Path to Dominance in the Demonic Realm

Zarathos kept staring at the massive man before him, his eyes gleaming with a calm assessment. He could sense the man's energy—not strong, barely perceptible—which meant he was still at the first level of the Power Embodiment Layer.

A cold smile formed on Zarathos' lips.

"What a fortunate coincidence."

But the real question wasn't whether he could defeat him. It was whether his weak body could even fight at all.

He opened and closed his fist, feeling his frail muscles move sluggishly. His body was pitifully weak, but that didn't mean he was completely powerless.

"There's no better way to test my new limits than through real combat."

The massive man raised an eyebrow at Zarathos' calm gaze, then frowned in irritation.

"What's with you? Why are you looking at me like that, slave? Have you lost your mind?"

He reached out his large hand to grab him, but Zarathos moved first.

His body leaped sideways, barely dodging the man's grasp. It wasn't smooth—his movements were unsteady—but he didn't fall.

Zarathos glanced at his feet.

"My movement is acceptable, but my coordination is poor. My body is too weak to fully utilize my combat experience."

He lifted his head again, but this time, he saw a massive fist hurtling straight toward his face!

There was no time to think—he barely raised his arms to shield his head. The blow struck his forearms, sending his body backward, yet still, he did not fall.

"Huh?" The massive man took a step back, as if struck by surprise.

"This boy… didn't fall?"

Zarathos felt a dull ache in his forearms, but it wasn't enough to stop him.

He took a deep breath, his eyes growing colder.

"Defense isn't an option. My body won't last long if I keep taking hits."

He chose to attack.

He lunged forward, using his limited strength to propel himself as fast as possible. He saw the man's open chest—an obvious opportunity—so he threw a punch with all his might!

But when his fist landed, it barely had any effect.

Zarathos froze.

"I underestimated my own weakness."

The massive man glanced at his fist, then burst into laughter.

"Was that a punch or a gentle breeze? Hahaha! Is that all you've got?!"

Then, he retaliated with a powerful punch to Zarathos' stomach, sending him flying back a meter.

He hit the ground, pain spreading through his body. But it wasn't unbearable—he had endured worse in his past life. Yet the feeling of weakness… that was worse than pain itself.

"Not yet… I'm not done yet."

He pressed his hands against the ground and pushed himself up, his breathing steady. Then, he refocused.

"Direct attacks are useless. His physical strength far surpasses my current body's. So… speed?"

This time, instead of charging forward, he began moving rapidly from side to side. His steps were light but unsteady.

The massive man scowled.

"What are you trying to do?"

Zarathos didn't answer. He kept moving, changing direction every second, making it difficult to predict his position. His goal was clear: to exhaust him.

"Even if he's stronger than me, he's still at the first level. His energy is limited. If I keep making him attack without landing a hit, he'll tire before I weaken."

Minutes passed, and the massive man began to pant, his movements slowing.

Zarathos smiled.

"It's time to strike."

The moment he saw an opening, he dashed low, his hand shooting out to grab the man's ankle.

"What?!"

Then, with all his strength, he yanked his foot, causing him to lose balance momentarily. It wasn't a complete fall, but it gave Zarathos the chance he needed.

He capitalized on the moment of imbalance and delivered a full-force punch to the side of the man's knee!

"AAAH!!"

A scream filled the room as the massive man dropped to one knee, his face contorted in pain.

"You little…!"

But before he could react, Zarathos moved behind him, wrapping an arm around his neck and squeezing with all his might!

"What… are you… doing?!"

The man struggled, trying to pry Zarathos off, but the angle made it difficult to grab him properly.

Zarathos tightened his grip, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into the chokehold.

A few seconds passed… then the man stopped moving.

Zarathos let his body drop to the ground, panting.

"That was… more exhausting than I expected."

But despite his fatigue, he felt something else.

"I won… even with this weak body."

It wasn't a clean victory. It wasn't overpowering. But it was a start.

He looked at his hands, at his body.

"What do I look like?"

There was no mirror here, no reflection on any surface.

"I need to see myself."

Slowly, he stood up, his eyes sharpening.

"I need a river."

With that thought, he stepped out of the hut, ignoring the unconscious man behind him.

The cold air brushed against his face, and the scent of damp earth filled his nose.

The world was before him… but this time, he wouldn't just exist within it.

He would rule it.

---

Zarathos—or rather, Adrias—stepped out of the hut, his breaths still heavy from the fight. The cold air stung his skin, his ragged clothes clinging to his sweat-drenched body. He looked down at his hands, at his frail arms, then clenched his fist.

"It's fine. The first step is done. But this is only the beginning."

He raised his head and looked toward the horizon. The sun had started to rise, its rays piercing through the surrounding trees. He knew he had to move quickly—his body was still weak, but he needed to learn more about himself.

"First, I need to see my reflection."

But that wasn't easy. There was no mirror in the hut, no reflective surface. So, he needed to find something natural… a river.

He took a deep breath and started walking, his bare feet sinking into the cold mud while the wet grass brushed against his ankles. He felt everything clearly, as if experiencing life for the first time.

He didn't know where he was going, but he relied on instinct. If there were slaves here, there had to be a water source nearby—they needed it for drinking and work.

"If I'm a slave, I probably have duties… and I might already be late."

He quickened his pace, forcing his weak body to endure the strain.

Minutes passed, and the dense forest gradually receded until he spotted something between the trees—light reflecting off the surface of water.

"There it is."

He pushed past the branches and stepped into the clearing.

A wide river flowed calmly before him, its surface reflecting the sunlight like a natural mirror.

But he wasn't alone.

A group of people stood by the river, their forms weary, their ragged clothing clinging to their thin bodies. Some carried wooden buckets filled with water. Their expressions were grim, their eyes filled with exhaustion… and anger?

One of them, a scrawny young man with unkempt hair, glared at him sharply before shouting:

"Adrias! What took you so long?!"

He froze for a moment.

"So… this is my role here?"

Only now did he realize that most of these people resembled him—frail bodies, slumped shoulders, eyes full of weariness.

They were slaves, just like him.

But he didn't respond immediately. He didn't care about their words or their irritation. His focus was on one thing alone…

"What do I look like?"

He stepped toward the river, ignoring the stares of the others. Kneeling by the water's edge, he leaned forward and gazed into the surface.

And for the first time since his reincarnation, he saw his true appearance.

"…"

He looked younger than expected, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. His face was sharp but not harsh, his long black hair messy and unkempt. His eyes… were cold, yet held something enigmatic.

He was beautiful.

Despite his frailty, despite the thinness of his body, this wasn't the face of an ordinary slave. His appearance carried something unfitting for his current life… something regal. Something dangerous.

A faint smile crossed his lips.

"This face… might be a weapon in itself."