Path to Dominance in the Demonic Realm

Zarathos—or rather, Andrias—stood before the river, his expression neutral despite the chaos in his mind. His reflection on the water's surface remained clear: long black hair falling over his face, cold eyes carrying a mix of indifference and mystery.

But before he could think further…

"Didn't I tell you to get to work?! Why are you still here?!"

A sharp, angry voice pierced the air, making him slowly lift his head.

The overseer was staring directly at him, his eyes filled with menace.

Zarathos didn't respond immediately—not out of defiance, but because he was analyzing the situation.

"Damn…"

Only now did he realize how dangerous his position was.

"I know nothing about this place, this body, or Andrias's past life."

That was the real danger. In his previous incarnation, he had the strength to carve his own path without worrying about minor details. But now?

"I'm weak… too weak to stand against him."

He studied the overseer more carefully.

"He's far stronger than me—probably at the fourth or fifth tier of the Power Embodiment stage."

The difference between them was immense; fighting was out of the question.

Even worse—he couldn't run.

This place was undoubtedly surrounded by guards. If he tried to escape now, he'd be beaten to death… or worse.

The overseer stepped forward, muscles tense, his gaze growing more threatening.

"Are you deaf?! I said move!"

Zarathos remained still.

He could see the other slaves watching in silence—some with fear, others with curiosity, as if waiting to see what he would do.

"This isn't good."

He couldn't rebel now—not while he was this weak. But at the same time, complete submission wasn't an option.

In a place like this, the weak who surrendered too easily became easy targets for humiliation, torture, or even death.

He had to find the perfect balance between temporary obedience and maintaining his dignity.

Taking a deep breath, he bowed slightly—not a submissive bow, but a cold, measured one. Then, in a calm yet firm voice, he said:

"Apologies, sir. I was merely looking at my reflection in the water—I haven't seen it in a long time."

His words were entirely neutral—neither defiant nor fearful.

The overseer studied him for a moment, as if assessing his intentions. Then, suddenly—

"Foolishness."

He raised his hand and slapped him across the face!

"!"

Zarathos didn't fall, but pain spread across his cheek. It was clear and sharp, but not enough to make him stagger.

Yet, he wasn't angry.

"This was expected."

In a world like this, authority was established through power. The overseer simply wanted to put him in his place.

He lowered his head slightly—not out of fear, but as a subtle acknowledgment that he wouldn't resist.

"This is a step backward… but a necessary one."

The overseer didn't smile, but he looked satisfied.

"Don't waste my time with your nonsense, slave. Move!"

This time, Zarathos turned calmly and walked toward the other slaves, his steps steady, though slow.

But he could still feel the overseer's gaze on his back.

"My body survived this… but I can't afford to stay weak."

He needed a way to gain power—quickly.

—

Hours of Hard Labor Later…

Zarathos stood in the fields, lifting buckets of water and pouring them onto the dry soil, sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Damn it, this body is weaker than I thought."

Everything was difficult—even lifting a single bucket drained his energy.

But he wasn't focused on the task itself. He was focused on what he could learn from it.

For hours, he concentrated on feeling his body—its potential, its limits.

"Can I absorb energy? Is this body capable of it?"

He paused, ignoring the other slaves' stares, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

He tried to draw in energy—from the air, from the earth, from everything around him.

At first, nothing happened.

But after a few moments… he felt it.

A faint, warm energy, like a slow trickle of water, flowing weakly into his body.

"It's weak… but it's there."

That was a good sign.

"This body may be frail now, but it's not useless. I can work with this."

A small smile formed on his lips.

But suddenly, a voice came from behind him.

"Andrias… why are you smiling?"

He turned to see a thin, scruffy-haired slave staring at him suspiciously.

Zarathos didn't answer.

He simply continued working, while thinking…

"This body… despite its weakness, possesses an exceptional talent."

He had felt it earlier when trying to absorb energy. The response was faster—much faster than he expected from a body at the first tier of Power Embodiment.

"This body… is not normal."

But at the same time, he was frustrated.

"If only my body were stronger… If it weren't this frail… I could begin my ascent immediately."

He clenched his fist, his thin knuckles becoming more prominent.

A strange conflict raged within him—excitement and anger, eagerness and frustration.

But it didn't last long.

"Andrias! Are you ignoring me now?"

The voice interrupted his thoughts, making him slowly raise his head.

It was the same slave from earlier—the skinny young man with messy hair—scowling at him.

Zarathos didn't respond immediately.

He hadn't ignored him on purpose—he had simply been lost in thought.

But now, he realized…

"This is an opportunity to gather more information about my situation."

Sighing slightly, he spoke in a calm but clear voice:

"Tell me, what is this place?"

The young slave froze.

"What?"

"Where are we? What kind of place is this?"

The slave stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"How… how do you not know?"

Suspicion filled his eyes.

"You were born here, like all of us. How can you not know?"

Zarathos showed no emotion—he simply held his gaze.

"No point in making excuses. If I claim I lost my memory, he'll only be more suspicious."

So, he simply said:

"I ask. You answer."

His voice was calm, yet carried a tone of authority unusual for a lowly slave.

The young man hesitated, then finally spoke.

"We're in the Chain Valley Settlement… A place for slaves, where we work until we die or become useless."

Zarathos remained expressionless, but he quickly absorbed the information.

"So… we're in a closed valley, a settlement exclusively for slaves?"

He asked again:

"Who runs this place?"

The young man swallowed hard before whispering:

"Lord Caron… one of the subordinates of House Belgrade."

At that name, Zarathos's expression froze for a fraction of a second.

"Belgrade…?"

That name wasn't unfamiliar to him.

In his past life, that house was one of the dominant forces on the demonic path. Not the strongest, but infamous for its cruelty and harsh treatment of slaves and rebels.

"So… I'm in Belgrade territory."

That was important.

"And the guards? What are their levels?"

The young man looked even more wary but answered:

"Most are in the second or third tier of Power Embodiment… but the overseers are in the fourth or fifth. And Lord Caron…"

He hesitated, his voice dropping further.

"It's said he has reached the Boundless Horizon stage."

Zarathos's eyes narrowed.

"Boundless Horizon…"

That was the fourth tier of the Power Path.

"No wonder everyone here is terrified of him."

But he wasn't concerned about that.

He was interested in something else.

"Do slaves only work here? Or is there another purpose?"

Looking directly at the young man, he asked:

"Is there a way out?"

This time, the slave fell completely silent.

He glanced around quickly, ensuring no guards were nearby, then whispered:

"Never ask that again… If they hear you, you might not see the sun tomorrow."

Zarathos said nothing.

But internally…

"So there is a way out… but it won't be easy."

To be continued…