The atmosphere in Draconic Eclipse Fortress was different.
Where there had once been strained silence, there was now a silent hum of power—not savage, not fierce, but controlled. Refined.
Draegor Nyx stood at the center of his domain, his crimson eyes half-closed as he focused on the rhythm of his own existence.
His aura no longer wildly flailed in rage, nor did it pulverize the surroundings with reckless force. Instead, it moved with intent, like the constant pull of an invisible tide, grinding down all in its path slowly, relentlessly.
This was not simply power—it was the very essence of domination itself.
And yet, for all his progress, Draegor knew he had but scratched the. surface.
The Tyrant's Core Awakens
In the depths of his soul, he could feel it.
A presence lurking beneath his consciousness—a dormant power waiting to be completely set free.
The Tyrannical Core had granted him power beyond comprehension, but it was clear now: what he had accessed thus far was only the first stage.
Something deeper. Older. More absolute.
Draegor exhaled slowly, centering himself. He was not so foolish as to hurry an awakening he did not understand. Hurrying wasted potential. Power too soon was flawed power.
No, he would wait—listen—instinctively, not with ears.
He closed his eyes, letting the fortress drift from him as he looked inward.
Then he fell.
Down into the emptiness of his own self.
The world around him dissolved. Darkness. Silence. Bottomless emptiness.
And then—
A pulse.
A slow, ancient cadence, such as the heartbeat of something greater than himself.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
It was distant, far off, but unmistakably there.
Draegor grasped for it.
The moment he did, the emptiness shuddered.
A presence stirred—a vestige of something old—but before he could gain a solid hold on it, a power suddenly repelled him.
His eyes snapped open.
The chamber returned around him, but the resonance within his chest remained. He had glimpsed something—something immense—but he was not yet ready to grasp it.
Draegor exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the cold air. Not yet.
But soon.
Watching the Pieces
A knock echoed through the large chamber.
Draegor's gaze turned toward the entrance, where the huge stone doors parted to allow Seraphis in.
The Wraith Queen stepped forward, her ethereal form glimmering in the dim light.
"My Lord," she spoke levelly, bowing her head. "I have had word from our spies."
Draegor nodded for her to continue.
Seraphis lifted her hand, and with a flick of her fingers, the air distorted—a ghostly map of the surrounding lands stretched out before them.
Endless mountain ranges. Deadly sands. Strongholds of unknown factions. And to the south—an unspecified presence.
A dim glow marked the location of the supposed Tyrant-level entity.
"They do nothing," Seraphis reported, her eyes narrowed. "There is movement among them, but no outward aggression. They are… waiting."
Draegor's fingers tapped idly on his throne. Waiting for what?
His mind worked rapidly.
Whoever this entity was, they were no savage warlord—they were plotting. They were waiting, same as he was.
That in itself was cause to consider them a threat.
"Are they aware of us?" Draegor asked.
Seraphis hesitated, then answered, "We cannot be certain. If they are, they have made no move to acknowledge us."
No move. No provocation.
Draegor smirked.
Clever.
It was a game of patience. A test of who would reveal their hand first.
He had no intention of making the first move. Not yet.
His enemies could stay in the shadows as long as they wished—when the time came, he would be the one to drag them into the light.
A Tyrant Does Not Rush
Draegor's attention went back to the map, his gaze tracing the expanse of unexploited lands.
He was not so foolish as to believe this creature was the only threat in this world.
Rulers rise and fall. Kingdoms fall. Power shifts like sand in the wind.
If he was to conquer this world, he needed more than power.
He needed influence. Intellect. Strategic command of the forces that governed the land.
Power without direction was wasteful.
Power without foresight was temporary.
Draegor had no wish to be a temporary conqueror.
He would be the Tyrant who lasted.
A ruler whose name would become law itself.
And so, he would continue to sharpen himself, that when the time came to step into the greater world, he would do so as an unstoppable force.
Not a tempest—but the relentless march of fate itself.
Draegor Nyx leaned back in his throne, a low, satisfied sigh escaping him.
"Continue to observe," he commanded Seraphis. "We will not act yet. Not until we are ready."
Seraphis bowed. "As you desire, my Lord.".
With a silent flicker, she vanished, leaving Draegor once more to the silence of his fortress.
He gazed out upon the darkened horizon, feeling the far-off pulse of the Tyrannical Core within him.
A storm was coming.
And he would be its master.