Chapter 1: A Seed of Vengeance

The night air in Eldor was thick with fog, shrouding the crooked streets and towering buildings in an eerie silence. The moon struggled to break through the mist, casting weak beams of light over the dirty stone roads. It was the perfect backdrop for what Valen had in mind—dark, quiet, and full of secrets.

Valen stood at the edge of the Blackstone District, staring down at the chaos that sprawled below. He could see the faces of the desperate, the thieves, the mercenaries, and the lowborn struggling to survive in a world ruled by power and greed. These were the people that lived in the underbelly of the city. These were the people he would need to manipulate to get what he wanted.

Power. That's what had been stolen from him, from his family, from his bloodline. His father's throne, his mother's influence, his entire legacy—all reduced to ash in a conspiracy orchestrated by nobles, politicians, and shadowy figures from the highest echelons of society. Valen had been just a child when his family was betrayed, but in that instant, his world had changed forever. His heart, once full of hope, was now a void, driven only by rage and the desire for vengeance.

He clenched his fists as he stared down into the streets below. The Blackstone District was just the beginning. It was where the underworld met the surface world, where the lowest criminals rubbed shoulders with the powerful elite. The Black Scar Gang operated here—a group of mercenaries, thieves, and killers, feared by many and respected by few. They had ties to every illicit business in Eldor, and while their influence wasn't massive, it was a start. It was a means to an end.

Valen didn't care about being part of the gang for the sake of loyalty. He didn't care about earning their trust just for camaraderie. No, Valen cared about power. This gang was the first stepping stone to taking back what was his and building an empire that would crush everyone who dared to stand in his way. No one would stand in his path—not even the nobles who thought they were untouchable.

He could already feel the fire of ambition growing inside him. Valen wasn't naïve. He knew he wouldn't take over the Black Scar overnight. But once he was in, once he had infiltrated their ranks and earned their respect, it would only be a matter of time before they saw his value.

A few figures loitered outside a nearby tavern, most of them looking like the kind of scum Valen had expected. Drunken laughter rang out from inside as he walked toward the entrance. He didn't need to make a grand entrance—his presence alone was enough to turn heads. People were already whispering about him. His cold, calculating demeanor made others uncomfortable, and that was just the way he liked it.

As Valen stepped inside the tavern, the noise from the drunken crowd seemed to fade into the background. His eyes immediately locked onto the room's most dominant figures—the gang members. There were a few large men, their bodies covered in tattoos and scars, and in the corner of the room, a smaller, older man sat with a group of gruff-looking individuals. The man's face was lined with age and experience, his eyes sharp but somewhat arrogant. This was the leader of the Black Scar, someone who didn't think twice about ruling his territory through fear and brutality. His name was Bastien, and Valen could already tell that he had no idea what was coming.

Valen's presence didn't go unnoticed. Several of the men in the tavern glanced his way, their eyes lingering on him with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion. But none of them made a move—yet. Valen was calm, collected, and made no effort to explain himself. He simply walked toward the table where Bastien sat, his movements deliberate and sure.

One of the larger men, a brute of a figure with a scar running down his cheek, stood to block his way. His name was Rodrik, and he was the enforcer of the gang—one of those who made sure the "business" side of things ran smoothly. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at Valen with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to speak.

"What's your business here?" Rodrik asked after a few moments of silence.

Valen didn't hesitate. "I'm here to join."

Rodrik let out a harsh laugh, his hand resting on the pommel of a knife sheathed at his side. "You think you can just walk in here and join us? You're gonna need more than a pretty face and some empty words."

"I have a reason for being here," Valen replied, his voice low and steady, betraying no emotion. "And if you're smart, you'll let me in."

The entire tavern seemed to quiet for a moment, the tension in the air palpable. Rodrik studied Valen carefully, sizing him up. He could see that Valen wasn't the usual type of fool who wandered in off the street looking for an easy way out of his life. No, there was something dangerous about this one. Something that made him stand apart from the usual riff-raff.

Rodrik stepped aside with a grunt, allowing Valen to pass. "We'll see if you're really worth it."

As Valen walked past, his eyes met Bastien's for the first time. The older man's gaze was dismissive, almost bored, but there was something about Valen that seemed to intrigue him.

"You want to join the Black Scar?" Bastien said in a voice that was as smooth as it was dangerous. "We're not a charity. We don't take in weaklings. Prove yourself."

Valen nodded, his expression never changing. "I will. You'll see."

And with that, Valen was officially a part of the Black Scar. But this was just the beginning. The true test would come later, once he had infiltrated their ranks and gained their trust. He didn't need their loyalty—not yet. He just needed their fear.

Step by step, Valen would rise through the ranks, all the while keeping his eyes on the prize. He had no illusions of loyalty or brotherhood. The Black Scar was a means to an end—nothing more. And once he had taken control, he would use them to build the foundation of his empire. An empire that would stretch beyond Eldor, beyond the kingdom of Seraphon, and across the entire world.

No one would be able to stop him. Not when he had the right tools. Not when he had the will.