The air above the sovereign capital shimmered—dense with Spiritual Energy, a constant pressure that cloaked the sky ever since Zairon's return from his secluded cultivation.
He stood atop the highest tower, arms crossed, his coat billowing like the wings of a fallen god. Below him, the entire capital moved like a well-oiled machine—legions training, smithies forging weapons, scouts reporting to generals, and newly erected towers humming with barrier runes.
A storm was building.
And Zairon was its eye.
The Strategy Hall
Inside the war room, his top lieutenants had gathered. Maps sprawled across the central table. Dozens of flags marked the cities, guild territories, rogue powers, and neutral provinces yet untouched by Zairon's rule.
Kairo tapped the northern quadrant. "The Twin Flame Alliance—still unyielding. They've fortified their cities and begun recruiting stray guilds."
"Amateurs," Zairon muttered, sipping from a black jade cup. "They think alliances mean unity. Unity without fear is nothing."
Selene leaned in. "You want to strike first?"
"No," he said slowly. "We conquer. First through fear. Then through awe."
He turned toward a blank section of the map—an unclaimed zone filled with dangerous terrain and autonomous warlords.
"Build a fortress there. One that breathes command. Make it our forward base. Let every step I take echo like a war drum across the continent."
The Proclamation
By dusk, messengers rode out with a single scroll stamped with Zairon's blood-red seal:
To all powers who resist:
You have seen my patience. You have tasted my silence. Now, taste my will.
Kneel, and live under my protection.
Defy, and your name shall vanish from the annals of time.
—Sovereign Zairon
Later That Night
Zairon stood alone in his chamber, the windows wide open to the moonlit sky. He stared at the stars—then at his hand, still trembling slightly from the last burst of madness.
"Still not enough," he whispered. "This body holds more... it must hold more."
He sat cross-legged.
No talismans. No pills. Just raw, furious cultivation.
His body crackled. His eyes went red. Veins glowed as if magma flowed inside them.
The Sovereign of Earth was no longer satisfied with dominance. He wanted to transcend the concept itself. He wanted the world to witness what madness could become.
And outside—banners of war were raised.
The world had one last chance to kneel.