Far to the west of the Sovereign Territory, nestled behind steel mountains and fortified by ancient enchantments, lay the kingdom of Valdros. Proud. Isolated. Unyielding.
When word of Zairon's return swept through the land like wildfire, most rulers trembled, debated, or surrendered outright. But King Herad IV of Valdros?
He laughed.
"A self-proclaimed sovereign?" he scoffed from his golden throne. "Let the boy come. We are not some backwater town to kneel."
His generals warned him. His advisors begged him. But pride is a poison that numbs the senses.
And so, with a declaration stamped in blood and arrogance, Valdros sent back Zairon's envoy in pieces—heart impaled, message scorched.
The skies darkened two days later.
It wasn't nightfall.
It was the shadow of Zairon's Spirit Beast—the Roc—descending like a god's judgment. Behind him, three elite divisions marched silently across the plains, the earth trembling beneath their march.
Zairon hovered above the outer walls of Valdros, hands behind his back, wind whipping his hair. His eyes glowed dimly, a dull red light of barely contained wrath.
"I gave you a chance," he said, voice carried on the wind. "You chose the harder path."
From the castle, magical cannons fired.
They never landed.
Zairon vanished.
And reappeared inside their barracks.
Boom.
With a casual wave, an entire wing of elite soldiers exploded—no blood, no screams, just ash.
"WHERE'S THE FEAR?!" he bellowed, laughing.
General Raivor, the kingdom's strongest warrior, charged with a greatsword glowing in divine light. An S-rank blessed with holy fire.
He struck.
But Zairon caught the blade with two fingers, leaned in close, and whispered:
"You're strong. But I'm insane."
He tore the sword apart with his bare hands, then drove his palm into the general's chest—shattering every bone in his body.
Chaos erupted. Valdros' soldiers scattered. Magic formations lit the skies, ballistas fired, sacred relics activated—
None mattered.
From the sky, the Roc shrieked—and razed the outer city in a single sweep, wind sharper than steel.
By the time Zairon reached the throne room, King Herad was waiting with trembling hands and soaked robes.
"W-we were wrong—"
"No," Zairon interrupted. "You were just weak."
The city fell within the hour. But Zairon didn't destroy it entirely. No, he had it rebuilt under his rule—with Herad's decapitated head placed atop the gates as a reminder.
"Let this be the symbol," he declared to all. "Defy, and be erased. Obey, and thrive."
The world shuddered.
The myth was real.
And he was coming.