The cult was no more, but its remnants whispered in the wind—fragments of madness, chants etched into stone, and sigils pulsing faintly under moonlight.
Zairon stood in the center of the collapsed sanctum days after its destruction, his cloak fluttering, eyes scanning the void-like sky. He felt it again—the pull. A strange whispering from Raur… deep, ancient, unintelligible. It was calling to him not with words, but instinct. Hunger.
And he understood.
Raur wasn't just a world. It was a will. It wanted chaos, strength, and transcendence. It bred monsters not to conquer, but to challenge. To break weak minds and elevate the mad.
Zairon let the whispers swirl inside him. "So… you want me to become something more?" he whispered, crouching down and pressing his palm against the cold, scorched earth.
In that moment, he felt it—energy. Thin, unstable threads of spiritual essence left behind by the ritual. Not enough to harm, but enough to taste.
And he drank it in like a man deprived of water.
It burned. Oh, it burned.
Veins lit up like molten rivers beneath his skin. Images of monsters, gods, forgotten realms flooded his mind. But he didn't flinch.
He smiled.
"This… is the way," he murmured.
Hours passed. Days, even.
He disappeared.
No one could find Zairon—not even his team. They knew better than to interrupt his process now. They returned to the city, trusting him to return stronger. Wiser. Or maybe... wilder.
Deep in the heart of a forgotten temple—once used by the cult, now repurposed as a personal sanctum—Zairon sat, cross-legged, shirtless, bones still sore, spirit trembling. He sat surrounded by candles of beast-fat and the shattered weapons of his enemies.
Each breath drew in threads of spiritual essence from the surrounding air.
He cultivated differently.
Not calm.
Not balanced.
But wild, intense, obsessive.
Each heartbeat was like a thunderclap.
Each inhale pulled in volatile energy like a vortex.
His mind danced on the edge of collapse, yet he held strong.
He wanted the madness.
He needed the chaos.
Because only through destruction could true power be reborn.
Visions came.
Not of beasts.
Not of enemies.
But of himself.
A version of Zairon with blazing red eyes, ethereal wings of crimson energy, standing above worlds aflame. Cities bowed before him. Even gods screamed his name in fear.
"Zairon, the Mad Sovereign," the vision whispered.
"The one who defied fate."
And then silence.
Zairon's eyes snapped open—wild, bloodshot, glowing faintly.
"More," he breathed. "I need more."
He slammed his fists to the ground, spiritual pressure exploding from his body, vaporizing every candle around him. The shattered floor cracked deeper, unable to contain his surging aura.
The world wasn't enough.
Raur wasn't enough.
He had to rise beyond.
But first…
He had to cultivate.
Meditate deeper.
Fall into madness again and again until it became his clarity.
Until chaos itself bowed to his will.
He stood, eyes burning, voice low and filled with terrifying determination.
"Sleep now, Raur. Soon… I'm coming."