Battlefield stretched out before Draegor like a breathing creature—fire and smoke staining the skies with the colors of war. Karthos, rebel capital, would fall on this day.
The city's stone walls, once believed to be impenetrable, were already showing signs of collapse. Siege engines pounded relentlessly, their barrages reducing sections of the defenses to rubble. Screams and the clashing of steel filled the air as Draegor's forces descended upon the rebels like a storm.
This was no war.
This was a statement.
On the highest ridge looking out over the battle-worn terrain, Draegor watched his warriors move forward, their training overwhelming the puny defenses of the enemy. His system pulsed within him, whispering to him.
It was time.
His gold eyes burned with an eldritch glow as he stepped out for the first time.
Then it started--the slaughter.
The Power of a Tyrant
Draegor moved like a specter of death over the field, his sword cutting through armor and flesh as if they were interchangeable. Each strike was precise, calculated—an assassination, not a mere murder.
A rebel commander rode towards him, desperation blazing in his eyes.
Draegor avoided the savage blow, spinning in mid-air. With a single stroke of his blade, his sword sliced through the man's chest. Blood spattered the muddy ground as the commander crashed down, dead.
And then his system activated.
A black energy pulse emanated from Draegor's body, invisible to all but those attuned to his power. The corpse of the dead rebel twitched—his eyes, now cold with death, blazed with unnatural light.
Then he rose.
Not as himself. But as Draegor's.
The Assimilation System had claimed another.
The Rise of the Fallen
Across the battlefield, on which Draegor marched, his defeated enemies rose once more.
A rebel knight, who had once been rebellious in life, now fought against his own brethren, killing them with no quarter. A dying archer, whose hands had previously trembled with fear, now shot arrows with otherworldly precision.
The rebels watched in horror as their own kind turned against them, their wills no longer their own.
The whispers began.
"Demon…"
"Necromancer…"
"Tyrant…"
They had always feared Draegor for his power, his ruthlessness, his control. But now, as they watched their fallen rise under his command, their fear turned to real despair.
This was no war.
This was domination.
The Breaking Point
Karthos' gates swung wide as Draegor's warriors poured in, the city walls finally breaking beneath the unyielding assault. The rebels resisted bravely, but bravery was worth nothing against brute strength.
Draegor strode through streets red with blood, sword never once still. Each enemy he felled added to his growing army.
Then, as the last pockets of the rebellion had gathered in the city's central plaza, their commander—a grizzled general by the name of Theron Vale—stepped forward, sword leveled.
"You have no honor," Theron snarled, blood dripping down his temple. "No humanity. You are not a man—you are a monster."
Draegor merely tilted his head. "Is that so?"
"You kill without remorse. You bring the dead to life as your puppets. Is this conquest to you?"
Draegor advanced once more. "Victory is survival. Those who oppose me are not worthy to live."
Theron clenched his teeth, his knuckles white on his sword. He knew he would fail. But he would not kneel.
With a final bellow, he rushed forward.
Draegor did not move.
His system responded instead.
Theron's body froze in place, standing. His muscles stiff, his breath suspended—his will broken as the system reached in.
Draegor gestured.
"Kneel."
Against his will, Theron went to his knees, sword clashing futilely on stone.
His men were frozen in shock. Their commander—**their sole hope—**brought low by a single word.
Draegor stepped closer, his one finger against Theron's chin, forcing the man to look into his eyes.
"Your rebellion is at an end."
Theron ground his teeth. "Go to hell."
Draegor's golden eyes blazed. "I make my own hell."
With a final spasm of his system's strength, Theron's body shook, and then was still.
The rebellion's leader was Draegor's slave now.
The last smoldering remains of resistance died that night.
The Tyrant's Domination Asserted
By dawn, Karthos was silent. The dead littered the streets—but none were untouched by Draegor's sword. His armies had grown.
The world would learn.
The rebellion had dared to stand.
And Draegor reminded them why they should never doubt a Tyrant.