The once crisp, data-filled screen flickered, shifting from abstract figures to the unfolding game.
It hadn't officially started, yet something had already caught everyone's attention. In the desert biome, a lone figure stood barefoot on sun-scorched sand.
He wore a heavy, flowing white cape that billowed in the dry wind, a cross emblazoned across his back. The outfit was eerily familiar—strikingly similar to the one Aether saw the chicken-headed man wear.
The man stood motionless, his silhouette casting a long shadow over the barren wasteland. Then, with theatrical flair, he pulled a microphone from beneath his cloak.
It wasn't just any microphone—its deep hum reverberated through the room as it activated, commanding attention.
"Good morning!" the man's voice boomed, unnervingly chipper for such a desolate backdrop.
"Wait, is it afternoon already? Oh, my bad—Good afternoon, everyone!" His cheerfulness was exaggerated, crackling through the speakers, far too loud for the sparse, open desert.
The screen shifted with each word. Murmurs rose in the room—confusion, irritation, disbelief.
Aether moved slowly toward the table where Anna and Elara sat. Anna's gaze was locked on the screen, eyes narrowed in judgment, untouched food before her.
Elara, in contrast, was completely absorbed in her meal—ravenously devouring a bowl of extravagantly garnished salad. The greens looked impossibly fresh. No expense had been spared.
Mirakos, seated beside Aether, watched Elara with a mixture of longing and envy, his eyes flicking between her and the food. She caught his stare and raised an eyebrow, her voice soft, teasing.
"You hungry?"
He didn't answer. The hunger was too real to voice.
Elara waved over a passing butler. "Two extra-large. The special. And don't forget the sauce—the deluxe one," she added with a smile. The butler nodded and hurried off.
She leaned toward Aether and Mirakos, lowering her voice. "Super duper deluxe meat. Trust me—it'll make your mouth water."
It did. Aether felt the words settle in his gut, his stomach tightening in response. Mirakos looked similarly afflicted, eyes fixed on Elara's plate.
Aether sank into his seat, his gaze drifting back to the screen. The man was still talking, but now he was more noise than presence.
"Who's that guy?" Aether asked, eyes narrowing at the screen.
Anna didn't look up. "Dunno. They usually swap out the guest speaker every match. It's kind of their thing."
Aether refocused. The man continued his bizarre monologue, oblivious to the rising tension.
The audience waited for the match to begin, but he rambled on, lost in trivial musings.
"So this morning, I had the weirdest breakfast. Ever tried eating sand? Don't recommend it," he said, laughing at his own joke. "But I did find a fish! Not alive—don't worry." His mock sincerity was grating.
"You wouldn't believe what I will have for lunch, either!"
Aether's eyes narrowed. The man was treating the arena like a stage for stand-up comedy. It was insulting. Disrespectful. And yet, deliberate.
He was a spectacle. A joke. But the others—Aether, Anna, Elara—were starting to see the layers beneath the madness.
The match hadn't started, but something deeper was unfolding.
The man paused, coughed, then began again.
"The city is vast—colossal. The largest among a hundred cities stretched across the Stars," he said, his voice rising.
"But has anyone ever wondered what would happen if someone took full control? Not just of any city—but this one. Ghent. The jewel of the realm. Can you even fathom it?"
The words hung thick in the air. His gaze swept the invisible crowd.
"The Sky District. The Central District. Deacon. Nexus. Solmara, Sirocco… and countless more. The resources. The power. The potential!" His voice sharpened, burning with conviction.
"What if all of that—every piece of it—were under one hand? One mind? One will?"
He began pacing, each step kicking up dry sand, his feet sinking with deliberate weight. Murmurs rippled through the audience like a growing storm.
"What's he on about?" someone muttered.
"Is he mad?"
"Shut him up!"
"Kill him!"
Voices rose in anger and confusion. The man didn't flinch.
His eyes glittered with something dangerous. He turned back.
"You don't see it, do you?" His voice dropped, low and lethal.
"None of you can even begin to imagine the power at this city's core. But maybe… maybe you'll get a taste. When someone finally takes it all."
Tension thickened.
Suddenly, his tone shifted again—colder now.
"Three things are impossible to outrun in this city: the draw of fate, free will, and death. But the arrival of my king—the king of the New City—that's something else. That's a force beyond anything you've known. Greater than the sages. Greater than all who came before. You haven't even glimpsed what's coming."
He turned toward the camera, his voice rising like prophecy.
"The Central District—the heart of this entire city—is the largest for a reason. A heart within a heart, beating with untold power. Untouchable by any mortal hand."
His words swelled, vibrating with strange energy.
"Oh Lord above, you think you know what's coming?" he shouted. "You haven't seen anything yet."
He paused, then spoke again—this time slowly, savoring each word.
"Better…" he whispered.
The silence tightened.
"Greater…"
He let it sit in the air like a curse.
"More divine…" The reverence in his tone sent a chill through the stadium.
"Than a sage."
Each phrase was a slow puncture. The room held its breath.
Then—without warning—the air cracked open.
Energy coiled above like a serpent ready to strike. A bolt of lightning appeared out of nowhere, massive and pulsing like the heartbeat of a god. It arced downward, jagged and writhing like a colossal dragon of electricity.
The storm surged with divine fury.
The desert biome shuddered. The sand melted into shimmering glass, the ground reshaped by raw power. The desert was no longer a landscape—it was a canvas.
At the storm's eye, the man screamed.
It was no ordinary scream. Primal. Agonized. Exultant. The sound pierced the air with such intensity it froze everyone in place. His voice twisted, distorted, echoing beyond the physical, too vast to be held by the world.
He screamed louder, until it was no longer human.
Reality seemed to fray.
The storm answered. It rose, spiraling higher, sentient, alive.
And then—just as suddenly—it ended.
The man began to disintegrate. Slowly. Like sand falling from an invisible hourglass. His body vanished piece by piece, dissolving into nothing.
His voice—once booming—snuffed out like a candle.
Even the echo disappeared before it reached the furthest corners of the floor.
Erased. Entirely.
Aether, still holding Mirakos, shielded his eyes.
The lightning had seared the room with light brighter than any sun. His heart pounded, chest tight, as the storm's energy rippled through everything. The air itself felt alive, charged with something impossible.
"Too strong," he thought, barely able to keep up with what he'd seen. The power displayed wasn't just immense—it was divine. It left him breathless.
As the storm dissipated, the room was left tinged with its afterglow. Aether's mind raced. That wasn't just power—it was a warning. Something had been unleashed. Something beyond comprehension.
And yet, even amidst the silence, Aether sensed it: this was only the beginning.
The man was gone, erased—but the consequences were still unfolding.
The audience remained silent. Not even a whisper. Everyone was still trying to process what had just happened.
Aether looked up at the massive screen.
The game hadn't started.
But the final boss arrived.