Conquest Begins
The preparations were complete. I stood at the edge of the dock, the sea wind tugging at my cloak, watching the gathered warriors—Vikings, mercenaries, and exiles alike. The tide was turning, both in the water and in fate.
I raised my voice, letting it carry over the creaking wood and murmurs of uncertainty.
"The day has come—the beginning of our conquest. Hear me now: if any among you betray me, your deaths will be slow, brutal, and remembered only as warnings."
As I spoke, I released my aura, letting its pressure sweep across the dock like a crashing wave. The air grew thick. Warriors shifted uneasily. A few reached instinctively for their weapons. Good. Fear was a sharper motivator than coin.
I let the silence sit for a heartbeat longer, then softened my voice—but not my resolve.
"I know many of you are tense, uncertain about what lies ahead. That is natural. But understand this: I will not betray any of you, nor will I waste your lives in foolish glory. Each one of you stands here today because you are vital to the vision I hold. You are not pawns. You are the edge of the blade I will drive through this archipelago."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—half-relief, half-hardened resolve. I stepped forward, my boots thudding on the damp wood.
"We sail today, and we will not rest until every island bears my banner. Let the world know: I do not seek petty conquest—I seek dominion. And each flag raised will mark the beginning of a new order."
Again I paused. Some warriors nodded; others tightened their grips, bracing for bloodshed. Their fear was still palpable, but now it mingled with grim determination.
"I know many of you were sent from your tribes, the strongest and most cunning your people could offer. I understand the politics that weigh on your shoulders. But hear this well: I will not harm those who surrender after my warning. Mercy will be given to the wise. Vengeance will come for the defiant."
That seemed to ease the tension—slightly. A few loosened their shoulders, and the restless shifting gave way to focused preparation. They knew now what kind of leader stood before them.
I turned toward the sea, eyes set on the horizon.
"Raise the sails. We move now."
The dock burst into motion. Vikings shouted orders over the roar of the surf. Ropes were thrown, crates heaved, and sails unfurled like wings preparing to take flight. The fleet came alive, not as scattered men—but as a single force.
I didn't board the ship. I couldn't—not because I lacked the authority, but because of the curse: motion sickness. A cruel flaw for someone like me.
Instead, I let out a slow breath, wings of shimmering golden brown scales and red fire burst from my back. With a single beat, I took to the skies and landed gracefully atop the back of a waiting Skrill. The dragon gave a low trill of recognition as I folded my wings and settled into place.
I'd asked the system about this curse before—why a minor thing like a boat could unravel me. The answer was maddeningly simple: the sea is always in motion, however subtle, and with my heightened senses—granted by the Dragon-Slaying Fire Magic—even the smallest pitch or roll of the waves became unbearable. I could feel every lurch, every sway, as if the ocean itself was mocking me.
Oddly enough, dragons didn't trigger the same reaction—as long as they weren't flapping too violently. When gliding or cruising smoothly, I could endure it. Barely. I had considered flying under my own power, but conserving mana was more important. There were greater battles ahead.
As the Skrill soared alongside the fleet, I looked down upon the grand armada. Nearly 100,000 warriors. Dozens of ships cutting through the water like blades. And above them, thousands of dragons slicing through the sky. It was a force worthy of legend—and it was mine.
The first objective was clear in my mind: the Northern Alliance. Their leaders had resisted for too long, hiding behind treaties and blood oaths. I would offer them a single chance to surrender. If they refused, they would be crushed—without mercy.
As my gaze swept the ocean below, something massive stirred beneath the waves. The shadow of a titan glided through the deep—the Bewilderbeast. After I killed Drago, it submitted to me. Now, it served not just as a weapon, but a symbol—a reminder that even the most powerful could fall and rise again... under my banner. Its very presence beneath our fleet sent ripples of dread into the sea and into the hearts of any who might oppose us.
Then, my eyes shifted to one ship in particular—the one carrying my summoned warriors. My elite. Each one enhanced by the system, growing stronger with every rank. For every tier they rose, their stats multiplied tenfold. They were my true army—unbreakable, tireless, and utterly loyal.
Among them, the casters were the most valuable. Physically frail, yes, but their magic was devastating. Fire that could melt steel. Lightning that could shatter fleets. Illusions that could break the minds of entire battalions. They would be instrumental in what came next.
