Veythor reclined on the simple cot, his movements deliberate, as though even in frailty he commanded the room. His crimson eyes glimmered with a cold amusement, though his face betrayed none of his thoughts. His hand brushed against his chin, his smirk concealed in the shadows of the dim light.
"Ah, Miral. How fate delights in its little ironies."
His mind turned inward, the words a silent monologue meant only for the shade of the man long gone.
"Look upon your daughter, Miral. Such beauty, such fire, so like her father. Yet how disappointing she is, a pale echo of the man she seeks to avenge. Does she not see the futility of her revenge? What should I do with her, I wonder? Break her will, crush her spirit, or perhaps… turn her into something unrecognizable even to herself?"
He allowed himself a soft chuckle, but it carried no mirth—only the weight of disdain. His cold gaze drifted to the doorway, where faint noises from the village outside filtered through. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the cot, a rhythm devoid of urgency yet laden with control.
Hours passed as Veythor's sharp mind pieced together fragments of information. The architecture, the sounds, and the air itself whispered truths to him. He was within a tribal settlement, deep in the Eternal Forest of Darkness—a region infamous for its savage warriors.
"Savage, yes. Skilled, perhaps. But undisciplined."
Two years ago, Veythor had ascended to the rank of Supreme Commander in Narzan, the sole individual to command absolute military authority under the emperor. His rise, despite his commoner origins, had been marked by relentless ambition and ruthless efficiency. Yet no amount of power could erase the whispers of disdain that followed him through the gilded halls of the nobility.
"A commoner, they called me. A man without lineage, unfit for the blood-stained crown of war. How petty their insults seem now, when I hold in my hands the power to remake this world—or destroy it utterly."
His thoughts returned to the tribespeople. He had once entertained the idea of recruiting warriors from such savage clans, but his observations had swiftly disabused him of the notion. Their strength was undeniable, their skill honed through constant strife. Yet their recklessness was an affront to the discipline Veythor valued above all else.
[A Supreme Commander can have a personal unit of Fifty thousand soldiers]
"Strength without discipline is but a child's tantrum. These warriors, for all their raw power, are no better than beasts. They would perish like fodder in the face of a true army. Passion, talent, even fervor—none of it holds weight against the unyielding blade of discipline."
The irony of his situation did not escape him. Gravely injured, his mana reserves depleted, he now found himself at the mercy of the very people he deemed unworthy. His cold smile returned as he considered the possibilities.
"If they side with Erika, it will complicate matters. Though weakened, I am not defenseless. My blade remains sharp, and my magic, though diminished, is sufficient to end this farce. Yet how quaint it is, to see fate throw such trivial obstacles in my path. Death, after all, is but a doorway—and I have walked through it before."
His crimson eyes closed for a moment, though his mind remained vigilant. Death held no power over him, no terror to shackle him.
"What is death to me? A farce. A fleeting inconvenience. A rebirth into the same endless cycle of suffering. It is laughable, truly. And yet, even in this, there is purpose. For every death is a thread in the tapestry of my vengeance—a vengeance that will rend this world asunder."
His thoughts shifted to Erika, her presence a thorn in his side, yet a fascinating enigma.
"Ah, Erika. You think yourself a predator, circling your prey. But you are a mere cub, unaware of the beast you stalk. Let us play this game, then. I will don the mask of the wounded, the helpless. And when you grow bold enough to strike, I shall remind you why the world trembles at my name."
Outside, the tribal drums beat a steady rhythm, their cadence a heartbeat in the darkness. Veythor opened his eyes, their crimson red glow piercing the gloom of the hut.
Let the tribes prepare, let Erika plot her revenge.
The smirk on his lips grew colder, more deliberate. The hunt had begun, and Veythor was no prey.