Zairon sat alone atop the obsidian throne in his secluded cultivation chamber, the flames of his madness now dimmed to a low, controlled simmer. The world outside had fallen under his dominion. Cities bore his banner, his legion moved like shadows across continents, and the very mention of his name echoed like thunder in foreign courts.
But none of it mattered right now.
He exhaled slowly, the breath tinged with a whisper of energy, refined from years of maddening solitude. With the world momentarily at peace, his mind returned to the quiet, terrifying question he had long buried: how does one reach the next peak?
"System," he murmured inside, the chamber rumbling faintly in response, "I've burned everything in my way. What comes after this?"
A faint flicker of ancient script shimmered before him. No voice, just a series of messages:
[Technique Compatibility: 97%]
[Host has created 3 original techniques—Finality Step, Chaos Pulse, and Soul Raze]
[Recommendation: refine core. Build what cannot be learned.]
[True strength is not in what is given. It is in what is created.]
Zairon's smirk widened. "Then I'll forge a path none can follow."
He rose and stepped into the training arena beneath his chamber. Massive glyphs lined the walls, pulsing with his personal energy signatures. He'd named the techniques in a fit of frenzied inspiration—Finality Step, where he compressed hundreds of meters into a single, reality-tearing stride; Chaos Pulse, a blast of raw madness and will; and Soul Raze, a technique so dangerous he'd never used it on a living being. Not yet.
He raised his hand and slammed it into the ground.
"Finality Step—Chain Variant!"
BOOM!
He vanished and reappeared twenty steps ahead, then back, then again, faster, sharper, until it left flaming footprints in his wake. His body flickered like lightning—but he wasn't satisfied.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the time he finished, his breathing was wild, his aura in shambles—but his control had refined just a little more.
Later, he sat in silence, eyes closed, sensing everything. He visualized enemies beyond anything he had ever faced. SSS-rank threats. Raur-born monsters. Unknown kings of long-lost realms. For every scenario, he pictured a counter, an answer, a form.
He meditated until the ground beneath him cracked.
Until the walls began to hum.
Until the energy began to coil tighter and tighter—ready to evolve.
But he said nothing.
Because this was not the moment to ascend.
Not yet.
This was the moment to perfect.
To prepare.
The world still needed to be ruled.
And the sovereign had work to do.