He was thrumming with foreign power. The sheer volume of mana from the orc horde was a heavy, intoxicating weight in his soul, a feeling of profound density, as if his very bones had been reinforced with lead and lightning. The pain from his wounds was gone, replaced by a restless energy. The bruises and shallow cuts were fading reminders of a weakness he had already surpassed.
He was hungry to test the limits of this new strength.
His eyes fell upon the corpse of the Orc Champion. It was the centerpiece of the gruesome tableau, a monument to his team's desperate struggle and his own cunning victory. It was also the most valuable resource in the clearing. His five puppet slots were full, occupied by the spectral echoes of Derek and his lieutenants. They were useful tools, but they were shadows of men. This orc was a beast of pure, physical power. An upgrade was in order.
He walked toward the massive corpse, his boots leaving prints in the blood-soaked ash. He dismissed the weakest of his current summons, the shadow of the Graviton user. Its spectral form wavered, then dissolved into a wisp of black smoke. A slot was now open.
He knelt beside the champion's severed head, its tusked face locked in a final expression of defiant rage. He closed his eyes and reached out with his will, not just to reanimate, but to dominate.
"Your war is over," he commanded in the silence of his mind. "Your strength is now mine. Your soul will serve me."
He could feel its spirit, a raging, incandescent thing, a bonfire of pride and warrior fury. It fought back with a violence that dwarfed even Derek's resistance. A psychic scream of pure, primal rage slammed into his consciousness—the roar of a king refusing to bow. Images flooded his mind: epic hunts under a blood-red sun, the taste of blood, the thrill of battle. It was a lifetime of savagery, all of it now directed at him, the defiler.
He growled in pain, a real, audible sound this time. His head throbbed, and a fresh trickle of blood dripped from his nose. The orc's will is a mountain.
But I am a tyrant, and mountains are meant to be broken. He poured every ounce of the new, stolen power into his command, his own will becoming a black hole, cold and absolute, pulling its raging fire into his void.
"You have no choice," he hissed through clenched teeth.
For a moment that stretched into an eternity, their wills clashed. Then, with a final, defiant roar that only he could hear, its spirit shattered. The resistance broke. A massive, dark shadow, far larger and denser than any before, flowed into him, settling into the empty slot in his soul with a shuddering finality.
He opened his eyes, panting. The process had left him drained, but triumphant. He could feel the champion's powerful new echo tethered to his will, ready to be summoned.
When he finally turned, it was to face the terrified stares of his team. Rina was in the center of the group, her healing light moving from Jin to Eric, but her work was mechanical. Her eyes, and the eyes of everyone else, were fixed on him. They weren't looking at their leader anymore. They were looking at a monster who had feasted on the dead while they bled.
Good. Fear is a far more reliable tool than loyalty.
Then, a figure stumbled out from the group. It was Erica. The explosive force of her final attack had shredded her clothes, leaving her almost completely exposed. Her breasts, barely contained by a strip of torn cloth, heaved with every ragged breath. She was a vision of savage beauty and raw power.
She rushed to his side, her eyes wide with a frantic, possessive concern. "Dante, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Her gaze shot over to Rina. "Hey! Rina! Come here! Heal Dante immediately!"
He waved a hand, stopping Rina before she could move. "It's okay," he said, his voice steady. "I'm fine. In fact," he allowed a small, confident smile to touch his lips, "I've never been better."
"But these bruises—" Erica insisted, her hand reaching out.
"It's okay," he repeated, his gaze pointedly dropping to her state of undress. "And can you please… step back? You're almost naked."
The bluntness of his statement seemed to finally register. A deep, crimson blush spread across her face. She let out a small squeak and quickly crossed her arms over her chest. "I… I didn't know," she stammered, her previous ferocity gone. "I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."
"Relax," he said, his voice softening. He knew how to handle this. "I know you care about me. I'm thankful for that. You don't need to apologize."
Before she could respond, Masha stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Erica's shoulder. "Erica, stop. There's no need for that." Her expression was a mixture of concern for her friend and simmering frustration. She turned her sharp gaze on Erica. "Besides, what got into you? Your attack on Rhonda… it would have killed me. It would have killed Dante, too, if Kael hadn't intervened."
Masha then turned to him, her eyes demanding an answer. He simply nodded. Her assessment was correct.
Erica looked chastened. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was just… so angry. I couldn't control my mana. It was like a reflex."
"We're all safe, and that's what matters," he said, cutting off any further scolding from Masha. He offered Erica a reassuring smile. "And becoming strong doesn't mean you have to be sad about it. You were magnificent."
A radiant smile bloomed on Erica's face, her shame forgotten.
"Yeah, yeah," Masha said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she crossed her arms. "The only person who should be happy is you, Dante." Her gaze hardened, and the simmering resentment finally boiled over. "You stole all our rewards. Every last drop of mana. We fought, we bled, and you took it all. We would have been much stronger if we had shared that power."
He feigned a look of surprise. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice laced with a carefully crafted sincerity. "I was dying. I was losing my sight. In a desperate attempt to get back into the fight, I consumed it. It gave me a boost. Isn't that good for our team? My strength makes the whole team safer."
"And," he added, playing his trump card, "we have access to one more shadow. A very powerful one."
"Just a correction," Masha shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You have access. Not 'we'."
"Come on," he said, affecting a wounded tone. "We're a team."
"If we were a team," she said, her voice dangerously low, "you wouldn't have hoarded all the power for yourself while the rest of us were still fighting."
Erica, her loyalty absolute, jumped in. "Enough, Masha! Don't you dare talk to him like that!" She glared at her best friend, her protective instincts overriding their history. "If I hadn't used my spell, the orcs wouldn't have even come here! It was my mess, and my reward to give. And I don't hold a single grudge against him for taking it. In fact," she looked at him, her eyes shining with fanatical devotion, "I never will."
Masha stared at her, speechless. She looked from Erica's zealous face to his own calculated, calm expression. She saw the new hierarchy forming, the cracks in their old bonds widening into a chasm. She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again, a look of weary resignation settling over her. She had lost. She knew it.
The team was no longer a democracy. It was a tyranny, and its subjects were too afraid, or too in love with the tyrant, to rebel.