The throne room of the Eternal Citadel.
Seated upon the throne, half-lidded eyes glaring like they were bored of existence itself, sat Him.
The Supreme Sovereign of the Blood Empire, the Primordial Heir, the Immortal King, the Only Blessed, the High Arbiter of Realms, the Void's Left-Hand, and according to some less flattering but oddly accurate street graffiti in the lower moons.
"That One Asshole Who Won't Die."
He slouched on the Blood Throne, one leg over the other, chin resting lazily on his fist.
The ministers were talking again.
"...Lord Helmin's moons are rebelling again," Yelled Minister Xel, who'd been dead twice and still somehow managed to be a pain in the ass.
"Execute two, bless five, and rename the capital something inspirational," said the King without looking up. "Like a Moon Hole. Or Sadrock."
"That's what you called the last two," Xel sniffed.
"Well, maybe they should stop rebelling if they want better branding."
Across the hall, Minister Vior snorted. "I told you we should've let them have representative voting."
"And I told you that letting immortal sword monks vote is how we got Screaming Lord Jashik elected as governor of Sector Twelve," said Xel.
"That was ONE time…"
"That was last week. He challenged a sun to single combat."
"To be fair," the King said, raising a finger, "he won."
"Barely!"
"It's the sun. There's no 'barely' in sun fights, Xel."
More muttering.
More orbit-charts and soul-economy graphs floating in the air, all of which the King ignored.
Something about grain riots in the southern war provinces.
Something about a talking horse demanding independence.
Something about Lord Commander Kuran demanding to duel his own clone for strategic dominance.
God, it was exhausting being in charge.
He missed the days when he only had to worry about being stabbed, not taxed.
He yawned openly, to the visible discomfort of several ministers.
Then came the real pain.
"Your Radiance," spoke Minister Lune, who always sounded like her wine was smarter than you.
"Your personal vaults have overflowed again. The divine crystal containment spheres are leaking. Into the low atmosphere. We had four weather demons quit last week."
"So?" he asked.
"They're unionized now."
"Tell them they can strike all they want. The rain will still fall blood-red."
"You did authorize that last cycle, yes."
A beat.
"You want me to make it less blood-colored?" the King asked, arching an eyebrow.
"…I withdraw the complaint."
He smiled faintly. Victory. Tiny. Petty. Delicious.
"Next," he said.
Minister Garlon stepped forward.
His beard was still absurd.
At this point, the King was convinced it had eaten a few librarians and learned to talk.
"The Fourth Council of Starless Deities is requesting a reduction in tribute rates," Garlon announced.
The King perked up.
"Oh, them? The pantheon with the creepy eyes?"
"They've filed an official petition.."
"Burn it."
"Your Radiance…"
"And the messenger."
Another minister cleared her throat. "Technically, they don't use messengers. They scream their petitions directly into our psychospiritual atmosphere."
The King blinked. "Cool. Burn the air, then."
There was a pause.
Quills hovered nervously.
"Noted."
The King was just about to request his sixth snack tray of the day, something fried, spicy, and possibly illegal when Minister Garlon's beard flared with energy.
He stiffened.
Everyone did.
A low noise filled the throne room.
A single vibration that made even gods remember they were once meat.
The banners stopped swaying.
The Blood Throne pulsed.
The Will of the Battlefield was speaking.
Garlon raised a scroll glowing with soul-light.
"New planetary integration," he said, voice grave.
"By the decree of the Will, as received this fourth cycle of the Crimson Bell, a world designated as…"
"Make it fast, Garlon," the King sighed. "You know I haven't eaten yet."
"Y-yes, Your Radiance. The world designated Sol-3 is scheduled for integration into the Battlefield within twenty-seven planetary rotations. It is a blue-class civilization. Pre-warp. Energy grade minimal. Estimated survivability on arrival… less than three percent."
Another minister leaned in. "That's basically a rock with wifi."
"Wasn't your world rated blue-class?" the King muttered.
"I survived," the minister replied smugly.
"No, your dad's wallet survived. You just rode it."
The King waved a hand. "Continue."
"Name of world, as provided by the Will… Earth."
The world froze.
Or rather, the ministers did.
