The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit room, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Zaros Valen stood before the hearth, his expression unreadable as he stared into the flames. His thoughts drifted, carried away by the flickering light, back to the days when the world had not yet bowed beneath his will. The man who now commanded life and death had once been a boy—helpless, vulnerable, and burdened with a fate he hadn’t asked for.

He hadn’t been born into power. No, Zaros’s journey had been carved from pain, betrayal, and a thirst for control over his own life. He had come from a small village, one that barely registered on any map, nestled in the shadow of a vast, enchanted forest. The people of his village were simple folk, farmers, and craftsmen. Magic was something distant to them, a force they respected but never truly understood.

Zaros had been different, even then. As a boy, he was curious, too curious. His mother often warned him against venturing too far into the woods, but he couldn’t resist. There was something about the dark, twisted trees, the silence that fell over the forest at dusk, that called to him. While other children feared the unknown, Zaros sought it out, desperate to uncover its secrets.

It was on one of those ventures, deep into the heart of the forest, that he first encountered the old man. Zaros had wandered farther than usual, his small feet carrying him to a place where the trees seemed ancient and wise, where the air was thick with a sense of otherworldly power. There, sitting beside a still pool of water, was a figure cloaked in tattered robes. His face was obscured by a hood, but Zaros could feel the weight of his gaze as though it were tangible.

“You’ve come farther than you should, child,” the old man said without turning to look at him.

Zaros, though afraid, couldn’t bring himself to leave. “Who are you?”

The old man chuckled softly, his voice a raspy whisper. “I am no one, and everyone, depending on who you ask. But I know who you are, Zaros Valen.”

The mention of his name sent a chill down Zaros’s spine. He had never seen this man before, yet he knew him. “How do you know my name?”

The old man turned then, and Zaros could see his eyes—dark, bottomless pits that seemed to see straight into his soul. “I know many things, boy. I know what you seek, though you do not yet know it yourself. You are not like the others. The blood in your veins is different, darker. And one day, you will wield power beyond your wildest dreams.”

Zaros had wanted to run, but something kept him rooted in place. “What… what kind of power?”

The old man smiled, a cold, twisted smile. “The kind that bends the world to your will. The kind that can reshape fate itself. But such power comes at a cost. Are you prepared to pay it?”

Zaros didn’t understand then, not fully. But something inside him had stirred at the old man’s words. He had always felt different from the other children, from the people in his village. They lived their lives content with the small pleasures of the world, but Zaros wanted more. He wanted to *be* more.

“I want to learn,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

The old man’s smile widened. “Very well, child. Come to me when the time is right, and I will show you the path. But know this—once you begin, there is no turning back.”

That encounter had set Zaros on a course he couldn’t escape. He returned to the village that day, but his thoughts were consumed by the old man’s words. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and yet he couldn’t forget the promise of power. It gnawed at him, pulling him away from the simple life of the village and toward something darker.

Then, the day came when everything changed.

It was the night of the harvest festival, a time when the village celebrated the bounty of the earth with feasts, music, and dancing. Zaros had never cared much for such things, but his mother insisted he join in the festivities. He stood on the outskirts of the celebration, watching the others laugh and sing, feeling like an outsider even in his own home.

And then, the fire came.

It started as a faint glow on the horizon, but within minutes, the flames had consumed the nearby fields, racing toward the village with terrifying speed. Panic erupted as people scrambled to gather their belongings and flee, but it was too late. The firestorm was upon them, devouring everything in its path.

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Zaros’s mother had found him amidst the chaos, her eyes wild with fear. “Zaros, we have to go!”

But Zaros couldn’t move. He watched as the fire tore through the village, watched as the people he had known his whole life screamed in terror. And in that moment, something inside him snapped. The helplessness, the fear—it all turned to anger.

Why should he be powerless? Why should his life be dictated by forces beyond his control?

As the flames closed in, Zaros felt a surge of energy unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was dark, cold, and it wrapped around him like a second skin. The old man’s words echoed in his mind. *Power comes at a cost.*

Without fully understanding what he was doing, Zaros raised his hand toward the flames. The air around him shimmered, and the fire, which had been raging out of control, suddenly stopped. It froze in mid-air, as though time itself had paused. The villagers, too, were suspended in the moment, their terrified expressions frozen in place.

