Ashes Of The First Tyrant

Varos didn’t waste time with greetings. The moment Thalen’s boots touched the cracked stone of the plateau, the Hero was already moving fast, low, a blur of momentum. His blade whistled through the air, not toward Thalen’s neck or heart, but his stance.

Thalen blocked, but too high.

Varos’s foot swept out.

Thalen hit the ground hard enough to crack the stone beneath him.

"Lesson one," Varos said, voice level, blade still humming. "You’re not fighting other initiates anymore. You’re fighting monsters. And monsters don’t wait for you to warm up."

Thalen scrambled up, blood in his mouth and eyes narrowed.

"So this is the mentorship of a Tyrant Hero?"

"This," Varos said, "is survival. Learn fast, or die with pride."

They circled each other now, Thalen’s reborn sword glowing faintly with interwoven energy a soft flicker of violet Tyrant Spirit and his sharpened Blade Aura. The fusion still felt new in his hands, like a second heartbeat he hadn’t learned to trust yet.

Varos lunged again, feinting high but striking with a sideways grip low. Thalen caught the edge, steel screaming against steel, but he held.

This time, he struck back fast.

Varos smiled.

"You’re learning."

He caught the blow mid-air with his hand not the blade, but the aura surrounding it. His own aura rippled outward like a shockwave, violet-black and heavy as judgment.

Thalen flew backward, skidding across the stone until he stopped inches from a cliff edge.

"That’s Tyrant suppression," Varos said, lowering his hand. "You might have awakened the Spirit, but you don’t command it yet."

"I can feel it," Thalen said, rising again. "It responds to emotion. It’s like... like it wants to be used, but only if I’m certain."

"Not certain," Varos corrected. "Convicted."

He raised a finger to the sky.

The clouds split.

Lightning cracked not natural, but aura-forged.

"You’ve passed the crucible," Varos continued. "That means your soul survived being burned. But forging a sword means nothing if the steel hasn’t been hammered."

He nodded toward Thalen’s blade. "That sword will only reach its true form when it breaks. And so must you."

Thalen hesitated. "You’re going to break me?"

Varos’s aura surged.

The plateau trembled.

"I’m going to teach you how to shatter without losing yourself."

He attacked again.

The air warped as he moved.

Thalen raised his aura defensively, layering it into sheets of compressed Blade Aura, reinforced by Tyrant flow. It was enough to survive the first blow. Barely.

The second one hit his side.

Bone cracked.

Pain flared but he stayed on his feet.

He retaliated with a downward strike infused with his full aura silver and violet coiling into a drill of pure intent.

Varos stopped it with two fingers.

And shattered the aura construct like glass.

"You’re focusing too much on strength," he said. "Tyrant Aura doesn’t reward force. It rewards dominance of self. You want to overpower the world? Start by commanding your doubts."

Thalen stumbled back, vision blurring. "Then how did you master it?"

Varos lowered his sword.

And for the first time, his voice softened.

"I didn’t. Not at first."

He turned his back and pointed toward the edge of the plateau.

There, Thalen saw something he hadn’t before.

The skeleton of a massive beast its skull horned, its ribcage the size of a castle. Aura residue still clung to the bones, flickering faintly.

"That," Varos said, "was called a Ruinborn. It destroyed six cities before I stopped it."

"You killed it?"

"I fought it. My sword broke. My aura collapsed. I nearly died."

Thalen stared at the remains. "Then how"

"I stopped fighting it as a Hero. I started fighting it as myself. No more personas. No more legacy. Just Varos—the man who refused to let others die in his place."

He turned back toward Thalen.

"And that was the moment the Tyrant Spirit chose me. Not because I was strong. But because I was true."

Thalen absorbed the words, pain ebbing into something sharper than injury—clarity.

"You’re not training me to fight," he said. "You’re training me to become... honest."

Varos nodded.

"You can lie to others and still win. Lie to yourself, and every victory becomes hollow."

Silence passed between them.

Then Varos raised his sword again.

"Now, break."

He came in fast faster than before.

This time, Thalen didn’t block with his blade.

He let the aura form naturally—instinctually—coiling around his body not like armor, but as a second skin.

He didn’t force it into shape.

He let it become.

When Varos struck, Thalen didn’t stop the blow. He turned with it, redirected the energy not denying the hit, but flowing with it. The impact sent him spinning, but he landed on his feet, blade gleaming.

And for a heartbeat, the sword pulsed.

Alive.

Varos stopped mid-motion.

"...Well done."

Thalen breathed hard.

"That wasn’t a block. That was redirection."

"Exactly. Aura is not about resistance. It’s about control. And Tyrant Aura is about making the world obey your truth."

Thalen looked at his blade.

"I felt something like the sword was... speaking."

"It was," Varos said. "It was waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to let go of control and choose conviction instead."

Varos sheathed his blade. "Lesson one is complete. Come."

He turned and led Thalen to the far edge of the plateau, where a single stone bench overlooked the vast ravine below. Beyond the mist, the realm stretched wide mountains like spears, rivers like veins of silver, and above them, floating citadels of the Tyrant Council.

"The world is changing," Varos said. "You felt it, haven’t you?"

Thalen nodded. "The deeper I go... the more I sense cracks. In aura. In people."

"The Nine of us the SSS Heroes we’ve known for years something was coming. Something worse than war. Worse than the Ruinborn."

He looked Thalen in the eye.

"That’s why we need a Tenth."

Thalen swallowed. "Am I... ready?"

"No."

A long silence.

Then a smile.

"But you’re willing. And that’s rarer than readiness."

He reached into his coat and produced a scroll, sealed with violet wax and a symbol Thalen had never seen before.

"This is a summons. It will grant you passage to the Tyrant Citadel where the other eight wait. But you won’t join them yet."

"Why?"

"Because before you do, there’s one more thing you must do."

Varos rose.

"Break your blade."

Thalen blinked. "You said I’d only reach my true strength when it breaks but I thought that would happen in battle."

"It can," Varos said. "Or it can happen now when you choose it. Symbolic destruction. Willful shattering. Only then can the sword that was meant for your aura be born."

Thalen stared down at his weapon.

It pulsed softly, like it knew.

He raised it slowly.

Felt every memory inside it.

Then, with a cry, brought it down upon the stone bench.

The blade split in half.

A ripple of energy tore through the plateau.

And in its place... silence.

Then, heat.

A flame began to swirl from the broken pieces.

Violet.

Silver.

Alive.

From the flames, a new blade emerged no longer a copy of others, but his own.

Slightly curved. Broad at the base, narrow at the tip. The hilt wrapped in ash-colored leather. Along the flat of the blade, ancient script etched itself in glowing light.

Varos bowed slightly.

"The Blade That Breaks. A Tyrant weapon born of will, not forged by hands."

Thalen took it.

It fit perfectly.

Not just in weight.

In soul.

Varos turned to go.

"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we begin the real war."