The throne room didn't get cold it got heavy.
Like the universe had taken a long, suspicious breath.
The King blinked once.
Then twice.
Then he leaned forward, and for the first time in what might've been a decade, he actually paid attention.
"…what did you say?"
Minister Garlon swallowed. "Earth, Your Radiance."
The King's face twitched.
His jaw moved like he was chewing a piece of meat he hadn't expected to bite into.
He stared at Will's projection floating midair.
Sol-3.
Blue class.
Crude satellites, low atmosphere integrity, population in the billions.
Weak, chaotic, chronically online.
Earth.
The planet he'd died on.
The one where he was just another human with student debt, bad knees, and an unhealthy obsession with garlic naan.
He gripped the armrest of the Blood Throne.
Only two years.
Only two fucking years had passed there.
And here? Five thousand.
Internally, he screamed.
No no no no why now?!
I just upgraded the court wine!
I don't even remember where I buried my first general!
That man's sword is STILL stuck in the moon.
A minister spoke timidly, trying to move the meeting forward. "Shall we dispatch sub-commanders to the arrival zone to pre-categorize the refugees? Begin genetic stratification and memory compression scans…"
"No," the King snapped.
His voice cracked the air like a war god's whip.
The banners trembled.
The blood of old emperors shivered in their dead tapestries.
Every minister took a respectful step back.
"No… I'll handle it."
They looked up, wide-eyed.
The King didn't handle things.
He decreed them.
He stood from the throne slowly.
Like a mountain getting bored.
His robes shifted from starlight to bone-etched red silk, and his crown of shadows grew denser.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
Inside his mind, though?
Shit. Earth. Fuck. My mom. My DAD?! Wait, did I leave the oven on? I never even told them I died. What if they bring my old phone? Oh gods, what if someone shows up with screenshots of my Twitter feed?!
He coughed.
Composed himself. "What's the projected arrival location?"
Minister Garlon checked his scroll. "Within the Veil of Jurnas. Third hemisphere of Sector V.."
"MY hemisphere," the King interrupted.
"Yes, Your Radiance."
The King sighed.
"Fine. Summon the Blood Saints. All of them. If they're not in a duel or deep meditation, they come. And tell General Kuran to… you know what, don't tell him anything. He's still mad that I killed his dad."
"A wise strategy," the minister said.
The King narrowed his eyes. "Was that sarcasm?"
The minister flinched. "N-no, Your Radiance."
"I should kill you just in case."
The minister looked like he agreed.
The King rubbed his temple.
He could already feel the headache.
He hadn't slept in… well, technically he didn't sleep anymore.
That feature had been cultivated out.
But he missed dreaming.
And bagels.
Especially the bagels.
He turned back to Will's projection.
The data stream flowed endlessly.
Images.
Maps.
Planetary frequencies.
Fragmented soul readings.
He paused it.
Zoomed in.
There.
One line.
DNA match: 99.7%.
Status: Earth-origin civilian.
Name: [REDACTED]. Status: Alive.
His mother.
He rubbed his face. "Gods above… I'm going to have to explain why I have three wives, a sentient sword, and a palace shaped like my own face."
A nearby aide coughed politely. "Actually, Your Radiance… four wives. You married the Sword of Tears last cycle."
"Right. Shit."
He looked around.
Everyone was staring at him like he was at the edge of an unspeakable cliff.
He forced a grin. "Relax, all of you. It's just Earth."
Then he turned, stepped off the dais, and vanished in a ripple of blood-red light.
He appeared minutes later in his private chambers a floating garden the size of a city, orbiting a star made entirely of his enemies' regrets.
He collapsed into a bed made of dragon hide and sighed so hard a nearby planet aged slightly.
He stared at the sky. "Earth. Freaking Earth. The planet where I had to microwave water for tea."
A pause.
He looked at the assistant who had appeared beside him in respectful silence.
"…do you think they still have cheese pizza?"
"Earth?" the assistant blinked. "Possibly."
The King nodded slowly.
Then frowned.
"Tell the alchemists to invent it. And if they get it wrong, throw them into the soul furnaces."
"Of course, your radiance."
He leaned back.
They were coming.
And so was everything he tried to forget.