The empire stood like a monolith, an unbreakable fortress built on the bones of those who dared defy it. Its influence spread across continents, its armies armed with the most advanced technology, and its power unmatched. At its helm stood Freya Caedis—the tempest that ruled with the click of a button, the flash of a gun, and the cold, calculated precision of a military strategist. Her presence alone could freeze the hearts of men, and when she spoke, the world bent to her will. She was both the ruler and the executioner, the queen who wielded her power like a blade, cutting through resistance without mercy.

But even the brightest star casts a shadow.

Within the walls of her high-tech palace, the whispers began. They started as quiet murmurs, soft as the hum of a server, as her most trusted officers began to grow restless. What was once loyalty had started to erode, replaced by something more dangerous—discontent. They saw her not as the leader of their empire but as a threat to their own ambitions. Power, once shared among them, was no longer enough. They hungered for more. A ruler’s throne, after all, cannot be shared forever.

Freya, however, remained untouched by the whispers. She was a machine of precision, and the noise of betrayal did not break her focus. Her empire needed her, she believed. She was the storm that had cleared the skies of oppression, the mind that had led them to this pinnacle. There was no room for weakness, no space for doubt. But in the darkened corners of the empire, her officers prepared for something far worse than rebellion.

The betrayal struck like a strike team in the dead of night—silent, swift, and unforgiving. Her closest allies, those who had sworn oaths of loyalty, turned against her. They came from the shadows, their hands steady, their weapons ready. They knew her well enough to strike when she was least expecting it.

The betrayal came with the sound of clicking locks and the whisper of high-tech silencers. The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of anticipation, but Freya had no idea that this would be the night her empire would begin to crumble.

She sat at her desk, the soft glow of a screen casting light over her flawless features as she studied the latest reports. Plans for the next phase of her empire’s expansion were already taking shape in her mind. Everything was in motion, the gears of her empire turning with perfect synchronization. But in the air around her, there was an unease, a change she couldn’t quite place.

The door to her office opened without warning, the sound of a soft click followed by the familiar voice of one of her most trusted officers.

"I’ve come to offer my loyalty, Your Majesty," the voice said, cool and measured.

Freya didn't even look up from her screen, the holographic documents before her shifting as her fingers danced across the touchpad. "You're always welcome," she replied, her voice calm, yet sharp—like the edge of a blade.

But then, in a flash, the world shattered.

A sharp pain erupted in her chest, the sting of cold steel sinking deep into her body. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, her hand instinctively grasping the edge of the desk as the officer—her once-loyal confidant—pulled the trigger. A suppressed pistol. The bullet had sliced through her heart with clinical precision, tearing through flesh and bone with ruthless efficiency. Blood surged from her wound, soaking into her clothes, and her vision blurred, but still, her mind remained clear. So this is how it ends?

The officer stepped back, watching with a twisted satisfaction as she crumpled before him. The once pristine and powerful figure of Freya Caedis, reduced to a broken heap of blood and shattered pride. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice flat, as though this were nothing more than an execution. "Your reign ends here."

But Freya's gaze never wavered. Her eyes, filled with hatred and defiance, met his. There was no fear. Only contempt. She could feel her life slipping away, her body growing weaker by the second, but there was one thing she knew for sure: You think you’ve won? How quaint.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips—low and mocking, more the growl of a cornered animal than that of a queen. "You think this is the end?" she gasped, blood bubbling up in her throat. "You think you can extinguish the flame of my empire so easily?"

Her body was fading, her movements sluggish, but she wasn’t finished yet. No one… ever… conquers me.

With every ounce of strength she could muster, she reached for her sidearm. A sleek, custom-made handgun, the symbol of her rule. The weapon had been a part of her as much as the empire itself. She pulled it from its holster, the gun feeling heavier in her trembling hand as she aimed it at her betrayer. Her vision was fading, the darkness creeping in, but there was one thing left to do. One last act of defiance.

"You think this is over?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was cold. "I am the storm. I am the fire. And I will not be snuffed out."

With that, she pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, echoing through the chamber like the final toll of a bell. The officer barely had time to react as the bullet tore into his chest, piercing his heart with unerring precision. He staggered back, eyes wide with shock, his hands clawing at the wound as blood poured from his body in torrents. He fell to the ground with a sickening thud, his body twitching in the final throes of death.

But Freya did not watch him die. She couldn’t. The darkness had already begun to claim her. Her vision blurred, the world spinning around her like a storm. Her last breath rattled in her chest, and with that, the life of the greatest ruler the world had ever known flickered and extinguished.

She fell forward, her body collapsing onto the desk that had once been the center of her empire. The weight of her fallen empire was heavy, but she bore it with the same cold resolve she had carried her entire life.

But in the moments before her vision went black, before the final breath left her lips, she spoke. Her voice, though faint, carried a final, terrifying message.

"Remember this: You may have killed me. But you have not killed the storm. You have not killed the flame. And when I return, the world will tremble."

