The silence was heavier than the roar of the previous battle. It was a vacuum of sound where every heartbeat Carillon's own thunderous, newly forged heart, and the frantic, suppressed beats of the few survivors was deafening.
He stood over the enemy commander, who remained frozen mid-charge. The man's eyes, wide and bloodshot, screamed a silent prayer of terror, his weapon hovering an inch from where Carillon's heart would have been. This was the result of the **Sovereign's Commandment ({S.C.}) **: absolute, instant paralysis based on a simple, instinctive word.
A cold, clinical understanding snapped into Carillon's mind, overriding the last vestiges of the suburban teenager. It wasn't the panic of the boy but the analysis of the gamer: This is an involuntary ultimate skill. The command word dictates the effect.
He lowered his hand. The commander didn't move. Carillon walked slowly around the rigid figure, studying the terror. He leaned in, his monstrous, armored face only inches from the enemy's.
"Release," Carillon commanded, testing the boundaries of the skill.
The commander immediately collapsed, gasping, shaking uncontrollably, his bladder betraying him. He didn't try to flee; he only tried to breathe, his mind utterly broken by the momentary suspension of his autonomy.
Carillon felt nothing but detached observation. The guilt, the fear they were gone, replaced by the dense, warm feeling of **Titanblood Physique ({T.P.}) ** coursing through his colossal frame. The absolute will to dominate his own fate, which had driven him to suicide, was now perfectly weaponized.
He looked around the battlefield. His army what was left of the forces he now commanded were a scattering of scarred, black-armored veterans. They knelt in the mud, not from the D-Aura but from established protocol, acknowledging the Warlord's return. The D-Aura, however, was keeping the remaining enemies flat on their stomachs, their fear a palpable, sickening aroma.
Gamer instinct asserted itself. Where is the interface?
Just as the thought formed, a translucent, blood-red glyph appeared, hanging in the air only
[ WARLORD PROTOCOL: CARILLON ] =--
{STATUS: A W O K E N}
Host Alignment: 98\% Absolute Agency (Optimal)
Core Power: TITANBLOOD PHYSIQUE (T.P.) [Rank 1/10]
\text{Aura: DOMINION AURA (D-Aura) [Level 1/100]
Command: SOVEREIGN'S COMMANDMENT (S.C.) [Bound]
Skill Acquisition: WARPATH REINCARNATION (W.R.) [Active]
Mandate: CRIMS0N EVOLUTION (C.E.) - Conqueror's Dominion (C.D.) Required.
Current Goal: Secure Strategic Nexus [Urgent].
Time to Consolidation: 24 Hours.
Carillon stared, the analytical side of his mind clicking furiously. It was a System, an interface straight out of his favorite games, only terrifyingly real. The 'Host Alignment' confirmed what he already suspected: his desperate rejection of his old life had been the perfect psychological fuel for this new existence.
He closed his fist, the sound like stone grinding on stone. He was bound, but his binding was the power he had craved absolute control.
"Commander, report," Carillon's voice boomed. It wasn't the tentative sound of a boy, but a deep, resonant rumble of authority that shook the mud.
One of the kneeling veterans, his face masked by grime, scrambled forward, clearly terrified but dedicated. "W-Warlord! They broke our siege line! We lost General Kael. The main force is ten leagues north, retreating to the Capital of Fenshire."
Kael. The system identified the name instantly. Kael was the general whose knowledge he now possessed thanks to the W.R. skill. The pain of Kael's death was a dull, secondary ache, but the strategic insight was sharp and immediate.
Fenshire Capital. That's a strongpoint, not a starting line. The objective given by The P.S. was a Strategic Nexus.
Carillon turned, pointing a massive gauntlet toward the west, where a low mountain range was just visible through the dusk. "That nexus is irrelevant. The fortress of Mount Vash is twelve leagues west. It controls the mineral supply necessary to rebuild the Armory."
He had not seen Mount Vash, yet the knowledge was complete, pulled directly from Kael's final thoughts. The W.R. was working: not just skill, but ambition and strategic priority were being absorbed.
"Gather the surviving officers," Carillon commanded, the tone brooking no argument. He looked at the few dozen remaining enemy soldiers, still shaking under his D-Aura. This was his first test of absolute, pragmatic command.
He didn't need prisoners. He needed compliance and a clear message.
"Commander," Carillon said to his veteran, "Show them the price of retreat. Leave only enough survivors to carry the tale back to the Fenshire Capital. Let them know the Warlord has returned."
The veteran nodded sharply, his fear replaced by a chilling dedication. "As the Warlord commands."
Carillon didn't watch the brutal, swift execution. He simply turned toward the west. He felt a sickening surge of energy as the slain fear was absorbed by the System the Battlefield Devourer sub-routine of the C.E. feeding his growth.
He was Carillon, the boy who craved agency. Now, he had it, delivered through bloodshed and command. He was marching toward Mount Vash, marking the boundary of his new **Conqueror's Dominion ({C.D.}) **. The zero was gone, replaced by a monstrous, terrifying one.