In a large, luxurious hall, King Dragomof sat upon his throne, a mountain of gold and obsidian carved into the likeness of a coiled dragon. Jewels burned along its arms like captured suns, and the air itself felt heavy beneath the pressure of draconic authority. Massive pillars rose to a vaulted ceiling where enchanted constellations drifted slowly, mimicking a sky long conquered by dragonkind.
Across a long table of blackstone and gold inlay sat the continent's most influential powers.
Lord Brontes Orcas lounged with brutal ease, tusked grin wide as he tore meat from a silver platter with his bare hands. To his right, Saron Sylvaris sat straight-backed and immaculate, silver hair bound neatly, eyes sharp with quiet calculation as his fingers traced faint patterns in the air—habitual, unconscious forecasting. Beside him reclined Nronyes, a lesser dragon lord known for his appetite for spectacle and bloodshed, his scaled tail flicking lazily as goblets refilled themselves at his gesture.
Laughter echoed through the hall.
"The Tournament of Power will remind the world," Dragomof boomed, his voice rolling like thunder, "why the Dragon Continent stands above all others. Strength. Lineage. Fire. These are truths no clever schemes can replace."
Brontes slammed his fist against the table, making plates jump. "Hah! Let the humans come. I hope they send their best. I've grown bored of breaking children."
Saron smiled thinly. "Statistically, their best will not matter. Their historical performance curve remains… flat."
Nronyes chuckled, flame flickering between his teeth. "Still, it is amusing they came at all. Like ants marching toward a feast."
Dragomof leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "This year's betting pools are already overflowing. The dragons will profit twice—once in victory, once in coin."
Then—
The massive doors of the hall creaked open.
Conversation faltered.
A human entered.
He was old, thin, and unimpressive by every visible metric. His robes were plain, his posture relaxed, his steps unhurried. He carried no weapon, no banner, no visible protection. The echo of his footsteps felt out of place in a room built to glorify conquest.
Elder Harnn inclined his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the throne without honoring it.
In a dry, almost bored tone, he said,
"I am representing the human race."
Silence.
Then contempt.
Brontes snorted. "You walked into the wrong hall, old man."
Nronyes narrowed his eyes. "Is this a joke?"
Saron studied Harnn more carefully, brow creasing. "Interesting," he murmured. "No detectable ambition."
Dragomof did not rise. He did not need to. He looked down from his throne as one might regard a curiosity brought in by accident.
"And who," the king rumbled, "invited you?"
Harnn smiled faintly. "No one."
A ripple of laughter spread through the room.
"You humans truly are shameless," Brontes growled. "Coming uninvited to discuss a tournament you won't survive."
Harnn nodded. "That's true. I wasn't going to be invited."
He paused, then added casually,
"So I came to place a bet."
The laughter grew louder.
Dragomof's eyes gleamed. "A bet?"
"Yes," Harnn replied. "I am betting that the human race will fight—and win—all of their battles."
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
Then the hall erupted.
Brontes roared with laughter, pounding the table so hard a goblet shattered. Nronyes laughed openly, flame spilling from his mouth. Even several attending nobles failed to hide their amusement.
"All their battles?" Dragomof repeated, delighted. "Every single one?"
"Yes."
Dragomof threw his head back and laughed, a booming, echoing sound that rattled the chandeliers. "Come here, my dear friend," he said mockingly. "Come closer. I want to see the face of a man willing to lose everything."
Harnn inclined his head again.
So be it, he thought, irritation flaring briefly beneath his calm. You will regret inviting me closer than you intended.
He walked forward.
Dragomof leaned down from his throne, claws resting on the armrests. "And what," the king asked, "are you wagering?"
Harnn met his gaze without fear. "Nothing I cannot afford to lose."
That answer wiped the smile from Saron's face.
Dragomof, however, was still amused. "Very well. The Dragon Empire accepts. We'll make it interesting. If humanity fails even once, you forfeit your holdings on the continent. All of them."
Harnn smiled. "Agreed."
"And if, by some miracle," Dragomof continued, voice dripping with sarcasm, "your ants survive?"
Harnn's eyes sharpened for the briefest moment.
"Then the Dragon Empire will honor its contracts."
A strange chill passed through the hall.
Dragomof waved a claw dismissively. "Done!"
The laughter returned, louder than before.
Harnn turned and left without another word.
---
The arena thundered with sound.
Drums beat like war-hearts, massive and relentless, shaking the ground beneath tens of thousands of spectators. Stone terraces rose in perfect circles around the colossal battlefield, banners of every race snapping in the wind. Mana lights flared overhead, illuminating the sand-stained stone where blood had already soaked through centuries of combat.
The Tournament of Power had begun.
Crowds roared as champions entered—dragons descending in controlled arcs of flame, orcs stomping through gates of iron, elves stepping lightly onto the sands as though the ground itself welcomed them.
And then—
Humans.
No fanfare. No spectacle.
They walked out in measured formation, armor plain but well-fitted, expressions calm. No one roared for them. A few laughed. Some jeered.
High above, in the royal viewing gallery, Dragomof reclined comfortably, goblet in hand.
"Which one loses first?" Brontes asked eagerly.
"Statistically," Saron replied, eyes narrowed, "the second match."
Nala watched silently from the shadows, gaze fixed not on the fighters—but on the human camp visible beyond the arena walls.
The drums stopped.
The first match was called.
Steel rang against steel. Magic exploded. A human fighter—disciplined, precise—faced an orc twice his size. The crowd expected a quick end.
Instead, minutes passed.
Then more.
The orc slowed.
The human did not.
A final strike landed.
Silence—then uproar.
The human won.
Dragomof laughed. "Luck!"
The second match began.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
Humans lost—but did not break. Those who lost withdrew intact, alive, replaced by others equally prepared. Victories accumulated—not flashy, not overwhelming, but undeniable.
Down in the Zaiton-Area, humans were organised, supply lines flowed smoothly. Healers worked without shortage. Fighters rotated efficiently.
Elder Harnn stood among ledgers and messengers, listening to reports arrive exactly when expected.
High above, Saron's confidence thinned.
"This… is inefficient," he muttered. "How are these eak humans able to keep up"
Princess Nala finally smiled.
"They're fighting to give us the impression of weakness."
The drums beat again.
Then finally king Dragomof Announced, it's time for theain event.
That was a chance for all our youngsters to test their limits.
A young handsome human stepped into the arena.
Kaizen Zaiton.
Spear still wrapped in black cloth.
And somewhere, deep beneath the laughter of dragons—
The world began to shift.