章節 1: The Flames of Rebirth
The neon lights of the city blurred past the rain-streaked windows as Kieran slumped back in the taxi's torn seat, his sharp jawline set in grim determination. The underworld of his world had always been his domain—a kingpin without a crown, ruling over shadows. Neutral evil was what they called him; some worshipped, others feared him. For Kieran, it had been simple: the world was a chessboard, and he played to win, no matter the cost.
Tonight, however, his carefully constructed empire was crumbling. Betrayed by those he trusted most, Kieran had made his peace with death. The flashing blue-and-red lights closing in on his hideout meant only one thing: his time was up. As he stepped out of the taxi onto the rain-soaked pavement, the cold steel of a dozen rifles aimed his way, Kieran's lips curled into a sardonic smile.
"No regrets," he whispered.
The trigger fingers tightened, and the world erupted in fire and noise. Kieran's last thought was a fleeting curiosity about what lay beyond.
When he opened his eyes again, the blinding sunlight scorched his vision. A cacophony of guttural voices and the scent of sweat and horses assaulted his senses. Kieran shot upright, his hands instinctively reaching for weapons that weren't there.
"Easy, Torak," came a gravelly voice in a tongue Kieran instinctively understood but had never heard before. "Your fever broke. The gods have spared you."
Kieran's gaze snapped to the speaker, a hulking man with braided hair adorned with gold rings. He looked like something out of a historical epic, yet Kieran's instincts told him this was real. The man's words echoed in his mind: Torak. Was that who he was now?
He glanced down at his body. Gone were the scars and lean build of his old life. In their place was a muscular, battle-hardened frame, marked with tattoos and sigils he didn't recognize. His hands were calloused, the hands of a warrior. A bronze arakh lay within arm's reach, its curved blade catching the sunlight.
"Who... am I?" Kieran's voice was deeper, more commanding. The question came out in perfect Dothraki, a language he hadn't known existed until moments ago.
The man—a bloodrider, Kieran somehow knew—smiled grimly. "You are Torak, eldest son of Khal Drakhan, heir to this khalasar. Do not tell me the fever has stolen your memory."
Kieran—no, Torak—shook his head, the fog in his mind clearing as fragmented memories flooded in. The fierce, nomadic life of the Dothraki. The savage beauty of the endless grasslands. And his father, Khal Drakhan, a towering figure whose strength was rivaled only by his cunning.
Yet beneath these memories lay the core of who Kieran had been. He was no mere rider, no simple son of a khal. He was a predator, a tactician, a ruler. And now, he had been given a new stage to dominate.
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AlienTrail
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