The wind howled atop the Sovereign Citadel, where Zairon stood, arms crossed, staring into the fading dusk. His eyes glowed faintly, a chaotic flame burning within them, but something gnawed at his thoughts.
He had crushed armies. Cities bent the knee. Guilds obeyed.
The world called him "SS-Rank"
But something about that felt like a lie.
"Why… does it feel like I haven't even scratched the surface?" he muttered, his voice low, almost a whisper to himself.
Each time he fought, meditated, or slipped into his madness during cultivation, his power surged—far beyond what even other SS-ranks could comprehend. Yet, he felt something pressing on him, something unseen. Like invisible chains… or a ceiling he hadn't broken through.
But Zairon didn't understand why.
He didn't know that what Earth called "SS-Rank" was merely Stage 8 of the Mortal Realm.
He didn't know that above the Mortal Realm were realms his world had never even named.
And he didn't know… that Raur's strongest beings had already sensed him. Watched him. Feared what might happen if he ascended beyond.
Yet Zairon simply grinned, whispering to himself—
"Stronger… I must become stronger. Hahahahahaha—!"
His madness wasn't just growing—it was awakening something ancient.
And still, the Sovereign had no idea what he truly was.
Zairon's boots echoed through the Sovereign Hall as he strode in, eyes glowing with veiled fury. The generals, governors, and top disciples of his domain stood in formation, their heads lowered with respect—some with fear.
He didn't speak immediately. He scanned their faces.
Wei Lan, once a calm tactician, looked shaken. Han Bo stood firm, his aura stronger than before. The four beauties from the past mission stood by his side—loyal, deadly, and still playful in their own ways. But many others… they had grown complacent.
"Five years," Zairon finally said, his voice quiet yet thunderous. "Five years I was gone. Five years you had to rise. Some of you did. Some… didn't."
He raised his hand—and in a flash, one of the commanders collapsed, spiritual core shattered.
Gasps echoed.
"Only the strong will rule," he whispered. "Obedience is not enough. Worthiness is required."
Fear rippled through the room like a tidal wave. But to the loyal, it brought fire to their blood. Purpose.
He turned toward the map displayed before him—an enormous scale of the continent. Colored flags marked the territories he had conquered. But dozens more remained untouched.
"Now, we move forward. Not for cities. Not for regions. The world will bow."
He slammed his palm on the table.
"Every guild, kingdom, and sect—those who surrender will flourish. Those who resist…" He grinned, wild and untamed. "Will be erased. Simple."
Orders were given. His legions split into formations. Loyal lieutenants were dispatched. Those with ambition were given targets—those without were dismissed, cast out.
In the far reaches, kingdoms learned of his return. Some rallied their forces, terrified. Others sent envoys bearing gifts and oaths.
Zairon didn't care. He walked out of the hall, cloak billowing, looking at the stars above.
"I need more," he whispered. "Power. Chaos. Fire. This world… it still feels too small."
He walked into the wilderness, alone.
There, deep in the mountains, where no man dared enter, he sat cross-legged—and screamed laughter into the dark. His cultivation began again, violent and unstable.
"Stronger… STRONGER! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
And above the clouds, far beyond mortal eyes, in a realm Zairon couldn't name—eyes watched him.
Not with curiosity.
But with fear.