The world fell away. Ren's consciousness, which had been a tiny, embattled fortress, expanded in an instant to become one with the glorious, unimpeded torrent of Aether flooding into him. The war was over. The world was no longer a hostile entity to be fought, but a neutral, observant sea of energy, and he was its newest, brightest star. This was the Ascension.
The process of his final forging was one of beautiful, violent creation. From her observation deck, Anya watched as Ren's body was lifted into the air in the center of the Resonance Chamber, held aloft by the sheer density of the energy coiling around him. The golden, earthy Aether of the Tyrant's Core and his own azure, storm-aspected Aether were no longer two separate streams. They were a maelstrom, a vortex of gold and blue, swirling and slamming together under the immense pressure of his breakthrough, being hammered into a new, singular alloy.
His Aetheric channels, tempered and scarred on the Anvil, were being forcibly expanded, rebuilt at a fundamental level. They became wider, more resilient, their very structure changing to handle the immense, oceanic power of a true Master's core. The faint, silvery Lichtenberg scars that traced their way across his skin began to glow, no longer as marks of damage, but as intricate, golden conduits for the divine power he was claiming as his own.
As his new Master-level core began to solidify, a vast surplus of "unwritten" Aether—the pure, conceptual essence of the Thunder-Tyrant's power—began to coalesce into a new, distinct form. It was a seed of pure potential, the birth of his Third Soul Skill.
Ren's consciousness witnessed this process not as a man, but as a god observing the birth of a star. He was presented with the full spectrum of the Tyrant's soul, a choice of the power he could make his own. He saw visions of different abilities, each one a different path. He saw an unbreakable suit of earthen armor, a second skin of stone that would make his Aegis nearly invincible. He saw a skill that would allow him to meld with the earth, to burrow through it with the speed of a striking serpent, granting him unparalleled ground mobility. He saw a vision of his own body swelling with the beast's monstrous physical strength, his fists capable of shattering mountains.
"A Raijin does not cower behind walls," Zephyrion's voice echoed through his ascendant consciousness, the spirit's final piece of guidance for this trial. "He does not flee into the earth. And his strength is not of the muscle, but of the soul. These are the tools of lesser creatures. There is only one choice for a king. A king's greatest weapon is not his fist, nor his shield. It is his voice. His decree. His roar."
Ren understood. He rejected the defensive and evasive options. They were the tools of survival. He was no longer just surviving. He poured his will, his very identity, into the third potential, the vision of raw power, and shaped it with his own Raijin philosophy. He did not want simple strength. He wanted an expression of absolute, overwhelming, and undeniable dominance.
The formless Aether finally coalesced. It compressed into a new, complex runic symbol, a glyph that was a fusion of a roaring beast's maw and a crackling bolt of lightning. The symbol blazed with a golden light before burning itself onto the surface of his newly forged Aetheric core, becoming a permanent, fundamental part of his soul. The skill was born.
In the Resonance Chamber, Ren's eyes snapped open. They were no longer just blue. They were a deep, stormy azure, but now, a brilliant golden starburst shone in the center of each iris, a perfect fusion of his own soul and the Tyrant's. He hung in the air, the golden light around him reaching a blinding crescendo, and he opened his mouth.
He let out a roar.
It was not a human sound. It was not even the sound of a simple beast. It was a perfect, terrifying harmony of two opposing forces: the deep, guttural, earth-shaking bellow of the Thunder-Tyrant, and the sharp, deafening, sky-tearing CRACK of a thunderclap.
This was his new skill: the "Tyrant's Roar."
It was not a sonic attack that projected outwards. It was a wave of pure, condensed, empowering Aether that washed inwards, a self-contained explosion that super-charged his own body. The golden light around him intensified tenfold. His muscles swelled with a visible, tangible surge of power. The very air around him crackled with a golden-blue energy, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, a spectral, golden aura in the shape of the Tyrant's colossal form superimposed itself over his own.
The roar faded, and the immense power receded, flowing back into his core, now perfectly, absolutely under his command. He floated gently back to the floor of the chamber, landing with a soft, silent touch. The blaring alarms on the Nautilus fell silent. The hostile pressure from the outside world was gone. The jungle, as if sensing the birth of a new, legitimate sovereign, was utterly quiet.
He was no longer a Disciple. He stood at Rank 31, a true Aether Master.
He looked at his own hands, feeling the deep, quiet, oceanic power that now resided within him, a power that felt less like a raging river and more like a calm, fathomless sea.
Anya's voice, a soft, breathless whisper filled with pure, unadulterated scientific awe, came over the intercom, the only sound in the sudden peace. "His vitals are stable. His Aetheric core has re-formalized. Sovereign Ingress… complete."