And with that, Freya Caedis, the tyrant, the queen, the tempest, breathed her last breath. But even in death, her words would echo through the minds of those who had betrayed her. For they had made a terrible mistake—a mistake they would live to regret. For as long as the world turned, they would remember the name Freya Caedis.

And they would tremble.

Freya’s consciousness lingered in a boundless emptiness, adrift in a sea of nothingness. Time had no meaning here. There were no thoughts, no emotions—only a void where the fragments of her past began to swirl. The weight of her final moments was fading, her memories becoming both distant and sharp all at once, like a blade dulled by time yet never losing its edge.

A voice broke through the darkness. It was cold, deep, and ancient, vibrating in the airless space, echoing in her mind.

"Tell me, Freya Caedis," it rumbled. "What is it that you want now?"

Freya's eyes, though unseeing, narrowed as her mind solidified into form. The rage she had long suppressed burned bright in the void, her hate still alive, still strong. Her voice was steady, though it carried the weight of all the pain she had endured.

"I want revenge."

The void shifted to her words. The Dark Entity's voice vibrated in the silence, a low chuckle that sent chills through her soul.

"Revenge," it mused, the word dripping with disdain. "Such a simple, human desire. But tell me, Freya, what is it that you have truly lost? Speak your truth."

And so she spoke, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, recounting the horrors of her life. Her voice echoed in the void, each word a sharp cut through the silence.

"I grew up in a small, impoverished nation—my homeland, Destria. A country that never stood a chance against the massive, powerful Arremmika, a nation of racists and conquerors. For years, we were oppressed, exploited, and treated as nothing more than cattle for their wars and industries. They crushed us beneath their boots, and we withered, a dying nation on the brink of annihilation."

She paused, a flicker of pain running through her thoughts. "My father was a soldier—a proud man who fought for Destria’s freedom, but he was no match for Arremmika’s military might. My mother was a doctor, her hands healing the wounds of the poor, the sick. But none of it mattered. We lost the first war, and our country was broken.

"I still remember that day. The soldiers of Arremmika, the monsters who believed they were above us all. They came to our home. My father was beheaded right in front of me. And then they... they did what they wanted with my mother. They took her from me, raped her in front of my very eyes, as if she was no more than a piece of property. My heart burned with hate... and yet, I could do nothing."

A deep, sorrowful breath echoed through her mind, but there was no room for tears. Not anymore.

"They took me after that. I was nothing more than a slave, a tool for their labor. But my hatred for them, for the whole of Arremmika, kept me alive. I became strong in ways no one ever expected."

Her fists clenched in the void, her resolve growing firmer with every word.

"I waited for years. I bided my time. And then, fate offered me a chance. Arremmika descended into chaos, a civil war tore apart their land, and in the turmoil, I escaped. I fled, leaving behind everything. My past, my broken family, and the pieces of my soul. But that was only the beginning."

Her voice was tinged with cold satisfaction now.

"I became someone else. I found the criminal underworld, learned its ways, and its rules. I rose in power, in knowledge, in skill. And when I was ready, I gathered the broken souls of my people. I led them, a ragtag resistance, and we grew strong. We struck back against Arremmika, against their military, against their noble houses. We toppled them from within, and I became the leader of it all."

Her lips curled into a bitter smile, though there was no one to see it. "And that’s when I became what I had always been meant to be: the greatest tyrant in history. The world trembled before my might, my name, my power. But none of it came easy. Every drop of blood spilled, every life taken... I savored it all, until I was standing at the top of it all."

Freya’s words were steady now, devoid of regret. She had become everything she had ever wanted, everything her enemies had feared. But in the end, it hadn't been enough.

"And then... they betrayed me. They killed me. And here I am."

She fell silent for a moment, her thoughts turning inward. The Dark Entity's voice broke the silence, colder now.

"And now, Freya Caedis, you stand at the crossroads of your existence. What is it that you want? A chance for revenge, perhaps?"

Freya’s voice was a low, almost amused whisper in the dark.

"I want to live again. I want to return and finish what I have started."

The dark presence shifted, its voice dripping with cold amusement.

"That... I cannot grant. But I offer you something far greater, something beyond the reach of even your desires." The voice lowered, a sinister promise. "I offer you the chance to live again, in a different world. A world where I govern, where you may carve a new path of power, of dominance, and of vengeance. A place where you can achieve everything you could not in your previous life."

Freya's lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with a cold, eerie smile. "And what would it cost me?"

"Nothing but your will to embrace the power I offer. Your vengeance. Your strength. Your future." The Dark Entity’s tone became firm, as if binding her to a deal. "What do you say, Freya Caedis? Will you accept my offer?"

Her gaze, though unseen, pierced the void. There was no hesitation in her answer.

"Yes."

And with that, the darkness swallowed her whole.

