Reign of the Dark Overlord

The golden radiance of **Solstice** bathed the chamber in divine light, its sacred blade pulsing with raw power. The legendary sword that had felled gods and demons alike—now poised to **execute Damien Voss**.

Leon's grip tightened around the hilt. "Your reign of terror ends today."

Damien's white hair fell over his eyes as he tilted his head, observing the so-called **hero**. Leon was exactly as he remembered—broad-shouldered, golden-haired, his blue eyes burning with **unyielding righteousness**. A man shaped by prophecy, gifted with **divine power**, and convinced of his moral superiority.

A **pawn**, nothing more.

The council watched in expectant silence. They had seen this moment in their visions, foretold by the priests. Damien Voss **kneeling in defeat**. The **holy blade descending**. **The villain's final breath.**

Damien exhaled slowly.

**Not this time.**

A low chuckle escaped his lips. The sound was quiet at first, then grew—a slow, dark amusement that sent a ripple of unease through the assembled nobles.

Leon frowned. "You laugh in the face of death?"

Damien lifted his gaze, piercing blue eyes gleaming under the flickering torchlight. His **aura pulsed outward**, unseen but felt—a creeping, suffocating force that curled around the room, pressing into their chests, making their hearts beat just a little too fast.

"I laugh," Damien murmured, "because you believe you are here to execute me."

Leon's stance remained firm, but Damien did not miss the flicker of hesitation.

The game had always **forced** Damien's death in this scene. No resistance. No options.

But what would happen if the villain simply… **refused to die?**

He curled his fingers, feeling the iron bite into his wrists. **A test.** He had to know how much of Damien's power was his to command. The memory of the game told him he should be **helpless**, but something deeper, something **instinctual**, told him otherwise.

His smirk widened.

"Kill me then, hero," Damien drawled. "Strike me down, fulfill your prophecy. Let's see if the gods truly favor you."

Leon hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

And that was all Damien needed.

He **moved**.

The council barely had time to react as Damien **jerked his arms apart**, muscles straining, veins surging with power—**and the chains shattered**.

A **collective gasp** echoed through the chamber.

Leon stepped back in shock. "What—?"

Damien's fingers flexed, the sting of broken metal still tingling against his skin. He shouldn't have been able to break them. Not without magic. Not without…

**Power.**

A slow realization settled in.

The game had scripted his death. It had **never accounted for him breaking free**.

The rules no longer applied.

Damien **lunged**.

The movement was **instinctual, predatory**. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hand **colliding with Leon's wrist**, forcing the hero's blade off course. Solstice hummed angrily, but Damien was already shifting—his other hand shot forward, fingers closing **around Leon's throat**.

The hero **choked**, struggling, eyes wide with disbelief.

A murmur of **fear and awe** rippled through the council.

Damien **tightened his grip**. Just enough to make his point.

"This moment," he murmured, voice dangerously soft, "was supposed to be the end of my story." He leaned in, lips barely an inch from Leon's ear. **"But I don't believe in fate."**

With a sharp movement, Damien **threw Leon backward**.

The hero **crashed** into the council's table, the force shattering goblets and sending nobles scrambling from their seats. Solstice clattered against the stone floor, the sacred blade flickering as if confused.

For the first time, Leon looked **uncertain**.

Damien straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the remnants of an old life. He turned to the council, their faces painted with shock, disbelief—**and something deeper.**

**Recognition.**

They had **feared** him before.

Now, they **remembered why.**

He was not a king to be executed. He was not a pawn to be discarded.

He was **Damien Voss.**

And he would **never bow.**

Silence hung in the air, thick with the weight of the impossible.

Then, from the shadows at the edge of the chamber, a figure stirred. A woman stepped forward, her dark crimson gown trailing behind her. **Lady Seraphina Ashbourne.**

The **Duchess of Blackthorne**.

A woman of **ice and fire**, known for her sharp tongue, sharper mind, and an **undeniable thirst for power**.

Damien's eyes met hers, and something unspoken passed between them.

She **smiled**.

Slow. Calculated.

Then, she did the unthinkable.

She lowered herself **to one knee**.

And bowed.

A **collective inhale** swept through the chamber.

One by one, **others followed**. Some in fear, some in grudging respect. A dozen nobles knelt. Then two dozen. Even some of the guards hesitated, caught in the shifting tide of **power**.

Leon **stared in horror**.

Damien looked down at the man who had come to kill him.

"Tell your gods," he said softly, "that I am **not theirs to slay.**"

A flick of his wrist, and the guards behind him **collapsed**, their bodies folding under the crushing weight of his aura.

Then, with deliberate, measured steps, **Damien ascended the dais**.

He turned. Sat.

And claimed **his throne.**