There was a deathly silence that fell over Draconic Eclipse Fortress. The winds wailed with icy bite, but inside the fortress walls, there was only a dense, expectant silence.
Draegor Nyx sat upon his throne of obsidian, drumming his fingers listlessly against the armrest as he processed Seraphis's report.
"There is rumor of a great power to the south. A creature not unlike yourself."
The words still lingered in his mind.
Another of his kind? Impossible.
And yet, if his scouts had come back with whispers, then the world was already in motion.
Draegor exhaled slowly. No sudden movements. No rash challenges. Not yet.
He had practiced through the night—precision, control, and balance—but his gut told him he stood at the threshold of something greater. He had trained by himself, contrary to the stillness of the training grounds, but what about in the midst of the chaos of war?
His thoughts quieted.
He would build his foundation first. Mastery before conquest.
The Weight of Power
The corridors of the stronghold stretched out before him, their tall walls covered in the old draconic script, remnants of the overlords who had once ruled from these very stones. Their era had come and gone, but their imprint lingered—a testament that power was never enough unto itself.
Draegor rose from his throne, his movements slow and deliberate.
He could feel it.
The weight of his own existence.
The more he tapped into the Tyrannical Core, the more he sensed the raw pressure emanating from his own body. A crushing force, invisible but felt, that could shatter the will of lesser beasts by proximity alone.
Aura. Presence. Dominance.
These were as important as brute strength.
He needed to master them—not suppress them, but refine them. Temper them into a weapon without lifting a claw.
And so, Draegor moved forward, letting the fullness of his presence unravel into the empty hall.
The castle trembled. Shadows cringed. The torches fluttered, all but extinguished under the sheer weight of his intent.
Too much.
He narrowed his eyes and reined it in, his aura on a leashed chain.
The walls stilled. The shadows remained where they were. The torches burned steadily once more.
Again.
A slow, deliberate release. A building presence—steadily, not a storm, but a creeping inexorability. Like a noose around the throat of a foe, unseen until too late.
His power expanded into the room without wreaking havoc, but with undeniable force.
The presence of a true Tyrant.
A smile tugged at Draegor's lips. Better. But not perfect.
He would practice this, as he practiced his strikes, his mastery over his energy, his movements.
All the rulers before him had fallen because they believed that power was enough. He would not make the same mistake.
A Tyrant's Precision
Draegor extended a hand, summoning Abyssal Flame Rend again. The black flame enveloped his hand, churning beneath his control.
Yesterday, he'd tried its brute force—smashing pillars with one strike, annihilating all in its wake. But a warrior's instinct that was. Not a king's.
This time, he focused on control.
He shaped a solitary ember, no larger than the tip of his claw. It rested in the palm of his hand, its heat controlled, its force of destruction contained.
Then, with a single thought, he pushed it forward.
The spark drifted, crossing the grand hall with the slow, deliberate float of a falling feather. As it approached a stone column, Draegor provided a minute, measured movement.
Shkk.
The column parted—not exploded, not destroyed, but cleanly cut with a single contained slash no wider than the breadth of a hair.
His sneer deepened.
Control. Efficiency. Mastery.
The true strength of the Primordial Tyrant System was not in raw power—it was in the perfection of its application.
The Silent Witness
"You sharpen yourself still, my Lord."
Draegor did not turn to face him. He had sensed the presence long before the words were spoken. Zaelith.
The assassin had emerged from the shadows once more, as he always did—waiting, watching, calculating. A sword that spoke not unless it had something useful to say.
Zaelith stepped closer, his red eyes piercing beneath his hood. "Others would go to war, and yet you sharpen your base. Most don't have that kind of patience."
Draegor laughed deep in his throat, a sound of knowing. "Patience is merely the prelude to conquest."
Zaelith nodded his head, his eyes flicking to the ruined pillar. "Then tell me, my Lord—when do you intend to move?"
Draegor turned to him, his eyes meeting the assassin's.
Soon. But not yet.
He had sensed something in his training, something akin to stirring within him. Another level of the Tyrannical Core, perhaps. A hidden potential waiting to be unlocked.
He would not rush.
Instead, he would hone himself to perfection, until the day arrived—when this so-called rival Tyrant revealed themselves—they would pale before him as an immovable monolith.
Draegor stepped past Zaelith, his gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the fortress walls.
The world was beginning to stir.
He could feel it. The tension in the air. The inevitable collision of powers drawing closer.
But for now, he would wait.
He would sharpen.
He would hone.
And when the time came…
The world would kneel.