The flames of resistance had been lit in Aelvaris — a proud kingdom cloaked in ancient traditions and battle-hardened pride. Their rulers believed themselves untouchable, encased in towering walls, shrouded by the strongest of magical wards. And yet, the shadow looming over them wasn't a dragon or a siege… it was a name.
Zairon.
King Daren stood before his gathered council in the war chamber of the royal citadel. His hair was streaked with silver, and fatigue etched across his once-proud face. Still, he stood tall, eyes sharp.
"Send word to the eastern alliance. Tell them we march together. If Zairon comes, he will find more than one kingdom ready to resist," he declared.
One of the generals hesitated. "Your Majesty, the eastern kingdom of Velra has already... sworn loyalty to him."
The room froze.
Daren's jaw clenched. "So we truly stand alone?"
"No," said a voice from the back. A woman stepped forward — General Selene, clad in black armor, her eyes full of fire. "We stand with our convictions. If we kneel now, we become another cog in his mad empire."
Daren nodded slowly. "Then we prepare for war."
Back in Zairon's capital...
He sat alone in the meditation chamber — the room once shattered by his maddened state, now rebuilt with reinforced obsidian walls, glowing with soft spiritual runes. His breathing was slow, almost unnaturally calm.
But inside?
A storm churned.
Visions of the past five years. The madness, the silence, the hunger for more. He saw himself, eyes blood-red, cackling as if the world was a toy. The image flashed. Replaced by the present — eyes glowing faintly gold, the madness contained but not silenced.
The Sovereign was no longer unpredictable. He was a weapon with a target.
And now... his aim was Aelvaris.
Later that night, Zairon called a secret meeting of his elite.
Wei Lian. Zhao Hu. The two original S-ranked beauties. And now, four more powerhouses who had proven themselves worthy over the years — a silent assassin, a storm-wielding wanderer, a berserker with a twisted sense of humor, and a saintess who could rip through souls while smiling.
"Aelvaris has chosen pride," Zairon said. "And pride... makes for spectacular theater."
Zhao Hu chuckled. "Shall we begin rehearsals?"
"Not yet. I want their fear to stew. Let them gather all their allies. Let them dream of victory."
The saintess tilted her head. "What shall we do in the meantime?"
Zairon leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Spread the word. We open the Grand Arena. Any kingdom may send champions. Let them fight for fame, glory, and a place under my banner."
"And if Aelvaris sends no one?"
He smirked. "Then we give them a show they can't ignore."
Across the lands, the Grand Arena announcement thundered.
Neutral powers watched with cautious excitement. Some saw it as diplomacy. Others saw it for what it truly was: a demonstration of power.
And far in Aelvaris, King Daren watched as his people — his own sons — whispered about attending the arena.
Zairon wasn't just conquering with war. He was conquering with a dream.