The southern horizon burned with the red glare of sunset, casting long shadows across the jagged ridges of the Scorched Plains. The land was a mixture of scorched earth, twisted rock, and sparse scrub, dotted here and there with the remains of long-abandoned settlements. It was a place where only the ruthless survived — and Alaric had no intention of being anything less.
He paused atop a ridge, letting the wind whip through his cloak as his eyes swept the plain below. Movement flickered in the shadows: small bands of scavengers and mercenaries, hunched over weapons, their gazes alert. None of them had noticed him yet.
Alaric's lips curved slightly. The test of the land was not just about strength; it was about patience, observation, and timing. He allowed himself a moment of calm, sensing the flow of qi around him, feeling the faint disturbances of others' presence.
Then he moved.
With spatial steps, he vanished from sight, appearing silently behind a group of three scavengers who had been arguing over a small cache of supplies. Before they could react, his hand shot out, and ice-infused wind blades lacerated the ground beneath their feet, tripping two and sending the third sprawling against a jagged rock.
They scrambled, panic flaring in their eyes, but Alaric was already gone, reappearing behind another ridge. The wind carried his voice, calm but unyielding.
"Survival is earned, not granted."
The scavengers froze. Their fear was palpable. The lesson was clear: in these lands, hesitation was death.
Alaric continued southward, moving through the plains with methodical precision. Each day was a lesson in strategy and adaptation. He observed rival groups, learning their patterns, strengths, and weaknesses. He allowed no engagement unless it advanced his understanding or tested his limits.
By the third week, his encounters escalated. A raiding party of seven emerged from the ruins of a burned-out village, all wielding swords and crude axes. Unlike the earlier scavengers, these men were coordinated, their movements deliberate.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. This was no longer a mere skirmish; it was a preview of the organized resistance he would eventually face in Ashenfall.
The first attack came from the left flank — a heavy-set man swinging an axe in a wide arc. Alaric sidestepped with fluid grace, his spatial blade slicing a thin line along the attacker's forearm, disarming him in one precise motion.
Another assailant tried to close from the rear, but Alaric's wind-infused spatial step threw him off balance, sending him sprawling into a jagged rock. A third swung wildly, and Alaric manipulated the qi in the earth, causing the ground to heave and trip him.
Within minutes, the raiders were incapacitated. Alaric surveyed them with cold detachment. "Power alone is meaningless," he murmured. "Control, timing, and understanding… these are what separate hunters from prey."
He scavenged a small portion of supplies — water, dried meat, and a few coins — then moved on. Every encounter, every minor victory, strengthened him not only physically but mentally.
---
That night, Alaric camped beneath a cliff, staring at the stars. The moon's pale glow reflected off his eyes, and he felt a strange serenity amidst the harshness of the wilderness. Yet, the memory of his weakness in Jade City lingered.
> "I am not weak anymore," he whispered. "Not like then. I will not be sidelined… I will not be forgotten."
As if in answer, the wind stirred, carrying distant sounds of movement: horses' hooves, the clinking of armor, muffled voices. Scouts? Mercenaries? Or perhaps another band of scavengers emboldened by the night?
Alaric's hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword. His aura flared subtly, a warning felt by anyone foolish enough to draw near. For now, he remained still, letting the unknown come to him.
By the following dawn, he had mapped the nearby settlements and minor strongholds. His observations revealed patterns of patrols, weak points in defenses, and the hierarchy of local warlords. Knowledge, he realized, was as lethal as any blade.
He began leaving subtle marks in strategic locations — small signs of his presence: displaced rocks, minor disturbances, or faint traces of qi manipulation. Nothing confrontational, nothing that would immediately expose him — yet every mark served as a silent message to the land: Alaric Vardar was moving, watching, calculating.
---
Days turned into weeks, and the southern frontier began to bend, slowly, to his will. He avoided open conquest, choosing instead to study, harass, and manipulate the scattered powers of the region. He experimented with combining his magic and qi in subtle ways — improving spatial steps, ice blade precision, and wind manipulation — refining the lethal efficiency that would define him in the decades to come.
Yet amidst all this, a single thought never left him:
> Ashenfall… one day, you will kneel.
And for the first time since leaving the Empire, Alaric felt a thrill, not from battle or survival, but from the possibility of shaping an entire city, a region, into his domain. A slow smile crossed his face, sharp and confident, as the Scorched Plains stretched endlessly before him.
The frontier had tested him, and he had survived. Now, it was time to learn, adapt, and prepare.
The road to Ashenfall would be long, treacherous, and filled with blood — but Alaric Vardar would walk it. Step by step. Skirmish by skirmish. He would shape the land as he shaped himself.
And by the time Ashenfall truly felt his presence, there would be no escape, no mercy, and no one strong enough to challenge him.
> This was only the beginning of a hundred-year journey — the slow, relentless forging of a conqueror.