The winds that brushed the surface of the western continent were unlike anywhere else in the world — dense, heavy, almost tangible. They carried an invisible weight, one that bent trees, warped sound, and pressed the soul itself into obedience. Beneath that oppressive air, Rayon stood shirtless, his hair fluttering like black fire under a suffocating sky. His body trembled slightly — not from weakness, but from the burden of the gravity pressing down on him.
150 times Earth's gravity.
Every motion was torture.
Every breath felt like dragging molten metal into his lungs.
And still, he smiled.
Azelar sat cross-legged on a rock nearby, a piece of straw between his lips, watching. "You really are insane," the old man said with a faint smirk. "Most mortals would've been paste at fifty-fold. You've long passed the realm of human restraint."
Rayon gave a short, dry laugh through his teeth. "Human restraint? You think I've had that since the day I was born?"
He was different now. The arrogant spark in his voice was sharper, more tempered — a blend of self-assurance and something else, something profound that had been simmering beneath his storms.
Between heavy breaths, he spoke again.
"I've been refining something lately. Something I call Hollow Strings — invisible threads that connect me to the movement of everything within range. The air, energy, intent, even emotion. They're not made of mana, but of resonance."
Azelar's brow lifted slightly.
Rayon continued, his voice gaining an edge of confidence, "When I combine that with Perfect Hypnosis, I can manipulate perception, bending cause and effect in small windows of consciousness. It's not control—it's suggestion so deep that reality adjusts to match the belief of the victim."
The old man chuckled, impressed despite himself. "You're not a warrior. You're a walking paradox."
Rayon tilted his head, grinning. "Maybe. But paradoxes survive where logic dies."
He dropped into a seated position, folding his legs beneath him, palms resting on his knees. The ground cracked slightly from the pressure of his body settling against the impossible gravity. For the first time in weeks, Rayon closed his eyes.
Azelar's expression shifted when he realized what was happening — Rayon wasn't simply enduring the gravity anymore; he was embracing it. Every inhale dragged the weight into his lungs; every exhale shattered it outward in ripples of pressure.
His breathing grew deeper, steadier, sharper — until the air itself started vibrating around him.
The pulse of his heart synchronized with the world.
And in that instant, Rayon disappeared from his senses entirely.
Azelar's eyes widened. He's gone… no, he's everywhere.
Inside the depths of that meditative trance, Rayon's mind opened to something vast. He saw the Hollow Strings weaving through reality, felt the pulse of Insanity humming in his blood, the rhythm of gravity sculpting his flesh, and the remnants of every fight — every scar, every adaptation — converging in perfect unison.
A single realization bloomed:
All power was rhythm.
All rhythm was breath.
The storms, the strings, the hypnosis, the adaptation — all of them danced to the same beat, the same silent law that the body and soul obeyed.
So he breathed.
And with each breath, he shaped that truth into form.
When his eyes opened again, the ground cratered beneath him. The entire forest bent backward in a spiral pattern, dust rising like halos of light. His veins glowed faintly with a metallic sheen; the whites of his eyes shimmered with a faint purple hue, and threads of black and violet energy extended from his back like phantom strings—alive, writhing, and pulsing with eerie harmony.
Azelar rose to his feet.
"What… did you just create, boy?"
Rayon's voice came out low, calm, yet divine.
"Breath of the Monarch."
The air around him bowed as he exhaled. Trees tilted toward him, the gravity around him bending to his will as if acknowledging a sovereign's command.
He looked almost unrecognizable — his form leaner but more defined, the aura around him dense enough to distort light.
And then —
His pupils rolled back.
His knees buckled.
He collapsed.
The storm ceased. Silence reclaimed the continent.
Azelar rushed forward, but before the old man could reach him, the air beside Rayon shimmered — and Vorthalaxis appeared, his crimson mantle flowing like a bleeding star. Without a word, he caught Rayon before his head could hit the earth and laid him gently beneath the shadow of an enormous willow-like tree.
Azelar stepped back, scanning the unconscious young man, still humming with quiet energy. "He burned his spirit clean through," he muttered.
From behind the drifting mist, another figure materialized — Erethon, calm and unreadable as ever, his gaze soft with something that almost resembled pride.
"So that's why you call him Little Monarch," Azelar said, crossing his arms. "Because of that breathing art of his?"
Erethon's eyes stayed fixed on Rayon. "No," he said quietly. "I called him that long before this moment. A monarch doesn't rule because of what he possesses… but because of what refuses to bow before him. Even gods bend to his will eventually. Rayon was never meant to serve power. He was meant to command it."
Azelar let out a long, low whistle. "So that's what he is, huh… the heir to madness, the child of sovereignty."
Vorthalaxis looked down at the boy sleeping beneath the willow. The glow in Rayon's skin flickered faintly, his breathing steady but deep, each inhale still heavy with that same rhythm — the rhythm that broke the sky.
"He'll be out for a month," Erethon said, his voice almost affectionate. "But when he wakes up… the world will remember what it means to kneel."
And above them, the heavens trembled softly, as though they already knew.