Reborn as the Tyrant’s Heir

The First Face-Slap

The trek from the musty storage room to Lord Alaric’s chambers was a journey through the corpse of a once-great house. Kael walked the same halls he had a thousand times in this life, but for the first time, he saw them with the clarity of his past self. The chipped marble floor, once a pristine surface that shone with the reflected light of grand chandeliers, now lay dull and scuffed. The frayed tapestries, depicting glorious victories of ancestors long forgotten, hung like ghosts of a time when the House of Aethelred was a pillar of the empire. The dim lanterns that barely fought back the oppressive shadows seemed to mourn the absence of life and vitality. It was all a symbol of the house’s decay, a slow, inevitable death. In his past life, he had commanded an army of millions, and his own palace had been a city of light and power, a fortress that intimidated even the heavens. This house was a hollow mockery, a tomb built for a fading lineage.

Each step he took was a quiet affirmation. The weakness in his muscles, the faint rasp of his breath, only served to fuel the cold fire of his resolve. He was no longer the illegitimate son who cowered in the shadows. That boy was dead and gone. He was General Kael, a man who had stared into the heart of a maelstrom and laughed, a being forged in the fires of war and betrayal. Lord Alaric, his half-brother, was about to find out just how terrifying a ghost could be. The air around Kael seemed to thicken with a palpable stillness, a silent promise of violence that was invisible to the eye but felt in the soul.

He found Alaric in his private study, a room far too opulent for a minor lord of a failing house. The door creaked open, revealing a scene of lazy indulgence. Alaric lounged on a plush crimson divan, a servant fanning him with a large palm frond while another poured him a goblet of golden wine from a silver carafe. The room was filled with the cloying scents of expensive incense and the sour smell of raw arrogance. A pile of scrolls lay untouched on a grand mahogany desk, a symbol of Alaric's utter lack of diligence.

Alaric looked up from his wine, a sneer immediately twisting his lips as he recognized the figure in the doorway. "Well, well. Look what the rat dragged in. I didn't think you'd show your face again, little brother. Did the hunger finally get to you?"

Kael stopped a few paces inside the door. He didn’t bother to respond. The boy he had been would have cowered or stammered out a plea, his eyes fixed on the floor in shame. The man he was now simply stared, his gaze so unnervingly calm and direct that Alaric’s own sneer faltered, a flicker of genuine discomfort crossing his features. The two servants shuffled nervously, feeling the sudden, heavy change in the air, a silent predator-and-prey dynamic that they couldn't comprehend.

"What is it? Did you finally come to beg for the ring back?" Alaric laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in the silent room. He held up his hand, the small, silver ring glinting mockingly on his pinky finger. "Tell you what, boy. Just kiss my boots, and maybe I'll consider it. A small price to pay for a mother's last memory, no?"

A glacial stillness settled over Kael. The world seemed to slow, the sounds of the study receding into a distant buzz. He saw it all in a flash: his lover’s triumphant smile as she poisoned him, his brother’s cruel ambition as he ran him through. This was the same face, the same petty cruelty, just on a smaller scale. A weak man playing at being powerful, just as his enemies had done. And it had to be crushed. He wouldn't allow this insolence to go unpunished.

"Give me the ring," Kael said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. It was a simple command, not a request. It was the kind of voice that had sent thousands to their deaths without a second thought, the voice of a man who held the fate of nations in his hands.

Alaric's laughter died in his throat. He sat up, his face hardening in surprise and then rage. "You dare speak to me like that, you low-born maggot? Do you forget your place?" He gestured with a furious flick of his wrist to the two burly servants, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and fear. "Teach him some manners. Teach him what happens when he forgets his place."

The servants moved forward, a look of smug satisfaction on their faces. They were both low-level cultivators, their bodies strengthened by a minor form of energy. Kael's weak body was no match for them. In the past, he would have been beaten to a pulp and thrown back into his room, a new lesson in humility carved into his skin.

But this was not the past.

Just as the first servant reached for him, his hand poised to strike, Kael’s eyes flashed with a cold, predatory light. He didn’t move, didn’t raise a hand. Instead, a sliver of the sheer, raw pressure of his past life as a general, a pressure that could make armies collapse and emperors kneel, radiated from him. It was a mental and spiritual force, not a physical one. It was the crushing weight of a will that had conquered worlds and transcended mortality.

Both servants froze mid-step, their eyes widening in primal, unadulterated fear. They saw no power, no cultivation energy, but their instincts screamed at them. The air around Kael seemed to ripple, the very fabric of reality twisting to acknowledge his presence. Suddenly, they weren't standing in a study with a weak boy; they were standing before a true monster, a predator who was about to devour them whole. One of them whimpered, a high-pitched, pathetic sound, and took a panicked step back, his body trembling violently. The other dropped his fan, his knees knocking together, and he staggered back as if pushed by an unseen hand.

Alaric was staring, his mouth agape, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. He couldn't feel the crushing pressure, but he could see the sheer, unadulterated terror on his servants' faces. They were looking at Kael as if he were a ghost, a demon from the depths of hell itself, a primordial force of nature they had foolishly tried to challenge.

Kael took a single, slow step forward, the sound of his worn boots a thunderclap in the silent room. "The ring, Lord Alaric. You have three seconds to give it to me." He wasn't loud, but his voice was a chilling whisper that carried the weight of a thousand fallen enemies and the finality of a death sentence.

Alaric's face went from pale to a ghastly white. He fumbled with the ring, his hands shaking so violently he almost dropped it. His bravado, his arrogance, his entire sense of superiority, was gone in an instant. He had never seen such a thing before, this cold, ancient dominance radiating from the boy he had always mocked. He ripped the ring off his finger and tossed it to the floor at Kael’s feet, as if it were a burning coal.

Kael bent down and picked up the ring. He held it in his palm, feeling the cold silver band. It was nothing more than a trinket, but it was his first victory in this new life. The first domino in a chain reaction of vengeance.

"Next time," Kael said, his voice a promise of future pain, "I will not ask so nicely."

With that, he turned and left, leaving a shivering Alaric and his petrified servants in the wake of his suffocating presence. Alaric slumped back onto his divan, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind trying to reconcile the pathetic boy he knew with the terrifying monster who had just stood before him.

Ding! Mission Complete: Avenge the Humiliation!

Rewards Claimed: Tyrant's First Cultivation Manual, 100 System Points, Beginner's Luck Potion.