Five years. That was how long Zairon remained within the seclusion of the deepest dungeon chamber—far away from cities, away from voices, away from even the chaos he once thrived in. And yet, what brewed inside him was no silence. It was a storm—a storm of madness, power, and the thirst to transcend.
His body, once lean and ferocious, was now forged like the divine steel of legends. Each sinew carried crushing strength, each breath stirred the air with subtle energy. The once-crimson eyes now glowed with a violet gleam—a hue touched by madness, touched by something no mortal should wield.
Zairon had reached SS Rank, a peak many believed unattainable. But to him? It was just another step.
"SS Rank... heh," he chuckled, shadows twisting around him. "Still not enough."
Every moment of his meditation was now a gamble with reality itself. He toyed with time, twisted space, and merged elemental laws together in his cultivation path. Madness was no longer a curse—it was his foundation.
He had begun forming his own technique—Chaotic Nirvana, a cultivation method based on emotional instability, impulsive insight, and raw destructive will. It was unpredictable. Terrifying. Divine.
Meanwhile, the world above moved on, barely comprehending the myth of Zairon. Stories spread—of a sovereign who rode a Roc and tore dungeons asunder, who smiled while cities fell, who laughed while enemies screamed. Some believed him a ghost. Others, a god.
But all feared the same thing:
What happens when he returns?
And in the abyss, as the candle of his sanity burned dimmer, Zairon smiled.
"Almost time," he whispered, eyes wide, voice calm. "I'll show them what madness really looks like."