CHAPTER THREE: The First Strike
The candlelight flickered across Liam's pale face as he traced the movements he would make. Every step, every breath, every flicker of power through his veins was measured. The weak body of the noble boy could not be exposed to recklessness. Fragile as it was, it would become a weapon if wielded correctly.
He had one target tonight. A small one. Unimportant in the grand scheme of Azeroth. But its failure would be a signal. His enemies had assumed he was gone. That assumption would now become their undoing.
The room was silent, save for the soft shuffle of the servant who had returned earlier to watch over him. Liam ignored him completely, letting the man's eyes remain wide with fear. That fear was useful. Fear sharpened observation. Fear planted seeds.
His hands glowed faintly, the Devil Blood within stirring. The light was subtle, controlled, dangerous. He flexed, summoned a thin line of flame that snaked along his forearm, and let it disappear again. No one outside would know what waited inside the body of this frail boy.
Night had deepened. The city outside Azeroth's castle walls slept beneath a gray sky, clouds so thick they blocked the moonlight. The streets were quiet. Security was light. His enemies believed that every loyalist had returned to their chambers after the day's trials. They were wrong. They never expected the forgotten heir to move so soon.
Liam moved silently through the corridors. Every step was deliberate. Every sound calculated. He avoided patrols. He avoided the light. The Devil Blood guided his senses, enhancing perception, heightening reflexes far beyond the limits of a sixteen-year-old body.
The first target was a minor noble. Someone who had signed his death warrant. A man arrogant in his complacency, confident that Liam Vaelor was no more. His study was lightly guarded. A single servant dozed in the corner, unaware that the night would not end quietly.
Liam paused at the door, listening. No one outside. The hall was empty. His small hands reached for the lock. Ancient blood stirred in his veins. Muscles he had never had before tensed and moved with precision he had once mastered. The door clicked open silently.
Inside, the noble slept in a lavish chair, papers spread across his desk. Plans, ledgers, alliances — all the trivial concerns of men who believed themselves untouchable. Liam studied the face. Fat, complacent, smiling even in dreams. No fire. No cunning. Nothing. Just arrogance.
Perfect.
He raised a hand, letting the glow of his Devil Blood flare faintly in a controlled spark. The servant in the corner shifted in sleep, murmuring. Liam's eyes narrowed. Movement had to be suppressed. Another pulse of his blood, slower, subtle, and the servant froze mid-breath. Not unconscious, not dead, just… paused.
The noble remained oblivious. Liam stepped closer, his mind calculating every possible outcome. One blow. One precise strike. No noise. No mistake.
The Devil Blood responded. Heat rose from his palm. A thin line of crimson fire traced from his fingertips to the noble's desk. Papers smoldered, smoke curling quietly into the shadows. The man shifted in his sleep, finally aware that something was wrong.
Liam's voice was calm, controlled, carrying just enough cold to make blood run still.
Do not move.
The noble's eyes shot open. Recognition flashed. Fear. Confusion.
You… Liam?
The boy's voice was weak. Trembling. Liam's lips curved, cold and merciless.
Yes. Liam Vaelor.
The fire on his hand flared, small but deadly. Not enough to burn a room, just enough to show power, to instill dread. The noble's hands rose to shield himself, but instinct was useless against calculation.
Liam advanced slowly. Every movement precise. Every heartbeat measured.
I remember everything. Every betrayal, every name, every lie. And now, you will remember me.
The noble tried to speak. Words failed. He tried to move. Liam's other hand glowed. Threads of red flame snaked silently along the floor, binding the man's limbs, holding him like a marionette.
The boy's body may be weak, but his mind, his blood, his experience — all of it was lethal. One wrong move, and death would not be a mercy. Liam watched the man struggle for a moment, enjoying the exact mix of fear and hope that always preceded surrender.
Then he raised a hand, and the glow enveloped the man's chest. A line of red fire, not massive, not catastrophic, just controlled, burned across the armor of his heart. Heat and pressure built, unbearable yet precise. Pain. Panic. Awareness. Liam watched carefully.
Do you understand now, he asked quietly, ice in his voice, cruelty in his precision.
The noble's lips trembled. He nodded.
Liam withdrew the flame. The man gasped, chest heaving, alive but terrified.
Remember. This is only the beginning.
Liam turned to leave the room. The servant, still frozen, could do nothing. The message had been delivered. Fear had been planted. One strike, one calculation, one demonstration.
Outside, the city remained asleep. No alarms had sounded. No one noticed that a minor noble had been rendered broken without bloodshed. Only one person in all Azeroth knew the truth — Liam Vaelor was alive. Liam Vaelor had returned.
As he vanished into the shadows, moving with the patience of a predator, his mind already raced through the next steps. Targets. Alliances. Weak points. Betrayers. Every name that had ever betrayed him would feel the bite of the Devil Blood before dawn.
Tomorrow, someone would die. And the day after, someone more important. The streets of Azeroth were about to learn that the boy they assumed weak carried the soul, mind, and blood of a Devil Heir.
And one day soon, Liam would make the High Square remember his name again.
The first strike had been silent. Invisible. Precise. Calculated. The mark of the new Liam.
And this was only the beginning.