Zaros could feel the power coursing through him, wild and untamed. And then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The fire dissipated, the villagers unfroze, and life resumed as though nothing had happened.

But something had changed.

The people of the village looked at Zaros with a mixture of fear and awe. They whispered behind his back, calling him a sorcerer, a demon. Even his own mother looked at him differently, as though she no longer recognized the boy she had raised.

It wasn’t long before the elders of the village called for his exile. They claimed that the fire had been a punishment from the gods for harboring one such as him. Zaros didn’t argue. He had already made up his mind.

He left the village that night, his heart hardened by the betrayal of those he had once called family. And he went back to the forest, back to the old man.

The figure was waiting for him, standing by the still pool of water as though no time had passed at all. “I see you’ve made your choice,” the old man said, his voice filled with dark amusement.

Zaros didn’t respond. He simply walked forward, his eyes cold and determined. “Teach me.”

And so began Zaros’s descent into the dark arts. The old man, whose true name Zaros never learned, was a master of forbidden magic. He taught Zaros the secrets of necromancy, blood magic, and the manipulation of life and death. Under his tutelage, Zaros grew stronger, his power growing with each passing day. But the cost was high.

The magic he wielded was not without its price. It twisted him, body and soul, stripping away the last vestiges of the boy he had once been. His humanity became a distant memory, replaced by a cold, calculating ambition.

Years passed, and the old man finally revealed the truth. “You were never meant for that village, Zaros. You were born for something far greater. The blood in your veins is the blood of kings, of conquerors. And one day, you will rule over this world, not as a man, but as a god.”

The revelation shook Zaros to his core. The old man had known all along—Zaros was the descendant of an ancient bloodline, one tied to the very fabric of magic itself. His destiny had been set long before he was born, and now, it was within his grasp.

With that knowledge came a hunger for more. Zaros left the old man’s tutelage, seeking out more powerful sources of magic, more ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge. His journey took him to the farthest corners of the world, to places where the very laws of reality broke down. And with each new discovery, his power grew.

But so did his isolation.

Zaros had long since abandoned any hope of companionship or friendship. Power was his only ally, and he wielded it ruthlessly. He became feared throughout the lands, his name whispered in hushed tones as the bringer of death and destruction. Yet even as his enemies trembled before him, Zaros knew that his journey was far from over.

For the ultimate goal, the one the old man had hinted at so many years ago, still lay ahead.

Ascension.

Zaros would not be satisfied with mere dominion over life and death. He sought something more—something beyond the mortal coil, beyond the limitations of flesh and bone.

He sought godhood.

And now, standing in the Arcane Citadel, with the flames of his past flickering in the hearth behind him, Zaros knew that the time had come. The ritual he had performed had set the final stage. The world would soon bow before him, and he would ascend to

**godhood**, leaving behind the remnants of his mortality once and for all.

But the journey had exacted its toll. Zaros had lost everything that made him human—his compassion, his empathy, even the faintest flicker of kindness had long been burned away in the fires of ambition. The boy who once wandered through enchanted forests, seeking to understand the world, had become a man determined to bend that world to his will, no matter the cost.

As he stood there, staring into the flames, Zaros remembered the old man’s words once again. *Power comes at a cost.* He had paid that price, more than once. He had sacrificed his village, his family, his humanity. But it had been worth it. For power was the only truth that mattered. It was the only force that shaped the world, and Zaros had learned to wield it with absolute mastery.

His past had been a crucible, shaping him into the weapon he was today. And now, on the precipice of godhood, he could see it all clearly. The boy who once longed for understanding had been a fool. The man who sought control over life and death had been misguided.

For in the end, there was only one thing that truly mattered: dominion. Absolute, unquestioned dominion.

The flames flickered again, casting long, twisted shadows across the room. Zaros turned away from the hearth, his eyes cold and unfeeling. The final pieces of his plan were in motion. Soon, the ritual would be complete, and the world would tremble before him, not as a man, but as a god.

And in that moment, Zaros Valen—supreme sorcerer, master of life and death—smiled.

The boy who had once sought power to protect himself had become the most dangerous force in existence. His past, his pain, his ambition had all led to this moment. He was no longer bound by the limitations of mortals. He was something more. Something greater.

And soon, the world would know it too.