The Scorched Plains were alive with subtle movement, though to the untrained eye they seemed barren. Alaric walked along a jagged ridge, his eyes scanning the horizon with measured precision. Each shadow, each flicker of motion, was cataloged, analyzed, and assessed. He had survived weeks alone — testing strength against scavengers, bandits, and rogue cultivators — and every encounter had sharpened him.
Ahead, a campfire glimmered faintly between two hills, smoke curling lazily into the evening sky. Around it, a small group of mercenaries laughed and drank from battered cups, their voices carrying across the dry air. A faint aura of magic lingered around some of them, a sign that this was not a ragtag scavenger band but a trained and organized group.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. This could be useful.
He descended silently, using the terrain to conceal his approach. Every step was deliberate, every breath measured. By the time the group noticed his presence, he was already visible atop a nearby outcrop, silhouette framed by the setting sun.
"Traveling alone?" asked a burly man, the apparent leader, eyes scanning him suspiciously. His armor was mismatched but functional, a patchwork of leather and iron. A sword hung at his hip, and a faint purple glow of mana flickered across his knuckles.
Alaric did not answer immediately. He studied them — seven men, all armed and alert, but no overwhelming aura of power. "Not alone anymore," he said finally, his voice calm and even.
The leader chuckled. "Is that a threat, or are you looking to join us?"
Alaric's gaze swept the group. "Neither. I want to know what you are capable of."
---
The test began at dawn. Alaric engaged them in mock combat, sparring one-on-one with the strongest among them. Each clash tested his reflexes, control over magic, and ability to predict movement. He manipulated space subtly, making attacks appear from impossible angles. Ice-infused strikes froze the sand beneath their feet, wind magic disrupted their balance, and his movement was so fluid that they barely saw the attacks coming.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the mercenaries were breathing heavily, some nursing minor cuts and bruises, but none had been seriously harmed. They stared at Alaric with a mixture of awe and fear.
"You… you're not human," the leader muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Alaric allowed himself a faint smile. "I am what I need to be to survive here. You should ask yourselves the same question."
---
Over the following days, he observed their routines, their hierarchy, and their loyalty to one another. He learned who could be trusted, who sought only personal gain, and who would bend to a stronger hand. By nightfall, he began subtly planting ideas — hints of a larger goal, the promise of power and wealth if they followed someone capable of commanding it.
The leader, wary yet intrigued, finally approached him one evening as the group sat around the fire. "You've been watching us for days. What do you want?"
Alaric's eyes reflected the firelight. "I want to ensure your survival — and mine. There are far stronger forces in this land than your small band. But if you align with me, you will thrive. If you refuse…" His gaze hardened. "…you will die."
The words hung in the air like a knife. The leader swallowed hard, realizing the truth in them. After a long pause, he nodded. "Alright. We'll follow you. For now."
Alaric inclined his head slightly. "Good. For now."
---
The next week was spent in training and minor operations. Alaric led the mercenaries on small raids against scattered scavenger groups and rogue cultivators. Each encounter was precise and efficient, designed to teach, not slaughter. He refined their tactics, combining his magic with their brute strength to create a cohesive, flexible force.
He also began testing their loyalty and character, observing who hesitated, who challenged orders, and who adapted quickly. Those who faltered were quietly dismissed; those who excelled were quietly noted. Slowly, he was forging the foundations of what would eventually become his personal army — the earliest seeds of the Blood Legion.
Even as they traveled, Alaric's mind was focused on the future conquest of Ashenfall. He mapped the surrounding territories, noted potential allies and rivals, and cataloged every resource, every route, every hidden weakness. Each action, each decision, was calculated.
By the end of the month, he had already begun to assert influence over minor settlements, negotiating with local heads and bandit leaders, offering protection in exchange for loyalty and information. Each small victory reinforced the message that Alaric Vardar was no ordinary wanderer — he was a force to be reckoned with, even before the name became legend.
---
That night, as the small army camped near a river that cut through the barren plains, Alaric stood on a ridge overlooking the camp. The men below rested uneasily, still uncertain of their place, but beginning to trust in the silent authority of their new leader.
Alaric's gaze drifted southward, toward the distant mountains where Ashenfall lay hidden beyond the plains. The city remained untouched, unaware that a storm was gathering — a storm forged in blood, discipline, and the cold fire of vengeance.
> This is only the beginning, he thought, the faintest curve of a smile crossing his lips. One day, that city will kneel. One day, they will all know my name.
For now, he was patient. For now, he learned, observed, and honed both his men and himself. The century-long path of conquest had begun — slow, deliberate, and inevitable.