The Weight of a Throne
Round One ended.
But for some, the tournament never truly paused.
Lightning split the sky.
A column of blue-white energy tore open space itself, and Hydron stepped through it, landing before the towering gates of his homeworld.
Planet Rimor.
Above him rose a colossal castle of stormstone and crystal, its spires piercing the clouds as if challenging the heavens themselves. Thunder rolled endlessly around it—not violent, but obedient.
Hydron walked forward.
Every step echoed with restraint.
Inside, the halls were vast and cold, lined with ancient sigils and murals depicting warriors wielding tridents beneath a sky split by divine lightning. Servants bowed as he passed, but Hydron did not slow.
He entered the Throne Room.
At its center sat an old man upon a massive throne carved from sky-metal.
His presence alone bent the air.
Sharp blue eyes.
Weathered skin.
A regal trident resting casually in his grasp—radiating authority older than empires.
Lord Jethron.
King of Rimor.
Chosen of the Skyfathers.
And Hydron's father.
The moment Hydron stepped inside, a heavy voice filled the hall.
"You've returned, Hydron."
Hydron bowed his head slightly.
"Yes, Father."
Jethron's gaze sharpened. "Where have you been all this time?"
"Lord Sam," Hydron replied evenly. "He has begun a tournament to re-rank his generals. I am participating."
Silence followed.
Then—
"And did you win?" Jethron asked.
Hydron nodded once. "Round One is complete. Round Two remains."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"I must win," Hydron added. "I made a promise."
For a brief moment, Yaksh's face crossed his mind—bloodied, standing, refusing to fall.
Jethron leaned back slightly.
"Then why are you here?" the king asked.
"Return and finish your match. If you rise higher in the God Slayer's ranks, Planet Rimor benefits."
His voice grew colder.
"With that position, we gain leverage. Support from the God Slayer Army. Access to the Blood Legion's trade routes. Our planetary economy strengthens."
Hydron clenched his fist.
"Father… it isn't that simple."
Jethron's eyes narrowed.
"Explain."
"My current state is not enough," Hydron said carefully. "My opponents in Round Two are far stronger. With only my spear, I can go no further."
The throne room trembled slightly.
"You forget yourself," Jethron said sharply.
"After me, you are the strongest warrior of Rimor. You are my successor. Royal blood flows through you."
He leaned forward.
"Words like these do not suit a future king."
Hydron lowered his gaze.
"I am not denying my duty. I am stating reality."
Jethron's grip tightened around his trident.
"Then tell me," he demanded,
"what do you want?"
Hydron inhaled slowly.
"I want the Pure Trident."
The air froze.
"With it," Hydron continued, "I can fully receive the Skyfathers' blessings. Their magic. Their authority."
His voice hardened.
"I will win."
Jethron rose from the throne.
"Have you lost your mind?" he thundered.
"You know what that weapon is."
He slammed the trident into the ground.
"It is the legacy of our ancestors. The strongest weapon of Rimor. It chooses its wielder—and even then, its power shortens their lifespan."
His eyes burned.
"I will not allow you to touch it."
Hydron stepped forward.
"Father, I am the one who will inherit Rimor. Whether now or later, that trident will be mine."
Jethron's voice turned venomous.
"You are not worthy of the throne yet."
Silence cut deep.
"If you cannot win without the trident," Jethron continued coldly,
"then that is your weakness. Become stronger first."
Hydron stood still.
Then bowed.
"…Thank you for your time, Father."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Hydron stopped.
Jethron exhaled slowly.
"I will not give you the Pure Trident," he said.
"But I can give you something else."
The throne room darkened.
Clouds formed inside the chamber itself, mist coiling unnaturally through the air. Lightning crackled softly.
From the fog, a dark blue stone rose—small, jagged, pulsing with restrained power.
Jethron spoke quietly.
"This is the missing half of the stone embedded in your spear."
Hydron's breath caught.
