Draegor Nyx occupied his throne, the weight of his newfound life bearing down on him. The great halls of Draconic Eclipse Fortress stretched out in foreboding silence before him, yet no longer was it the sterile quiet of a game left on pause. It lived. The very air hummed with power, the walls of obsidian seemed darker, denser, and his throne of power throbbed with overwhelming presence.
He tightened his clawed fingers, feeling the physical tension in his joints, the尖锐性 of his nails. This body is real.
He had spent years reigning as a player in Yggdrasil, painstakingly constructing his fortress, shaping its warriors, and forging his own legend as the Undead Dragon King. But this was no virtual pretension. The Primordial Tyrant System had promised him as much—he had been remade, reshaped into an actual ruler of this world.
A slow smile crept onto his lips.
"This world is mine now."
The Dawn of Dominion
A twitch in the corner of his vision made him look.
Between the colossal pillars, his guardians stirred. Once simple NPCs bound to code, now their very presence spoke of intelligence, awareness, and deference. They kneeled before him, unwavering in their loyalty.
Leading them was Seraphis, the Wraith Queen. Her form fluctuated between solid and ghostly, her vacant eyes burning with frosty malice.
"My lord," she breathed, her voice a whisper of the abyss. "We are ready to serve."
Draegor regarded her for a moment. He had crafted Seraphis as one of his most lethal generals—a mistress of dark magic, necromancy, and deceit. Yet now she gazed at him not like an AI construct, but like something truly alive, awaiting his command.
His other loyal lieutenants stood behind her:
Vorrik, the Blacksteel Behemoth, a titan in armor whose footsteps alone could break the ground.
Karys, the Phantom Blade, an assassin cloaked in shadow, his presence barely felt even when he was in clear view.
Ophiel, the Draconic Archmagus, a mage with golden scales and eyes that held the weight of centuries.
They were his, forged from his desire, unwavering in their devotion.
Draegor's tone was serene, but held an unmistakable command.
"Report," he commanded.
Seraphis bowed her head. "The fortress is online. The abyssal reactors thrum with energy, and our defenses are intact. Our soldiers are stationed throughout the citadel, waiting for orders."
Draegor absorbed the information. His fortress wasn't merely transported to this new world—it had arrived whole, its basic functions still operational. That was a comfort.
There were still questions to be addressed, however.
"What of the world outside?" he asked.
Ophiel stepped forward, his dragon-golden eyes gleaming with mystic knowledge. "We have begun initial divinations, but knowledge is scarce. The stars above are unfamiliar, and the world outside our walls remains shrouded in uncertainty. I would suggest a reconnaissance mission."
Draegor nodded. Knowledge was power, and they were blind at present.
"Then so be it," he said. "Dispatch scouts. I need maps, intelligence on ruling bodies, and an understanding of this world's magic and power structures. If there are gods, kingdoms, or empires—I would know."
His guardians bowed as one. "As you wish, my lord."
The First Moves of a Tyrant
Hours later, Draegor stood on the highest balcony of his fortress, gazing out over the forests below, darkened.
Even from this height, his heightened senses could feel the life below—the stirrings of beasts, the thrum of energy through the land. He was stronger than he had ever been in Yggdrasil, his very presence commanding dominance over the world around him.
This world does not know me yet… but it will.
Gazing out to the horizon, he knew that his first steps as a conqueror had only just begun.