The world moved on—or so it thought.
Cities buzzed, factions jostled for control, and powerful guilds began their quiet wars in the shadows. The Moonlight Guild began compiling an official record of Zairon's existence, but with each attempt, the data seemed… incomplete.
"There's no official birth record… no traceable path of rise… only rumors."
"Then perhaps he was never real?"
"Or perhaps he was never meant to be."
And so they labeled him:
The Mad Sovereign – A Myth of the Wastes.
A title for campfire tales.
A warning to arrogant prodigies.
A legend to scare greedy guild lords.
But they forgot one thing:
Legends never die.
Deep beneath the crust of worldly recognition...
Zairon's temple had long lost its shape. It had become a cavern carved from spiritual pressure and raw willpower, vibrating like a heartbeat in the void.
He sat cross-legged, surrounded by floating shards of broken reality—illusions, dreams, fragments of his own thoughts made physical.
Each breath pulled in the spiritual essence of the realm.
Each exhale twisted space around him.
"Pain?" he muttered with a smirk, "I devour pain."
His cultivation had reached a level where the spirit beast, once a proud Roc, now circled the temple with wings burning in blue fire, a mutated phoenix-like form fueled by Zairon's corrupted aura.
And Zairon… he was changing.
His skin bore faint glowing lines—like veins filled with light.
His eyes? No longer normal. One burned with madness. The other with clarity. Duality. Control and chaos.
He chuckled, standing abruptly, his voice echoing like thunder:
"They think I'm gone. Good. Let them build their fake thrones. Let them squabble over cities and titles."
He leapt into the air, shattering the spiritual gravity, and soared to the top of a jagged peak. His Roc cried out behind him, a sound like a storm crashing.
Zairon raised his hand toward the sky. His aura burned violet and black, spiraling upward like a beacon of calamity.
"World, I am your final prayer and your first curse."
Meanwhile…
A new generation of heroes was rising. Some trained to fight the "next threat."
Others trained to find out what happened to the Mad Sovereign.
In private, some S-rank guildmasters still uttered his name… with fear.
And in Raur—behind locked gates and dying stars—high beasts looked toward the mortal realm.
"Is the Sovereign ready?" they asked.
"No," a voice answered. "But when he is… so shall the heavens bleed."
Back in the temple...
Zairon dropped back into meditation, bones cracking, laughter echoing.
His mind split between two desires:
Burn the world and rebuild it as a mad paradise.
Transcend it and shatter Raur itself.
And in that moment… the earth shook—not from war, not from monsters, but from one man's madness pressing against the seams of reality.