Mark set out from the camp with a determined expression, a dozen of his best mercenaries at his side. The forest was dense, cloaked in an eerie silence, as if nature itself sensed the danger ahead. Unfazed, Mark pushed forward, his confidence unshaken despite Alex's warnings. His pride wouldn't allow him to believe that the so-called powerless prince could best his elite team.
But the first sign of trouble came quickly. As they crossed a shallow stream, one of Mark's men stopped suddenly, clutching his throat. His eyes widened in horror before he collapsed, lifeless. No wounds, no external injuries—just a cold, final stillness.
"What the hell?" one of the mercenaries muttered, his voice trembling.
Mark knelt by the fallen man, examining him. "Poison, maybe? Be alert. Move carefully!"
But even as he spoke, another scream echoed from the back of the group. A second mercenary staggered, falling face-first into the dirt, his body spasming briefly before going still.
"Something's wrong!" Mark growled, his hand instinctively reaching for his blade. "Spread out and stay vigilant!"
The deaths began to pile up. One by one, Mark's men fell, their expressions twisted in terror as if something unseen claimed their lives. The forest seemed alive, mocking them with every silent breath.
"Fall back!" Mark finally commanded, his bravado giving way to fear. But it was too late.
Out of the shadows stepped Rohan, calm and composed, his eyes gleaming with a strange power. His voice carried an unsettling calm as he spoke. "You know my name, don't you, Mark?"
Mark's breath hitched. He remembered Alex's words, the name that now echoed in his mind. "Rohan Arthur Atlantia."
Rohan smirked, stepping closer. "And you've seen me. That makes you mine."
"What is this?!" Mark shouted, his voice cracking. "What kind of witchcraft is this?"
"It's not witchcraft," Rohan replied coolly. "It's my authority. Those who know my name and have seen me are under my rule. Your men couldn't handle the truth of my power, and they've paid the price."
Mark's surviving mercenaries began to panic. They dropped their weapons, some begging for mercy, others trying to run—but Rohan's authority was absolute. One by one, they fell to their knees, their wills crushed by the invisible force binding them.
"You can't do this!" Mark roared, though his voice betrayed his desperation.
"Oh, but I can," Rohan said, his tone unyielding. "The rest of you will live, but on my terms. Your lives are now mine to command."
The remaining mercenaries, including Mark, felt the weight of his words. Their bodies refused to disobey, as if their very souls were shackled.
Rohan stepped forward, towering over Mark. "You will serve me now, Mark. You'll spread my name, ensuring that all who oppose me fall under my power. Consider this mercy, for defying me would mean joining the others in death."
Mark bowed his head, defeated. He had no choice. Rohan's authority was unlike anything he'd ever encountered—a force that could not be resisted.
As the forest grew quiet once more, Rohan walked away, his new slaves trailing behind him. The mercenaries who had sought to hunt him were now his tools, bound to his will by the power of his name. The hunt was over, and Rohan had emerged victorious, not just as a survivor, but as a master.