements were clean, mechanical, surgical.

In an upper room, Varros was reading by lamplight.When the door exploded inward, Varros was on his feet in an instant.

"Dren..?!" he roared, grabbing for the sword hidden beneath the desk.

Too slow. Dren moved like a shadow through the cold air, his steps soundless over the marble tiles of the estate's eastern wing. He paused behind a column, eyes narrowing on the young woman ahead,Varros's daughter, walking alone through the garden path, one hand resting gently over the curve of her belly.

He didn't hesitate.

A flash of movement. A thin blade, curved for speed, slid from his sleeve.

The strike came low and silent, aimed directly at her womb.

Steel met flesh,but not hers.

Varros had appeared like a ghost, arms wide, intercepting the blow. Blood sprayed across the white pebbles as the blade sank into his side.

"Father...!" she screamed.

Varros shoved her back with a grunt. "Run!"

She hesitated, wide-eyed, before sprinting toward the estate.

Dren didn't chase. His eyes were on Varros now.

Selvara woke up screaming. Dren didn't even look at her.but she didn't leave yet , just screaming.

He advanced slowly toward Varros.

"You…" Varros coughed, gripping the wound. "Traitor…"

"Loyal," Dren corrected calmly. "Just not to you."

Varros reached for his emergency signal crystal, but Dren stomped on his hand, crushing the bones.

Blood pooled. Selvara sobbed.

Dren's blade rose again,but then paused. A single moment of hesitation. Just as planned.

He pulled back.

He didn't kill him.

Varros lay broken, barely alive, blood soaking into the carpet, gasping.

"Good," Dren thought. "Let him crawl to the end."

The trap was set. The seed planted.

He turned to Selvara. "Call your husband," he said flatly. "Tell him to come alone. Or your father dies for real."

Then Dren disappeared through the balcony, vanishing into the night with Rin's black armor humming like a heart.

Far away, in the capital, Rin stood in his chamber and stared at the sky.

He felt it.

The moment had come.And the play has begun.