Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

"Fufufu! Should I go for the classic ’Do you desire power?’ Nah! Gotta come with something more entertaining for my grand retour." His voice was a slithering whisper, echoing through the void. "Gotta act faster and carry their orders, and don’t want to anger that being, the most powerful among them our creators. The first to act claims the biggest rewards. Can’t let my siblings outlast me. Kukuku! This gonna be fun."

Another storm was brewing. And this time, it was going to flip the whole world upside down.

Truly, a new era was upon them.

The demon did not make an appearance yet. Its time would come, but not here, not now. It watched from the shadows, patient, hungry, waiting for the right moment to strike. Barak was unaware of the presence lurking at the edges of his perception, his mind too consumed by rage to notice the subtle shift in the air.

He continued walking, his steps heavy on the cracked pavement, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. The city grey gave way to sparse trees, then to rocky terrain. The dungeon entrance appeared before him—a dark maw in the side of a hill, its edges jagged, its depths hidden in shadow. A foul smell emanated from within, the scent of damp earth and something older, something that had been sleeping for a long time.

Barak unsheathed his sword. The blade caught the dim light, gleaming cold and sharp. His golden eyes gleamed as his Law of Lightning crackled around him, arcs of electricity dancing along his arms, his shoulders, his blade. He stepped into the darkness.

The dungeon was damp, the walls slick with moisture. The air was cool and heavy, thick with the scent of wet stone and decay. Water dripped from the ceiling in a slow, steady rhythm, the sound echoing through the corridors. Barak moved forward, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. His anger was a coiled spring inside him, waiting to be released.

The first wave of blue orcs emerged from the shadows. They were massive, their bodies covered in thick, blue-grey skin, their eyes burning with a dim, bestial intelligence. They carried crude weapons—axes, clubs, swords—their edges chipped and worn. They charged, their roars echoing through the dungeon.

Barak did not wait. He moved forward, his sword singing through the air. Lightning crackled along the blade, leaving trails of golden light in its wake. He struck the first orc, his sword slicing through its chest, the lightning searing its flesh. It collapsed, twitching, its body smoking.

The others pressed forward, their movements clumsy but relentless. Barak flowed through them like water, his sword a blur of motion. He struck left, right, high, low. Each blow was precise, each strike lethal. His swordsmanship was not flashy—it was efficient, brutal, designed to kill.

He did not think. He did not plan. He simply fought, his body moving on instinct. The rage inside him fueled his movements, his strikes growing faster, harder, more savage. He was not just fighting the orcs. He was fighting his own anger, his own frustration, his own sense of inadequacy. Each blow was a curse. Each strike was a scream.

"Die!" he snarled, his sword cleaving through an orc’s skull. "Die, die, die!"

The orcs fell before him, their bodies piling up in the narrow corridor. But more came, their numbers seemingly endless. They poured from the shadows, their roars filling the dungeon, their weapons raised.

Barak did not retreat. He raised his sword high, and lightning gathered around him, a crackling storm of golden energy. He brought his blade down, and a wave of electricity shot forward, consuming the orcs in a blinding flash. They screamed, their bodies convulsing, and then they fell.

Silence descended. The dungeon was still, the only sound the drip of water and the echo of his own breathing.

Barak stood among the bodies, his chest heaving. His sword was covered in dark blood. His eyes were still blazing with fury. He was not satisfied. He was not sated.

He moved deeper into the dungeon. The next floor was a large chamber, its ceiling high, its walls lined with crude torches that cast flickering shadows. More orcs waited for him—dozens of them, their eyes gleaming in the firelight. At the center of the chamber, a massive orc sat on a crude throne, its body covered in scars, its eyes burning with a cold, calculating intelligence. The chieftain.

Barak raised his sword. The chieftain rose, its massive frame towering over the other orcs. It let out a roar, and the horde charged.

Barak met them head-on. His sword blazed with lightning, his movements a blur of motion. He struck left, right, high, low. Orcs fell before him, their bodies crumpling to the ground. He was a storm, a tempest, a force of nature.

The chieftain lunged, its massive axe swinging. Barak parried, the impact sending shockwaves through his arms. He was pushed back, his boots skidding on the stone floor. The chieftain pressed its advantage, its axe swinging in wide, brutal arcs.

Barak gritted his teeth. He was stronger. He was faster. He refused to be beaten.

He ducked under the next swing and drove his sword into the chieftain’s side. Lightning exploded from the wound, and the chieftain roared, staggering back. Barak did not relent. He struck again, and again, and again. Each blow was a declaration. Each strike was a promise.

The chieftain fell. Its body crashed to the ground, and the remaining orcs scattered, fleeing into the darkness.

Barak stood alone in the chamber, his chest heaving, his sword dripping with blood. He was exhausted, but he was triumphant.

He looked at the chieftain’s body and smiled—a cold, bitter smile.

"This is what I am," he said to no one. "This is what I can do."

But even as he spoke, the demon’s voice echoed in his mind, soft and seductive.

Oh, you can do so much more, little human. So much more.

Barak’s smile faltered. His hand tightened on his sword.

He was not done. Not yet.