I narrowed my eyes on the horizon.
This was not just war. This was the reshaping of the world.
A few days later
"Fire."
My voice echoed like thunder across the burning sky.
The casters stepped forward without hesitation, forming a precise arc. Their mouths moved in perfect synchrony, ancient words spilling out in rhythm. Within seconds, their hands glowed with magic—and then it came.
A single, massive fireball—born from dozens of spells—merged into one colossal sphere of roaring flame. It hurtled toward the enemy stronghold like a falling sun. When it struck, the world turned orange and red.
Half the island disappeared in an instant.
Screams rose, shrill and distant, swallowed by the roaring inferno. My fleet stood in stunned silence. Some gripped their weapons harder, knuckles white. Others looked away, eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to watch the massacre unfold. A few wept. Others trembled with silent rage or guilt. Even the dragons in the sky flinched, wings faltering for a moment in fear—but none dared defy me.
They knew what disobedience would cost.
An hour passed before the flames died down. Smoke curled toward the heavens like funeral offerings to gods who weren't watching.
I guided the Skrill to descend. As it landed amidst scorched earth and ash, I leapt off and landed with a dull thud. My boots crunched over burnt soil and bone.
"Tch… fools," I muttered.
They had seen the fleet. They had seen the dragons—my power in full display—and yet they still refused to surrender. I had given them a choice. I always gave them a choice.
I walked forward, guided by the faint pulse of my Life Sense. Survivors.
I followed the tug of their fragile souls. They were huddled in the ruins—women, elders, children. Their eyes wide with terror, faces streaked with soot and tears. The moment they saw me, the crying grew louder. But they didn't run. There was nowhere to run.
My hand fell to the hilt of my sword. My breath quickened.
This was the moment.
I had to do it. To make an example. To show the world that I was not to be taken lightly. If I spared them, word would spread—I was merciful. Merciful meant weak. And weakness was death in this new world I intended to create.
My sword hissed from its sheath as I stepped toward them, each footfall heavier than the last. The closer I came, the tighter my grip became. My hand trembled.
I raised the blade, slowly, almost reluctantly.
I have to do this.
I must.
For the future. For control. For—
A hand grabbed my wrist.
Firm. Familiar.
I turned, startled—and saw him.
"Father…"
He looked older than I remembered. Worn. Eyes sunken with disappointment and sorrow. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"Erik... you're taking this too far."
I stared at him, my face still blank, but my heart cracking.
"No," I replied coldly. "This is only the beginning. If I falter now, I'll never have the resolve to see this mission through."
His eyes darkened. "If Merida were here—"
"Shut up!"
The words came out louder than I intended, sharp as a blade drawn too fast.
"Don't say her name. Don't bring her into this," I hissed. "This is my decision. Mine alone."
But he didn't stop.
"Look around you, Erik," he whispered. "Your men—they don't cheer. They don't praise you. They can't even look at you. They followed you for strength, yes, but also for purpose. And now, all they see is destruction. You forced their hands to kill innocents. And now you want them to stand by while you do the same—alone. What kind of leader is that?"
I looked around.
He was right.
No one stood beside me. My warriors were still. Silent. Some refused to meet my gaze. A few had turned their backs, unable to bear witness. Even the summoned ones looked... hesitant.
"I know…" I whispered. "I know what I'm doing is wrong. But what choice did I have? I gave them a chance. I showed them my power, my army, and my mercy. They refused. They spat in my face."
I raised the sword again, lower this time.
"If I spare them, others will think I'm weak. That I hesitate. And I can't be seen as weak. Not now."
He stepped closer, his silhouette framed by the dying glow of the fire, his voice low and steady—barely audible above the crackling embers.
"There is a time to show strength… and a time to show humanity."
His gaze didn't waver. "You must ask yourself not what you've planned to do… but what you believe is right. Not for your image. Not out of fear. For you, Erik. What do you believe?"
The words sank into me like a blade. My grip tightened, knuckles pale, and for a moment, my hand trembled—caught between instinct and something deeper. Something harder to ignore.
I clenched my jaw. "Tch… Fine," I muttered, the taste of the word bitter in my mouth. "I'll let them live. But this is the only time."
With a sharp breath, I sheathed my blade. The steel slid home with a hollow click that echoed louder than it should have. I turned without another word and walked away