The frozen wasteland stretched out before him like a vast, empty canvas. The mountains in the distance loomed like ancient sentinels, their jagged peaks lost in the swirling mists. The land was a desolate expanse—cold, barren, untouched by the warmth of life. It was a place where only the strong survived, where weakness was crushed underfoot without mercy.
And in the heart of it all, he stood. A king without a throne, surrounded by a sea of darkness, his army awaiting his every command.
The shadows moved with precision, as though they were extensions of his will. Ten million strong, each one a force of nature. A storm contained within a single thought. He could feel their presence, a web of power woven across the land, covering every inch, every crevice.
His gaze swept over the terrain, feeling the pulse of the land. He didn't yet know where he was, but that didn't matter. This world, whatever it was, would soon belong to him. He would carve his name into its history and claim what was rightfully his.
"Igris," he said, his voice low and commanding.
The crimson knight stepped forward, his boots crunching against the icy ground. His gaze was steady, his posture unwavering. "My liege?"
"Report," the Monarch commanded.
Igris's eyes gleamed. "The land is empty, save for the Jotun tribes. The frost giants are scattered, broken. They hold no true strength, no unified force. Their king, Laufey, clings to power in his stronghold. He has no allies."
The conqueror , his mind already turning over the possibilities. The Jotuns were no threat—weak, fragmented, a dying race. And yet, there was something about their presence here that piqued his curiosity. The giants were a relic of the past, their power diminished, their relevance fading. But their fear… that was still potent.
"Beru, Bellion," he called, turning his attention to the other two generals.
Beru, the insectoid general, twitched eagerly. "What is your wish, King? Shall we hunt them down? Tear their flesh and scatter their bones?"
Bellion's gaze was calculating, always assessing, always observing. "What is your plan, my king?" His voice was steady, but there was a sharpness to it, as if he too were piecing together the puzzle.
The conqueror's lips curled into a slight smirk. "We will not hunt them—not yet."
His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the distant mountains, where Laufey's stronghold loomed in the distance. "We will make them come to us. We will make them see that resistance is not only futile… it is stupid."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. "Laufey will not bend the knee willingly. But we will make him understand that his throne, his power, his life—none of it is his to keep."
Igris bowed his head. "Shall we move on his stronghold, then? We can take it swiftly, crush his defenses."
The conqueror shook his head. "No. We will let them believe they are safe. We will let Laufey think he can defy me for a time."
A dangerous gleam entered his eyes. "But first, we must prepare."
The Art of War
His generals nodded in unison, their faces impassive, but their minds racing with the plan.
"Bellion, I want you to begin a search. We need to know everything about these Jotuns. Their weaknesses, their leaders, their allies. Make no mistake—I want every scrap of information about them before we move."
Bellion gave a sharp nod. "Understood, my king."
"Beru," the conqueror continued, his gaze flicking to the restless general. "You will hunt. But not for the Jotuns. We need resources. Whatever this world offers, we take. But we move quietly. No need to draw attention just yet."
Beru's wings twitched, his excitement palpable. "As you command, King!"
The conqueror's smirk deepened. This world would not even know what hit it.
The plan was simple: let Laufey sit on his throne, thinking himself untouchable. Let the Jotuns believe they were safe, that their fractured race could withstand the cold, unyielding onslaught of time. But they would fall, one by one. His shadow army would surround them. His influence would grow until the Jotuns had nowhere to turn.
And when the time came—when they had no choice but to kneel—the conqueror would be there, ready to claim everything.
The Power of Shadows
His army dispersed, moving with purpose and efficiency. Igris led his forces, the crimson knight's cold calculation guiding their every step. Bellion, ever the strategist, set his forces to gather intelligence and resources, weaving through the land like a shadow. And Beru, eager and hungry for action, set off into the wilderness, his monstrous form disappearing into the icy night.
And yet, despite the movement of his army, the conqueror remained still. The cold wind tugged at his cloak, but he didn't flinch. He didn't need to.
Because as he stood there, watching his generals work, he knew that no matter where this world was, it would be his. Soon, the name of Laufey would be nothing more than dust in the wind, and the conqueror would have one thing no one could take from him.
A kingdom.
His kingdom.
An Unknown Power
As the shadows moved, the conqueror's mind began to settle. His thoughts shifted, turning back to the larger question—the one that had been lurking in the back of his mind since the moment he arrived here.
Where was he?
This world felt familiar in an unsettling way. The people, the places, the myths—there was something about them that made his mind itch. It tugged at him, like a memory he couldn't quite recall.
He could feel it, now. The deeper connection. The realization that this world wasn't just some random place. It had purpose, history, power.
But was it the power of gods or men? Was it fate, or mere chance that had brought him here?
It didn't matter.
Not yet.
But it would.