Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

Zelphra's hands trembled as she raised her sword again, mana flaring around her like a storm. Her eyes locked onto Fenrir, rage and confusion building behind them.

"You leave me no choice! Let's see how long you last under this pressure!"

She shouted.

She thrust her hand forward—and the air shifted.

A pulse erupted from her body, dark and ancient, and the system's voice echoed in Fenrir's ears:

[Warning: Monarch's Pressure detected.]

[All stats will be reduced to 50% for the duration of exposure.]

For a brief moment, Fenrir staggered.

His limbs felt heavier. His mana moved sluggishly. The familiar chill of the ability he once wielded now turned against him, clinging to his soul like chains.

But then… he grinned.

'How amusing.'

He thought, and pushed his own mana outward, wrapping it around the invading pressure, surrounding it, shaping it—not resisting, but absorbing it.

The system stuttered for a moment before announcing:

[System Error Detected.]

[Monarch's Pressure immunity granted. All stat reductions nullified.]

Zelphra blinked. Her stance faltered.

She heard the message too.

And her face twisted into disbelief.

"No… that's not possible. That power—it doesn't work on you? How…?"

She whispered.

Fenrir didn't answer.

Instead, he calmly raised his hand, summoned mana from deep within himself, and activated Master of Illusion.

His body shimmered for a moment before shifting shape—his features morphing until another face stood before Zelphra.

Her father's.

Zerg.

Zelphra went completely still.

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

The man before her now wore Zerg's expression, his height, his stance, even the subtle weight of command in his aura. It was so perfectly rendered, it made her chest tighten.

And then anger exploded from within her.

"You bastard! How dare you wear his face?!"

She screamed, mana lashing out around her in an uncontrolled burst.

Fenrir, still disguised, looked down at her calmly.

"If you hate him, then fight him. Prove it. Cut him down."

He said softly.

Zelphra grit her teeth and charged, but her sword trembled in her grip. Her vision blurred as memories surged—of a man who once guided her, a man she later despised, the one who betrayed everything she believed in.

She slashed downward, but the blade stopped short—quivering as her hands refused to deliver the blow.

She couldn't do it.

Even now, even after all this time, his face held her back.

Fenrir sighed.

"Then you should have stood by him until the end. If you're too afraid to strike, then you never truly let go."

He said.

"Shut up!"

Zelphra screamed, swinging again—but the motion was clumsy. Unfocused.

Fenrir allowed her blade to clash against his own. Sparks flew. He didn't push hard, but it was enough.

Her sword was flung from her hand.

And then she collapsed.

Knees hitting the ground, shoulders shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps.

The illusion faded, and Fenrir returned to his usual form, looking down at her with a mixture of frustration and pity.

Zelphra clenched her fists into the dirt, voice hoarse.

"I… I hated him for so long. For everything. For the pain he caused. The people he hurt. I thought… if I could just forget… bury him in my mind…"

Fenrir said nothing.

Zelphra looked up, face damp with sweat, maybe even tears.

"Why? Why did you do that?"

"To see if you were lying to yourself. Looks like you are."

Fenrir replied flatly.

She stared at him, dazed.

He continued.

"You hate him, but you still carry his memory like a weight. You haven't moved on. You've just buried the truth so deep, it's begun to rot."

"You don't know anything about me."

She whispered.

"No. But I knew him."

Fenrir said.

Zelphra stared at the man standing before her—at the quiet confidence in his gaze, the overwhelming pressure he seemed to exude just by existing. There was no more room for doubt now.

"You… you're Fenrir."

She whispered.

Fenrir didn't bother confirming it. His faint smile said everything she needed to know.

Her knees wobbled, and she caught herself before falling again.

"How are you alive? How did you survive? The last I heard… they sealed you at the top of the tower. You weren't supposed to ever return. No one could reach you, and you couldn't get out. That's what they said…"

"That's what they wanted you to believe. But lies don't change the truth."

Fenrir said, his voice even.

Zelphra shook her head in disbelief.

"But the seal… the divine beings themselves created it. It was supposed to be absolute."

Fenrir scoffed.

"The divine beings of this tower are arrogant and foolish. They assumed I'd go down quietly, that their little trap would be enough to hold me. But I made preparations long before they ever moved against me."

His eyes darkened, just slightly.

"I knew they'd try something like that eventually."

Zelphra felt her chest tighten. The calmness in his voice was far more terrifying than any threat he could have shouted.

"So, you escaped on your own?"

"I didn't need to escape. Their seal never held in the first place."

Fenrir said.

He stepped closer, and instinctively, Zelphra gripped the hilt of her sword. Fenrir didn't react.

"I walked out the moment I decided it was time."

She swallowed hard.

"Then… you're back to destroy the tower?"

"Maybe."

Fenrir replied.

Zelphra hesitated, torn. A part of her still wanted to believe that there was some misunderstanding, that maybe Fenrir had changed after all these years.

But the weight of his presence told her otherwise. He hadn't changed. If anything, he had only become more dangerous.

"You know I can't support you. Not like my father did. I won't turn against the tower for you."

She said quietly.

Fenrir raised an eyebrow, unconcerned.

"I never asked you to."

His words struck her harder than she expected. He hadn't come for alliances or persuasion. He came because he wanted what was his.

And then, before she could brace herself, Fenrir raised his hand.

Zelphra felt it immediately—the deep, ancient energy within her, the fragment of power that had been gifted to her years ago, began to stir.

Her breath caught as Monarch's Pressure surged, not outward, but away from her.

"No…Wait—what are you doing?"

She gasped, clutching her chest as the power was pulled free.

"I'm taking back what's mine."

Fenrir said coldly.

The pressure flowed like a river of mana, coiling through the air and returning to Fenrir's hand as though it had been waiting all along.

As it touched him, it vanished into his body, and the air grew thick with an oppressive silence.

Zelphra stood frozen, staring at her empty hands. The power she had been entrusted with… was gone. Just like that.

She had always thought it was a divine gift. A power sealed and assigned by the gods above. But the way Fenrir took it—casually, effortlessly—made it clear.

It was never hers to begin with.

"How…?"

She whispered.

"Power knows its rightful owner. And you were just a placeholder."

Fenrir said.

Zelphra took a step back, stunned.

Without Monarch's Pressure, she felt… smaller. Lighter. And strangely exposed.

She had used that power for years. It had become a part of her identity. And now that it was gone, she felt like something fundamental had been stripped away.

Fenrir turned, preparing to leave.

"Wait."

She said.

He paused.

"I may not agree with you. but… I need to know one thing. Why now? Why return after all this time?"

Zelphra said, her voice steadier than she expected,

Fenrir looked at her over his shoulder.

"Because I had a chase to."