[Ding!]
[Congratulations host for awakening the Domination System.]
[Domination System activated!]
[Rule the strong. Break the proud. Tap the wife. Steal the life.]
"Huh?"
Alaric's eyes narrowed as he reached out, trying to touch the floating panel—but his fingers passed through it like mist.
Cold, unreal.
He hissed under his breath, frustration curling in his chest.
"What the hell is this?" he muttered.
The glowing text on the blue panel changed.
[You can call system, and I'm bound to you, host.]
[My purpose is to grant the power. To help the host rise above all. To dominate the world. In exchange of doing so tasks.]
"To dominate the world...?" he repeated, voice low, eyes scanning the strange ethereal runes. "And I'm just supposed to believe that? That you're so... magical savior?"
The panel pulsed again, this ti faster.
[Incorrect. This system is not your savior.]
[This system is your weapon.]
[You can choose to rise or rot in chains.]
That made him pause.
"Then tell ," Alaric growled, "who are you? And why should I obey?"
The answer ca swiftly—without hesitation.
[You obey no one, host. You command.]
[This system is rely a tool—one, only you are worthy to wield it.]
Alaric's breath caught.
A tool, not a master.
Power... for a price.
His fingers clenched into fists.
"...Alright then," he muttered.
"I'm listening."
But just as the system was about to tell him sothing, a voice echoed in his ears.
"What are you doing here?"
Alaric turned his head slowly.
At the top of the marble steps, stood a woman.
She was tall, poised, draped in a sapphire-blue gown that hugged her curves like silk poured over sculpture.
Her raven black hair was cascading in effortless waves down her back, and her lips were painted a deep red, standing stark against her porcelain skin.
But what caught Alaric's attention most were her eyes—erald, cold, sharp, scanning him like one might inspect a scuff on fine leather.
His master's wife.
She descended with deliberate grace, heels clicking against the polished stone, her expression twisted sowhere between curiosity and contempt.
"You're one of the new ones my dear husband brought in, aren't you?" she said, her voice smooth like poison dipped in honey.
Alaric nodded silently, keeping his head low.
Her gaze road over him—and her lips twitched.
Not with amusent.
But disgust.
His clothes were still stained from filth, and his skin reeked of sweat and blood.
He hadn't even had a mont to clean himself—no one had let him. No one cared to.
She pinched her nose subtly, then waved her hand dismissively.
"Go back to your room. Whatever work he made you do, it can wait till tomorrow."
Then, without another word, she turned.
Click! Click!
Her heels clacking against the floor, and stord off like royalty offended by the presence of a mongrel.
Alaric watched her disappear down the hall, his jaw clenched, eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of his tangled hair.
But. He didn't curse or anything.
He moved, dragging his aching body down the dim corridor.
Clink!
The clinking of his collar echoed like a cruel laughter in his ears.
"System," he called out, barely above a whisper.
"Give the power you promised."
With a faint shimr, the blue panel popped in front of his eyes.
[To gain power, you must earn it. Complete tasks. Prove yourself. You are not a king anymore. You are a slave, host.]
Alaric halted mid-step, his eyes widening.
"How do you know...?" he muttered.
The panel buzzed again, the glowing white texts changed.
[Because my creator is the one who brought you into this world.]
Alaric's breath hitched.
His fists clenched.
And almost spat in rage—almost let the scream tear through his throat—but the system pulsed again, cutting through his fury.
[Not now. Not here. You'll only get punished again. Move.]
His jaw trembled, but he swallowed the storm building inside him.
With shoulders stiff and back throbbing from bruises, he kept walking—step by step—until he reached the room—or rather— the cell, he and the other slaves were living in.
The guard outside barely glanced at him before unlatching the door and shoving him in.
The stench hit him like a hamr.
Alaric staggered inside and let the heavy wooden door slam shut behind him.
"Urgh!"
He slumped down onto the cold floor with a groan; pain still lingered from every bruise and cut he got since yesterday.
He pinched his nose, grimacing as the foul, rotting odor clawed at his senses.
'This damn sll.'
Then he muttered, his voice hoarse.
"Who is your creator... and why did they send here?"
For a mont, there was only silence.
Then the system responded.
The blue panel popped hovered in front of him, with glowing white texts on it.
[Host do not have the authority to know.]
Alaric stared at the floating text, his mind racing.
Before Alaric could speak again, the glowing blue text shifted.
[Don't you want revenge, host? On those who wronged you?]
His breath caught.
His eyes narrowed.
"I'm in a completely different world," he muttered. "What does revenge matter now?"
The system didn't wait.
[But host still bleed. Host still feel pain. Host still bow your head to worms who call themselves 'masters.' Don't host want to teach them a lesson? To show that bastard of a master who's really in charge?]
Alaric's jaw clenched.
He looked down at the bruises on his arms, at the faint red glow still fading from the collar around his neck.
He rembered the piss-soaked floor... the sting of the whip... the wine bottle shattering across his face.
He rembered Lysandara.
Her eyes. Her smile. Her betrayal.
And in that mont, his soul ignited.
His fists trembled—not in fear, but with rage held back by a thin, cracking shell of control.
"Alright, then bring it on, I'll crush them, no matter what."
"Before that, tell , why did you, I an your master put inside this body?"
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