The moon was low in the air, casting an ethereal glow over the crooked spires of Draconic Eclipse Fortress. Its pale light illuminated the stone corridors, each of which echoed with the sound of Draegor's footsteps. He had retired to his private chambers after the trial of strength, but his mind would not be stilled. He remained in the darkness of his throne room, brooding on the combat that had been enacted before him.
Varek's strength had been immense, his Abyssal Knight form undeniably enhanced by the power given to him by the Primordial Tyrant System. But speed and stealth had proved that they could never be overlooked. The assassin had sidestepped Varek's terrible blows with an uncanny ease, a quality which could be perfected.
Draegor leaned against the cold stone wall, the cold of the stone grounding him in the here and now. His claws traced the intricate carvings on the wall—depictions of the ancient dragons, some with wings outstretched, others slumbering in the depths of centuries. These creatures, forgotten from memory, were the basis of his identity. His mind was a blend of the tyrant king he used to be back in Yggdrasil and the ruthless leader he was becoming here in this new world.
The Aftermath of the Trial
He recalled the fight between his two guards. Zaelith had moved with remarkable speed. The assassin had melted into the shadows, only to reappear as a ghost behind Varek's armored form in an instant. But Varek, not to be deterred by the speed of his opponent, had reacted with the raw power of his strength. The clash of daggers against sword had been a cacophonous noise, but it was in the moment of that clash that Draegor realized something: they were more than what their combat skills were. They were learning, adapting, growing beyond what their original programming could have achieved.
Draegor's thoughts shifted to his own power. His form—once confined within the mechanics of a game—had begun to escape those confines. His senses, augmented to beyond what he had first known, allowed him to feel the rhythm of the world around him. The potency of the Primordial Tyrant System coursed through his veins, but it was not enough. He needed more than strength; he needed control. He needed to understand this world.
His dark shadows stirred uneasily, their gentle whispers whispering to him to consider the tasks ahead of him. He had more to handle than strengthening his guards.
The Resources of the Fortress
Entering the dark corridor that contained the heart of his fortress—the library—seemed like what he needed at the moment. His realm had its heart stored here, tied into old scrolls and books ready to be recalled. The Primordial Tyrant System had not only granted him power but also provided him with the tools to discover what surrounded him. He had to tap into that power, to extend his reach beyond the walls of his fortress.
The library was vast, its stone shelves groaning under the weight of centuries of knowledge. Draegor stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the shelves for anything that might provide him with a lead on what to do next. The world he had entered was foreign, its laws and customs still foreign to him. He needed to know about its past, its people, its governing powers—if they existed at all.
His claws snapped along the spines of ancient books, in search of any information that could help him make sense of this strange world. The scent of old parchment filled the air as he pulled a dusty tome from the shelf. It was titled "The Origins of the Realms," a book that contained the general history of the world he now inhabited. As he opened its leaves, Draegor began reading, the words unfolding before him like a chart to the unknown.
The writing held enigmatic references to the realms—countries ruled by creatures of unimaginable power. Some were described as gods, and others "ancient titans" or "immortal monarchs." It was clear that this world was once ruled by beings many times stronger than Draegor knew existed until then.
His eyes grew narrow as he read on. One passage caught his eye:
"The Tyrants, lords of the old world, long since passed into history, have left behind but fragments of their once-great empires. Some hide in the shadows, their strength failing like embers on the wind, and others have re-emerged. The balance between old and new is precarious—precarious to the point of neglect."
Draegor closed the book with a soft snap. The last of the Tyrants—was he one of them? His heart pounded at the prospect. Would he be able to become the leader this world needed, or would he fall victim to the same forces that had destroyed the previous leaders?
He headed out of the library, his features set with resolve. Whatever was contained within the ancient volumes was merely the beginning. What he needed to know was available beyond his keep, but it would not be easy. He would need companions, funds, and, most of all, information.
First External Movements
As Draegor left the library, he summoned Seraphis, the Queen of Wraiths. Her presence was always felt before she appeared, a chill in the air that heralded her ghostly form. She materialized before him, her translucent body flickering like the remnants of a dream.
"My Lord," she spoke in her soft, ethereal voice. "You've summoned me?"
Draegor nodded, his scarlet eyes blazing with intent. "Prepare the scouts. I wish to know all about the villages surrounding us—who rules them, what they have, and if there are any hidden dangers in the area."
Seraphis bowed. "As you command, my Lord."
He paused, then went on, "And I want to know of any potential ruling authority. Kings, empires, or any such who would be dangerous. I want to know their strengths, their weaknesses. Only then will I strike."
Seraphis raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You plan to make an alliance, my Lord?"
Draegor's gaze narrowed. "An alliance? Possible. But more likely, I will find a means to break their strength, either by force or by manipulation. This world will be mine to conquer, Seraphis. I will not sit idly by while others rise to challenge me."
The Queen of Wraiths nodded her head, her body trembling with an aura of expectation. "It shall be done, my Lord."
As she faded from sight, Draegor's thoughts turned inward. The Primordial Tyrant System had given him unimaginable power, and yet it remained inadequate. He needed to learn, refine his tactics, and take the first step toward his ultimate goal—overlordship.
He could feel the heartbeat of the world under him, a slow, steady thump in rhythm with his own. It was time to depart. He would toughen himself, explore the realms, and before long, he would return to reclaim his position as Tyrant King.
Draegor's Development
Standing in the cold, deserted corridor of his fortress, Draegor allowed his mind to expand, tapping into the power of the Primordial Tyrant System. The system was vast, complex, and teeming with untapped potential. He could feel the might coursing within him, the ancient powers thrashing to be unleashed.
He had always been aware that he was destined for greatness, but now, standing in the middle of this new world, he could feel the weight of that destiny upon him. His every move would determine the future of the realms, and he would need to master every part of his power if he was to succeed.
He closed his eyes and focused, channeling the power of the Primordial Tyrant System. The darkness in the room reacted, contorting and coiling around him like snakes. His power grew, and for a moment, he knew the full potential of his powers. It was terrifying, but thrilling.
He opened his eyes, a spark of fire burning within them. Much would still be unveiled, but he would never desist. Never until the world bowed before him.
It was only the commencement. Tyranny would reign again.