The sky was on fire.
Not from war.
Not this time.
No invading gods, no collapsing stars, no angry dragons on performance-enhancing incense.
Just fireworks.
Miles-wide, realm-shaking, retina-destroying fireworks.
The Day of Ten Thousand Kneels had begun.
Across the Blood Empire, planets dimmed their suns, moons fell silent, and billions knelt in synchronized reverence.
From the frost-continent of Vrexia to the screaming cloud-chasms of Jyul, his name was carved into wind, etched into magma, sung by orbiting choirs made entirely of cloned falsettos.
A beautiful display of love, loyalty, and mildly disturbing devotion.
And the King? The Supreme Sovereign of the Blood Empire? The Primordial Heir?
He was hiding behind a pillar, chewing on an aggressively overstuffed dumpling.
"I hate this day," he muttered around the steaming mouthful.
The dumpling assistant, a well-groomed culinary assassin named Saet, said nothing.
Her job was to deliver snacks, not opinions.
He peeked around the edge of the obsidian column.
Far below, the Central Court was flooded with crimson light.
Tens of thousands of cultivators, warlords, diplomats, and imperial librarians stood perfectly still, heads bowed in synchronized terror-love.
He took another bite.
Somewhere in the distance, a choir hit a note so high it killed a bird.
"That was a screephawk," the King said. "Endangered, too."
Saet sighed. "Shall I file a petition with the Wildlife Preservation Division, Your Radiance?"
"Yeah, send them a muffin basket and a note that says 'Oops.'"
He leaned back against the pillar and stared up at the flaming sky.
His empire was celebrating him again.
Honoring the day he'd personally shattered the Endless Sky Legion and turned its general into a fountain.
Thousands of planets.
Millions of warriors.
All kneeling.
And still, in the back of his mind.
Earth.
Only two years.
Two stupid, tiny, ketchup-stained years since he'd last walked that blue dirtball.
He remembered the taste of bad vending machine coffee.
The exact jingle of the supermarket self-checkout voice.
The way his mother made fried okra and then pretended she didn't.
The thought made him want to scream.
Instead, he burped softly and adjusted his crown.
"Your Radiance," a Blood Priest called from below, bowing so deeply his spine audibly creaked. "Shall we commence the Final Chant of Absolute Gratitude?"
The King sighed. "Do we have to call it that?"
"You named it yourself."
"Drunk."
The priest didn't move.
"Fine," the King muttered. "Commence the Chant. Try not to melt anyone this time."
He stepped from behind the pillar and walked lazily toward the ceremonial overlook.
The throne room, usually his private slice of moodily lit dominance, had been opened to the empire's elite.
As he appeared, the air vibrated.
Ten thousand throats chanted his titles.
Not in sync.
Not perfectly.
But with the religious belief that if they didn't chant, someone would spontaneously combust.
He waved.
Kind of.
More like a tired flex of two fingers.
"You may rise," he said.
Everyone stood at once, synchronized like a weapon.
He scanned the crowd.
All familiar.
All loyal.
Some of them were personally blessed by him.
He could feel their pulse in his own blood.
It should've comforted him.
But again.
Earth.
He cleared his throat. "Minister Garlon, how many screephawks were left in the wild?"
The bearded man in question appeared beside him like a summoned idea. "Twelve, Your Radiance. Eleven now."
"Right. Add another statue to the memorial garden. Make it scream."
"Of course."
The ceremony dragged on.
Priests sang.
One priest stepped forward, arms raised, voice trembling with ancient fire.
He began to chant not a prayer, but a proclamation:
"When skies were ash and gods lay torn,
The bloodless King of none was born.
With mortal hand and broken blade,
He slew the night the stars had made.
Ten thousand fell, yet he stood tall,
The Lord who weeps not when they fall.
His crown was fire, his throne was bone
He made the battlefield his own."
A hush followed, heavy with reverence.
The King just rolled his eyes.
Then the war poet began his epic, which took thirty-two minutes and involved a lot of crying. Some dragons danced.
Somewhere during the third verse of "O Blood So Red, O King So Deadly," the King tuned out completely.
His mind wandered back.
What would Earth be like now?
Was his old apartment still there?
Had they cleared out his browser history?
What if some unlucky customs official ended up inspecting the new arrivals and had to process a guy who thought he was dead?
And his mom.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He still remembered the feel of her hand, ruffling his hair when he was five.
Her voice when she was mad.
The exact way she said, "Put the damn phone down at dinner."
He opened his eyes and stared into the fire-lit crowd.
He felt nothing.
Except the faint noise in the back of his skull.
The Will of the Battlefield, always present, like a clock counting down.
Twenty-six days.
He straightened as a new figure was brought forward.
Small.
Scrawny.
Young.
A teenager, maybe.
Dirty. Barefoot. Wearing stitched-together rags and a look of pure terror.
"Petitioner," intoned the priest beside the boy. "From the edge of the Ravaged Belt. Requests entry into the Fold."
The King raised an eyebrow.
Most of his empire didn't bother sending walk-ins anymore.
He stepped forward, robes whispering across the marble.
The boy collapsed, forehead to the floor.
"Please," the boy croaked. "I don't want to be strong. I just don't want to die."
The room stilled.
Interesting.
The King crouched in front of him.
The boy flinched.
The King's fingers glowed faintly.
He reached out.
Touched the boy's forehead.
The blood pulsed.
The bond snapped into place.
And the boy's eyes widened.
His spine straightened. Muscles twitched.
His breath evened. And deep inside him, a tiny seed of power began to bloom.
The King stood.
"Welcome to my empire," he said. "Don't waste it."
The boy was dragged away by helpful aides.
The room remained quiet.
The King turned back to the fire-lit crowd.
Eyes distant.
He used to beg like that.
Once. A long time ago.
On a battlefield where he didn't even know which end of the sword to hold.
He returned to his throne.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur of chanting, praise, and loyal fanaticism.
When it ended, the court dispersed.
The skies dimmed.
The fireworks fizzled out.
The King stood alone again, staring at a sky without stars.
"How long?" he asked softly.
Minister Garlon appeared behind him. "Twenty-five days and sixteen hours."
The King nodded.
Then said, almost wishfully.
"God help me. They still probably have that awful instant coffee."