The city of Valdros was quiet now—too quiet. The wind carried the scent of scorched stone and steel. Under Zairon's command, reconstruction had begun before the blood even dried. New flags bearing the sigil of the Sovereign flew high: a crimson crown atop shattered chains, drenched in fire.
Zairon stood atop the tallest spire, hands loosely clasped behind his back, staring at the horizon as the golden sun bled across the sky. His eyes—sharp, glowing, barely human—reflected not triumph, but something far more unhinged.
"They still don't get it…" he murmured to himself, lips twitching into a crooked grin. "This isn't conquest. This is correction."
He didn't rest. He didn't celebrate. Instead, he began walking the ruins alone, cloak fluttering in the wind. People bowed, but he didn't even notice. His mind was elsewhere—spiraling deeper into a madness that no longer felt like a burden.
It was freedom.
The Roc watched him from above, a beast that had become more than a companion—an extension of his wrath. His generals didn't dare question him anymore. His advisors didn't speak unless spoken to. Zairon had become a myth, and myths didn't take advice.
Inside the grand temple of Valdros, which now served as his temporary chamber, he knelt before a circle of cracked stones. The remnants of ancient sealing formations and relics. With a snap of his fingers, he drew Raur energy into the space, suffocating, wild and thick like molten smoke.
He sat. Cross-legged. Eyes closed.
The world vanished around him.
Inside His Mind.
Chains—thousands of them—clattered in the darkness. His soulscape was no longer calm or serene. It was a battlefield, a storm, a dance of blades.
More power. I need more.
Not for survival. For domination.
Visions surged—beasts from Raur screaming his name, cities crumbling beneath his foot, thrones made of skulls and stardust.
His cultivation surged wildly, not in stages or measured breakthroughs, but like a wildfire devouring a forest. He was breaking through limits not even he understood.
Then... laughter.
Not his own.
A voice echoed in the madness: deep, amused, ancient.
"You… amuse me, little sovereign."
Zairon's eyes snapped open, but not in fear. In ecstasy.
"So, something watches… Good. Let them watch. Let them ALL watch."
Back in the waking world, his presence grew heavier. Even seasoned warriors avoided direct eye contact. He now radiated chaos and ambition. Every word he spoke sounded like a decree from a god.
And yet, in all his madness, one thing was clear: he wasn't satisfied.
"Valdros was a whisper," he told his commanders that evening, eyes burning like twin suns. "The world will soon hear my scream."
He summoned his team—those closest to him—commanders, old companions, new allies. Around the war table, maps stretched across continents.
"There's no more territory," he said, voice low. "Only the planet. The whole damned thing. Under my rule."
And then he laughed.
Unrestrained. Beautiful. Terrifying.