"When merged," Jethron continued, "your power will exceed its current limits. This stone was gifted to us by the Skyfathers themselves."
The fragment drifted forward.
It stopped in front of Hydron.
Then settled into his palm.
Jethron's lips curved upward.
Hydron looked at the stone.
Then up at his father.
Slowly—
They smiled.
Not warmly.
Not proudly.
But with shared ambition.
The storm outside roared louder.
And far away—
The tournament waited.
Valkyrie — A Different Kind of Preparation
A portal bloomed with crimson light.
Horny Valkyrie stepped through and arrived on her homeworld, the air immediately warmer, heavier, saturated with indulgence. Her castle rose above the landscape like a monument to excess—white stone, curved towers, balconies draped in silk.
She didn't waste time.
Moments later, she sank into a marble bathtub filled with steaming water and silver foam. A thin towel clung loosely to her body, barely doing its job, leaving smooth shoulders and her back exposed. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
As the water embraced her skin, the marks left by battle began to fade.
Bruises vanished.
Scratches disappeared.
Her skin regained its flawless glow—brighter than before.
Power wasn't the only thing she restored here.
She stepped out of the bath refreshed, slipping into a short white dress—simple, elegant, deceptively innocent. Nothing about her now suggested a battlefield.
A voice spoke from behind her.
"You've returned, my lady."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Just a little while ago," Valkyrie replied casually.
The man standing there—her attendant, impeccably dressed—bowed slightly.
"How did your match go?"
She smiled. "Perfectly."
Then her smile sharpened.
"And it will continue that way."
She paused, rolling her shoulders as if testing her strength.
"But I am… tired. I need to recover my energy."
She stepped closer.
Too close.
The attendant stiffened—but didn't retreat.
The moment lingered, charged with unspoken intent.
Later, the castle grew quiet.
The moon rose high.
As they rested, the attendant finally asked softly, "And your plan for winning the tournament, my lady?"
Valkyrie's eyes gleamed in the darkness.
"I still haven't used my true transformation," she murmured.
"No one has seen it."
Her smile turned dangerous.
"They'll find out… when it's too late."
Sage — The Weight of Permission
Not everyone returned to their world.
Sage remained.
Back at Sam's home, the atmosphere was far calmer than any battlefield. Ruhi ran around the living space, laughing, dragging Sage into her games. For once, he wasn't a general.
He was just… there.
Sam watched them for a moment, then spoke.
"Round Two," Sam said. "You know the matchup, Sage."
Sage nodded. "Yes, Master."
"Ruhi selected three contestants for the first semi-final," Sam continued.
"You. Valkyrie. Hydron."
Sage stopped moving.
"One ring," Sam added. "All three of you."
Silence followed.
"You'll need a plan," Sam said evenly.
Sage considered it carefully.
"Master," he said at last, "may I reveal my true power tomorrow?"
Sam studied him. "You may."
"But," Sam added, "what power do you intend to use?"
Sage hesitated.
"There is a sword," he said quietly.
"One from your collection. It aligns with my full potential. Without it… my power cannot be expressed completely."
Sam's gaze hardened.
"And what makes you think," he asked coldly,
"that I would favor you over the others?"
Sage straightened.
"I do not," he replied calmly. "If you refuse, I will fight regardless."
He bowed slightly.
"As you wish, Master."
Before Sam could respond—
"Dad!"
Ruhi tugged at Sam's sleeve.
"Please let Sage Uncle borrow it," she said earnestly.
"That's the only way the fight will be fun."
Sam sighed.
Then smiled faintly.
"Alright," he said. "Just this once."
He looked at Sage.
"But you tell no one that I allowed it."
Sage's eyes widened—just barely.
"…Understood."
That night, the house finally went quiet.
Plans were made.
Secrets were set in motion.
Across worlds—
A weapon was being merged.
A forbidden form was being prepared.
And a borrowed blade waited to be drawn.
Round Two was coming.
And this time—
No one would be holding back.