The world had changed.
And it had changed violently.
In the great cities, towering Cultivation Towers glowed like beacons, pulling in thousands of desperate, power-hungry cultivators.
Inside them, the strong battled, meditated, and rose... while the weak were crushed underfoot.
The once-proud kingdoms bowed their heads, sending envoys bearing treasures and vowing loyalty to the Mad Sovereign.
Those who refused had already become ash and legend, their cities erased overnight by the Crimson Fangs.
In the deserts, warlords clashed, dreaming of carving out their own little empires.
They did not last long.
Every week, black-armored enforcers marched across the sands, sowing terror and dragging rebellious leaders back to Zairon's capital — alive, if they were lucky.
In the frozen north, ancient sects tried to remain hidden.
But the Sovereign's reach was relentless.
Crimson banners now flew even over the highest, coldest peaks, carried by warriors too insane to feel pain, too loyal to ever betray.
The seas churned with unrest.
Pirates, mercenaries, old beast clans — all tested the Sovereign's dominion.
But when black ships bearing the mark of madness appeared on the horizon, they vanished beneath the waves, never to be seen again.
---
In the shadows, resistance movements still flickered.
Some whispered of a "Chosen One" who would rise to overthrow Zairon.
Others sought ancient artifacts from before the Gates opened, desperate to find weapons powerful enough to challenge him.
But hope was thin, and fear was thick.
The world was adapting — evolving into something harsher, madder, wilder under Zairon's rule.
And the people?
They either thrived under the new madness or perished in its fire.
---
Meanwhile, within Zairon's capital:
The Crimson Fangs trained new recruits day and night, forging more soldiers of madness.
New cultivation techniques spread, stolen from defeated sects and refined into brutal arts.
Massive walls were being raised, not to keep enemies out — but to keep the madness inside until Zairon deemed it ready to be unleashed again.
The Sovereign's flag — a black dragon coiled in crimson flames — flew atop every major stronghold.
The world wasn't just conquered.
It was being reshaped.
And through it all, in the highest tower, Zairon cultivated quietly, methodically, his power growing more terrifying by the day.
The Mad Sovereign wasn't finished.
He had only just begun.
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