Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

The entirety of Floor 8 had descended into chaos.

Sirens screamed across the sector, red lights flashing in frantic rhythm.

Guards shouted over each other, trying to regain control, but their voices were drowned out by the thunder of stampeding feet and the crashing of broken barriers.

Prisoners who had been locked away for years now ran free, drunk on the air of sudden freedom and rage.

Some fought the guards. Others simply ran, disappearing into sectors no one had opened in decades.

"Seal the exits!"

"They're everywhere—Sector D's completely lost!"

"We need backup—someone report to Central!"

Orders were barked, but nothing held. It was madness. The kind of collapse that shouldn't have been possible. All caused by a single man no one had recognized—until it was far too late.

And while they cursed his name—

Fenrir sneezed.

"Ugh. Dust."

He muttered, stepping onto Floor 9 like nothing had happened.

His boots crunched against cracked stone. The floor stretched out like a wasteland — barren, wide, and suffocatingly silent. His system pinged once.

[Floor 9: Arena Detected.

Boss Room Located: Sector Outskirts.

Warning: High-level mana density. Proceed with caution.]

He snorted.

"Caution ignored."

He moved forward, heading in the direction of the arena with long, purposeful strides.

But the moment he crossed a wide stone path that led toward the massive coliseum-like structure on the horizon, everything changed.

A weight pressed down on him.

Heavy. Crushing. Invisible.

His legs froze mid-step, knees buckling slightly as the pressure intensified. The air shimmered, thick with mana. The very land beneath him pulsed with hostile energy.

"The hell is this? Move, damn it."

Fenrir growled, his teeth gritted.

But his limbs refused.

It wasn't fear.

It was rejection — as if the floor itself was pushing him out, telling him he didn't belong.

He growled low, furious that his body dared defy him.

"I said move!"

He forced one foot forward. Then another. Each step felt like dragging stone uphill through water. His bones creaked. His skin tingled. And then—his system chimed again.

[System Alert: Dormant state detected. Unlocking suppressed potential…

Restriction Level Lowered: 8% Unleashed.]

A wave of heat surged through his limbs. His fingers flexed. The pressure still pressed against him, but his body finally began to respond.

"That's more like it."

He muttered, rolling his shoulders.

He approached the arena, now looming before him like a god's tomb.

Stone pillars jutted into the sky, cracked and cold. Inside, the central platform glowed faintly — and chained in the center, suspended slightly above the ground, was a woman.

Long, crimson hair clung to her body in thick strands. Her arms were bound in silver-threaded chains, magic inscriptions glowing dimly across her skin. Her head drooped forward, unmoving. But even unconscious, the aura around her surged like a storm waiting to snap.

"Penelopy."

Fenrir whispered.

He stepped forward.

A screech rang out.

FWOOOSH!

Blades of water and ice tore through the air, hurling themselves at him with vicious precision. Fenrir's eyes narrowed, and instinct took over.

[Master of Earth]

Stone erupted in front of him, forming a thick barrier.

The first blade pierced it like paper.

"What—?"

The second sliced through, grazing his shoulder. Blood splattered. Steam hissed.

He staggered back.

More blades followed — relentless, beautiful arcs of deadly mana. Fenrir dropped to the ground, rolling sideways and slamming his palm into the dirt.

"Reinforce. Multiply."

Four more shields rose. All of them shattered under the assault.

The air grew colder. Mana thicker.

And Penelopy still hadn't opened her eyes.

"Are you kidding me? She's unconscious?"

Fenrir muttered, ducking another ice spike that narrowly missed impaling his leg.

"She's fighting in her sleep?!"

He slammed his foot down, anchoring himself with hardened stone and summoned a protective dome over his body.

The mana within the attacks was sharp, refined, and layered with elemental pressure that felt ancient. He could feel it — this was no ordinary control. It was instinctual.Engraved into her very soul.

She wasn't casting spells.

She was breathing them.

Fenrir clenched his fists, grinning despite the cut on his cheek.

"You really grew up, didn't you?"

He stared at the chained woman in the center of the arena.

"She was a hot-headed brat when I knew her. Now she's a monster. I like it."

He tightened his stance, stones forming boots around his legs to ground him.

"Let's see how far this goes."

And with a low growl, he charged straight into the storm of blades.

Fenrir gritted his teeth as another volley of ice-blades shattered his stone wall and forced him to retreat again.

The arena floor was already littered with debris—chunks of earth and stone torn apart like paper.

Every time he tried to approach Penelopy, the mana in the air thickened, sharpening around her like a thousand spears ready to strike.

"Damn it!!~"

He muttered, dodging another blade that sliced through the ground beside him.

"She's stronger than me right now. And she's not even awake."

Penelopy remained suspended, her head still lowered, her body unmoving.

But her magic lashed out like it had a will of its own, relentless and precise. She wasn't holding back—every attack was aimed to kill.

Fenrir crouched behind the remains of a half-broken pillar, sweat sliding down his temple.

"If I don't get close, I'm going to be turned into a pincushion."

He opened his system with a flick of his hand.

A ripple tore through space, and with a flash of light and smoke, a massive draconic shape emerged beside him. Nedrax, the obsidian-scaled dragon, spread his wings and snarled.

"You better have a good reason for this. You've pulled me out of my den while I was asleep."

Nedrax growled.

"Yeah, yeah. You see that? That's Penelopy. She's trying to murder me while asleep. I need a distraction"

Fenrir said quickly, pointing toward the chained girl. "

Nedrax narrowed his eyes.

"You want me to distract that mana storm with legs?"

Fenrir nodded.

"I just need time to get close. You're fast. Fly around. Don't die."

Nedrax scoffed.

"You always ask for suicidal favors."

Before Fenrir could retort, Penelopy's head snapped up.

Just slightly.

Her eyes didn't open. But the shift was enough.

The barrage of blades halted for a single heartbeat.

Then, they turned—all aiming at Nedrax.

The dragon's wings flared out.

"Oh, hells."

FWOOSH!

The storm of blades screamed toward him, and Nedrax shot into the air, cursing.

"Fine! You want a dance, girl? Let's see if you can keep up!"

Fenrir didn't waste the moment. As Penelopy's focus shifted entirely to the airborne dragon, he ran low across the arena, his feet encased in earth to boost his speed.

This was his chance. While Nedrax dodged death from above, Fenrir would close the distance.

Fenrir dashed forward, weaving between shards of frozen mana that still cracked the air from Penelopy's overflowing aura.

Nedrax roared above, drawing her attacks with bursts of flame and speed. As Fenrir neared the center, he felt the sheer force radiating off her.

"Just a few more steps. Then I end this."

He whispered.

Every step closer felt like dragging his body through a collapsing star. The chains around Penelope pulsed with ancient runes, reacting violently to his presence.

Fenrir gritted his teeth, eyes fixed on her.