The void had swallowed her whole, darkness stretching into eternity. Freya’s mind was adrift, untethered. She had accepted the Dark Entity’s offer, her future uncertain, her soul suspended in that black chasm, separated from the world she once knew. When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the place of shadows but lying on a soft, unfamiliar bed, breathing in air that felt like life itself. The room was quiet, bathed in the warm, golden light of a rising sun, and though the air smelled like old wood and opulence, it all felt foreign, distant, a life not her own.

Freya had been reborn—no longer as the conqueror of realms, the tyrant who had crushed her enemies beneath her heel, but as a mere girl with a new name.

Samantha Grutus.

The mansion she found herself in belonged to Lord Grutus, her new father, a man of noble blood with the wealth and power to match his title. The grand estate sat atop the eastern hills, surrounded by lush gardens and rolling plains, untouched by the strife of the world she had once known. Yet, as Samantha stood by the large window in her room, gazing at the distant horizon, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this gilded life was nothing but a cage. A pretty, deceptive cage.

She had been reborn into this world, “Edal” as they called it, a world where the rules were still unfamiliar to her, but her mind was as sharp as ever, and her goals remained unchanged. The past, the name of Freya Caedis, the queen who had once ruled with an iron fist, was buried in the depths of her memories, a shadow of who she once was. But Samantha knew, deep down, that the past could never be erased—it was just waiting to resurface, waiting to be claimed once more.

Lord Grutus was a cold man, one who had adopted her as a daughter, perhaps for his own reasons, but the affection he gave her was little more than a formality. She sat beside him during dinners, her adoptive mother, a distant, quiet woman, always at her side, whispering polite words and bowing her head to the master of the house. But Samantha’s mind was elsewhere, always calculating, always waiting. She wasn’t a simple girl from a noble family. She wasn’t some innocent child that could be molded into a perfect little lady. She had a purpose—an end goal—and this life of luxury was just another game. The pieces were moving, and she was biding her time, watching, learning, absorbing everything.

Her days followed a strict, monotonous routine: lessons in reading, writing, etiquette, and history, taught by tutors who believed her to be just a precocious child. They saw her intelligence as a curiosity but underestimated the darkness that simmered beneath her composed surface. They taught her of the kingdoms and empires of Edal, of their kings, queens, and the wars that shaped the land. But Samantha saw it differently—she saw them as pawns, just like she had been. And those who thought themselves kings were just waiting to be toppled.

But it wasn’t just the surface knowledge that interested her. As she observed the nobles around her, Samantha began to see the cracks in their delicate facades. The servants, the lower classes who worked tirelessly for a few coins, the aristocrats who vied for more wealth and power—it was all so transparent. It was a game, and everyone was playing by the same rules, even if they didn’t realize it. They thought their titles, their wealth, their birthright gave them power. But power was an illusion. Samantha understood that. It was the one who controlled the game who held true power, and she would be that person.

She studied the economy, the trade routes, the flow of wealth and goods—everything that moved beneath the surface of Edal’s grand society. The politics, the machinations of the nobles—it was all a delicate dance. And Samantha was preparing herself to be the one who led it.

Her adoptive father, Lord Grutus, may have been a powerful man in his own right, but he was only a stepping stone. Samantha had no interest in becoming a puppet in his house. No, her eyes were set on something greater. She studied the leaders of Edal, those who had left their marks in history—generals, tacticians, rulers. She poured over old tomes and scrolls, reading the writings of men like Napoleon, Caesar, and Machiavelli. Their words were not just theory—they were lessons in power, in control, in domination.

But Samantha knew that knowledge alone was not enough. Power was something that had to be earned. And sometimes, that meant blood.

In the privacy of her chambers, she trained her body—every muscle, every reflex. Though she lacked the magical abilities of some, her body was a weapon in itself. She studied martial arts, training in secret. Her movements were precise, graceful, deadly. She had learned that even in this world, magic or no magic, the body could be just as dangerous as any spell. It was not enough to be sharp of mind; she needed to be sharp in body as well.

And then there was the academy. Soon, she would leave the comfort of Lord Grutus’s estate and enter the prestigious academy that would shape the future rulers of Edal. It was a place of great power, where the children of nobles were trained to become the elite, the movers and shakers of the world. But to Samantha, it was simply another step in her ascent. The academy would be her proving ground, a place where she could showcase her intellect, her cunning, and her skill. But it would be more than just a school—it would be her battlefield.

By the time she turned twelve, Samantha Grutus was no longer the innocent child she had once been. She was a storm, silent and contained, ready to unleash itself. She had already set her sights on the academy, on the world beyond this estate. And when the time came, when she had learned all there was to know, she would return to the world as Freya Caedis, the queen who had once ruled the heavens—and who would rule them again.

The name Samantha Grutus would fade, forgotten, and Freya Caedis would rise from the ashes of her past. The world would kneel before her once more. And the empire she would build would make the one she had destroyed seem like a mere stepping stone on her path to greatness.

For now, she waited. The pieces were in motion, and soon, the game would begin.