The morning after the battle brought a silence so heavy it pressed against the ears. Mist clung to the valley like a lingering memory, curling around shattered shields, splintered siege engines, and the skeletal remains of horses. The river of blood from yesterday had slowed to a thick, viscous flow, blackened by mud and rain. Aren Hale stood on a small rise overlooking the battlefield, his boots soaked to the ankles in the mixture of mud, water, and iron, and his armor, once gleaming, now dulled and streaked crimson.
Around him, the Bloodforged soldiers he had summoned yesterday waited. They stood perfectly still, their glowing red eyes fixed on him, their bodies perfectly synchronized to the subtle, unspoken commands that pulsed through his blood. They were no longer the broken, fallen soldiers of yesterday. They were extensions of his will.
Yet, as Aren looked at them, he felt a pang of unease. These soldiers were not alive in the conventional sense. They were tools, powerful, obedient, and terrifying—but tools nonetheless. Power without guidance was dangerous, and he could already sense the weight of responsibility settling into his chest.
He let out a slow breath, the chill air filling his lungs. This is only the beginning.
"Commander…" The hesitant voice of Corvin, a young foot soldier resurrected by Aren's Blood Orders, broke the silence. His tone was cautious, almost reverent. "What… what do we do now?"
Aren regarded him in silence for a long moment. There was no immediate answer, only the sound of the wind over the battlefield and the faint dripping of blood from scattered corpses. Then he spoke, deliberately, each word heavy with authority:
"We begin our first orders."
The soldiers stiffened subtly at the command, then moved in unison. It was mesmerizing to watch, the way they adjusted their positions, shifted weight, and aligned themselves without a single spoken word. The precision was unnatural, almost beautiful in its mechanical perfection. Aren allowed himself a small, private satisfaction.
It was not enough to survive yesterday. Survival was meaningless if it did not come with power, if it did not shift the balance of the battlefield, the empire, and the world itself. And now, for the first time, he truly understood the scale of his potential. This is more than strength. This is control.
A distant sound of hoofbeats drew his attention. Aren's crimson gaze swept the horizon, taking in the approach of three mounted figures. Their sigils marked them as nobles of the Valerion Empire, elite warriors who had survived the chaos of yesterday's battle. They rode with confidence, though it was laced with uncertainty, their horses' hooves sinking into the mud as they drew closer.
"Commander…" The first noble called out, voice trembling despite the effort to sound steady. "We… we have come to assess…" His words faltered as Aren's gaze settled upon him.
Aren's eyes glimmered faintly with red light, the aura of the Bloodcommander radiating from him in subtle waves. His posture was calm, composed, almost regal, yet underneath it flowed the raw, unyielding pulse of power that had erupted on the battlefield.
"I am Aren Hale," he said quietly, his voice even, controlled, but carrying a weight that pressed upon the nobles like a physical force. "And you are here to witness the awakening of what you thought long dead."
A murmur ran through the group of nobles. One swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the crimson soldiers lined behind him. "Y-You… these… these are impossible," he stammered. "They should be dead! None of this should exist!"
"They live because I allow it," Aren replied simply. "And they obey because I command it. Step wrong, and you will see firsthand the consequence of disobedience."
The nobles paled, glancing nervously at each other. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the silence only broken by the drip of blood from mangled corpses. Aren could feel their fear, their doubt, and even their faint admiration. All of it was data, information he could use. Every pulse of blood, every tremor of fear was another variable in the equation of domination.
He gestured subtly, and the soldiers shifted. Their movement was fluid, elegant, and terrifyingly precise. Aren studied the nobles' reactions carefully. He did not strike. Not yet. The moment was a test, a lesson in the subtlety of command. Power is as much about control as it is about strength.
"First order," Aren said finally, deliberately. "Gather the wounded. Bring them here. Treat them as mine. Any resistance will be removed quietly."
The nobles blinked, startled. Mercy? Such a concept seemed foreign coming from someone with his lineage, someone whose bloodline had been erased because it was feared. Yet Aren was pragmatic. Loyalty was more valuable than slaughter. He would shape it, cultivate it, and if necessary, crush it.
The Bloodforged moved swiftly, gathering the injured and carrying them with eerie efficiency. Aren observed each movement, noting hesitation, initiative, and obedience. He cataloged their actions mentally, reinforcing loyalty where needed and marking weaknesses for correction.
A sudden rustle from the treeline drew his attention. A lone figure emerged, cloaked, cautious, yet moving with unmistakable purpose. Aren's instincts flared immediately. This was no mere scout. His senses, sharpened by the Blood Awakening, picked up every detail: the cadence of footsteps, the weight of armor, the subtle tension in posture.
The figure revealed himself: a young soldier from an elite rival bloodline, one who had survived yesterday's chaos. His eyes narrowed as they met Aren's crimson gaze.
"You…" the soldier said, voice low, controlled, but trembling with recognition. "You are… Aren Hale."
"I am," Aren replied calmly. "And you are here to confirm the legends, I assume?"
The rival's jaw tightened. "I am here to see if the Bloodcommander has truly awakened. If the tales are true, then…" He paused, scanning the crimson soldiers behind Aren. "…then this changes everything."
Aren's lips curved into a faint, calculating smile. "Then consider this a demonstration. Observe carefully."
He lifted a hand slowly, and the Bloodforged formed a protective arc around him, their glowing eyes scanning, analyzing, and ready to act at a thought. The rival soldier mirrored the movement, preparing for a duel of strategy rather than a mere clash of steel. Every subtle gesture, every minor shift of weight, every glance was a test of will, a negotiation of power.
Minutes passed in tense silence. Aren's mind cataloged every detail — the tension in the rival's shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing, the position of his feet in the mud. He did not rush. He had learned long ago that patience was more dangerous than brute force. The battlefield favored the one who understood it, who anticipated, who controlled.
The noble observers shifted uneasily. They had come to judge, to command, to measure, but found themselves powerless in the presence of this young man, a mere nineteen-year-old, commanding forces that should have been impossible. Aren could see their doubt, their fear, their awe. It fed him, quietly, methodically.
Finally, he spoke again. "This is the first of many lessons. Loyalty is earned, power is recognized, and authority… is obeyed. Watch closely, for the path of the Bloodcommander is not kind to the weak or the unworthy."
The rival soldier hesitated, then nodded slowly. A silent understanding passed between them: this was not just a test of strength, but a test of strategy, of will, and of the mind. The battlefield had shifted, not by numbers, but by command, control, and the awakening of a power long thought dead.
Aren Hale stood, boots sinking slightly in the mud, crimson aura faint but undeniable. The river of blood, the shattered valley, the mist and the smoke — all of it was now a stage upon which he would rise. The nobles would whisper, enemies would plot, and history itself would take notice.
And Aren Hale, the last scion of a dead bloodline, had just begun his journey.
The Bloodcommander had awakened. And the world would soon remember his name.