The morning sun struck the barren plains, illuminating the jagged ridges and scattered ruins where Alaric's band had camped for the night. Already, his mercenaries were on their feet, cleaning weapons, tending to minor wounds, and preparing for the day's operations. Alaric stood slightly apart, surveying the surrounding terrain with the sharp, calculating gaze that had become his signature.
The Scorched Plains were unforgiving, and he had learned that brute strength alone would never ensure dominance. Power had to be combined with strategy, manipulation, and alliances. And so, today, Alaric's goal was different: not a skirmish, but a negotiation.
A small outpost lay a few miles ahead, occupied by a minor warlord named Han Ruo, known to dominate a stretch of the eastern plains. Han Ruo's forces numbered roughly thirty, a mix of seasoned fighters and younger recruits, but his men were disorganized, his discipline weak. Yet Alaric had learned not to underestimate anyone.
He approached quietly, sending his men to hide among the ridges. He did not carry a banner or make any announcement. Instead, he allowed his presence to become an enigma, a shadow at the edge of the warlord's vision.
Han Ruo noticed first. The young warlord's eyes narrowed as he spotted the black-cloaked figure standing atop a hill, observing. "Who dares?" he barked to his men.
Alaric did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped forward, his movement deliberate and calm. "I am no one… yet," he said, voice carrying across the dry wind. "But I can make you stronger — or I can make your life very short."
The tension was immediate. Han Ruo's men gripped their weapons, suspicion and fear mingling with curiosity. Alaric's aura radiated power and precision, an invisible authority that forced even the most reckless soldiers to hesitate.
> "Speak your terms," Han Ruo said finally, recognizing that the figure before him was no ordinary wanderer.
Alaric's eyes scanned the warlord and his men. "Join me. Follow my command. In return, I will increase your strength and ensure your survival in these lands. Resist, and your outpost will be no more by nightfall."
The threat hung in the air. A silence followed, broken only by the wind and the faint shifting of armor. Han Ruo considered carefully. He had heard rumors of the black-cloaked figure — a shadow moving through the Scorched Plains, taking out rogue bands with terrifying efficiency. He knew he had two choices: align with this mysterious force or be crushed by it.
Finally, he nodded. "Very well. For now… we follow."
Alaric inclined his head slightly. "Good. Remember this: loyalty and adaptability will save you. Hesitation will not."
---
Over the next few days, Alaric trained Han Ruo's men, incorporating them into his mercenary band. He taught them the principles of coordination, observation, and controlled aggression — the same lessons he had drilled into his first recruits. Slowly, the disparate groups began to operate as a single unit, their movements synchronized under his guidance.
Meanwhile, Alaric continued his reconnaissance of the plains, mapping routes, noting resource points, and identifying weak points in other settlements. His mind was always calculating, planning the next domino to fall in his eventual path toward Ashenfall.
One evening, while reviewing the day's progress atop a ridge, he sensed a distant disturbance. A small caravan, moving from Ashenfall toward the plains, had caught his attention. He could feel their aura: lightly armed merchants, carrying valuable goods, but no true warriors. Opportunity glimmered.
He dispatched a scouting team under one of his trusted lieutenants, instructing them to observe and subtly intimidate, without causing unnecessary casualties. Alaric understood the power of fear and perception — sometimes influence could be built without drawing blood, and Ashenfall would require both cunning and force.
---
By the end of the week, his influence had grown. Minor settlements began to take notice of the black-cloaked commander who moved through the plains like a shadow, reorganizing scattered bands, training them, and quietly asserting control. Whispered rumors spread: a force is rising, one that combines intelligence, magic, and discipline — one that cannot be ignored.
Alaric remained impassive. He did not seek fame or attention; he sought preparation. Every alliance, every battle, and every movement strengthened the foundation of the future Blood Legion and paved the way for the eventual siege of Ashenfall.
That night, as the wind whipped across the plains and the campfires flickered, Alaric's gaze drifted toward the distant mountains. Beyond them, Ashenfall awaited — a city rich with opportunity, influence, and power. But patience, calculation, and strategy were paramount. Today, he had secured his first allies. Tomorrow, the plains themselves would bend to his will.
> "One step at a time," he whispered. "Every ally, every battle, every lesson… builds the path to Ashenfall. And when the city falls, the southern plains will remember the name: Alaric Vardar."