Alright — let's crank it to the absolute limit. The following is from the record of heroes, section 73, chapter 12, written by archmage zold during his travels in the Tyrant's Dominion, combined with the fragmented history obtained through the sacrifice of three scholars (may they be remembered).
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No name remains. The Tyrant burned it himself, as one burns rags after donning armor. To be remembered as a man was beneath him. He was humanity incarnate, and his name became its roar.
They say he was born in a village swallowed by famine, where his mother's death was blessed as "sacred suffering" by priests fattened on alms. He wept not for her, but for the lie—that humanity had bent its neck to gods who never answered, to elves who sneered from their crystal towers, to dwarves who hoarded fire in the dark, to beasts who claimed dominion by tooth and claw.
He swore an oath on her corpse: "Humanity will kneel no longer. If gods do not exist, I will become one. If kings will not bow, I will break them. If beasts and elves infest this earth, I will cleanse it with fire until only man remains."
He wandered. He learned. He stole every secret the other races had locked away. From elves, he tore the runes of eternity. From dwarves, he ripped the secrets of steel. From dragons, he took the syllables that bent storms. And when his teachers had nothing left to give, he crushed them. Their corpses were nailed to the roads as monuments, warnings written in blood: Knowledge belongs to humanity alone.
At first, humans loved him quietly. He healed their sick, turned wastelands to harvest fields, erased plagues as though waving dust from a table. They whispered "saint." They whispered "savior." And he let them whisper, for faith was a chain, and he was already fastening it around their throats.
Then came the coalition—elves, dwarves, beastkin, human kings and priests trembling at what he was becoming. They raised a hundred banners, called it a crusade to save the world.
The First War was their last.
The Tyrant stood before their armies, black cloak snapping in the wind, his voice clear as thunder:
"I am Humanity. You are carrion. Today, you will learn what becomes of carrion when the flame of man rises."
He fought not with armies alone but with design. Elven sorcery unraveled in his grasp, their forests burned until the ash choked their lungs. Dwarves drowned in molten rivers as he shattered their mountains from beneath them. Beastkin warriors were hung on hooks, their pelts nailed to city gates as trophies. Human kings were dragged from their thrones and fed to their starving subjects. Priests were crucified upside down upon their own temples, their blood dripping onto the idols they once worshiped.
The battlefield was not war. It was execution.
When the dust cleared, his followers did not crown him emperor. They crowned him Tyrant. And the scarred earth he claimed was named the Tyrant's Dominion.
From that day, his people were transformed. They were no longer subjects, but zealots. Their devotion was madness sanctified. Soldiers begged to have their souls torn from their flesh and burned as fuel for his rituals. Families competed for the privilege of sending their children to die in his name. Men and women knelt in filth, clawing at each other for the chance to be humiliated by his gaze, exalted by his cruel laughter.
Humiliation was no longer shame—it was worship. Death was not loss—it was transcendence. To be crushed, discarded, or consumed by the Tyrant was to be sanctified.
His decrees burned into steel:
No blood of elf, dwarf, beast, or spirit may mix with man. The penalty was fire.
All nonhumans within the Dominion were slaves, experiments, or corpses.
The only law was his will. The only faith was his name.
And the people rejoiced. They called themselves chosen. They sang his cruelty as hymn. They carved his words into their own flesh to prove their loyalty. The Dominion became a furnace, burning all weakness, purifying humanity until only perfection would remain.
The world cursed him as demon, tyrant, butcher.
But his people called him god.
And in their screams, their songs, their blood, one truth rang eternal:
The Tyrant did not rise.
The Tyrant ascended.
And all humanity would ascend with him—or be dragged screaming into the fire.