It had been three hours since The Moon Incident. Three hours of blissful, fragile silence. Aetherion sat on his couch, his posture a masterpiece of casual disinterest, a man who had once stopped a volcano by simply offering it a cup of tea. He was scrolling through his System notifications with the sort of detached calm one reserves for junk mail. Most were mundane, nonsensical alerts about his stats.
[ [Alert] Your toenail growth has reached an astronomical level. Agility +5.]
[ [Alert] You have successfully blinked three times in a row. Endurance +100.]
[ [Alert] Your ability to resist the urge to buy that ridiculously overpriced coffee mug has been noted. Willpower +9999.]
He just sighed and swiped them away. The last of his coffee was a distant, fond memory, the government agent had finally left after a frantic phone call to his superiors, and the moon was still smiling like it knew a secret only Aetherion could appreciate. Peace had returned to his small apartment, a peace as delicate as a spider's web.
Which, naturally, meant it was about to end.
A new notification, bolded and throbbing with a sense of urgency, flashed in the corner of his vision. This one wasn't a passive-aggressive update about his willpower.
___________________________________
[Urgent Announcement]
The Grand Cosmic Martial Arts Tournament is now accepting participants.
Entry fee: None.
Reward: A lifetime supply of "Dragon Puff" brand spicy noodles.
_______________________________________
Aetherion's casual posture vanished. He sat up so straight and fast that the worn springs in his couch screamed in protest. His eyes, which had been glazed over a moment ago, were now laser-focused on the text. "Free… noodles?" he muttered, the words a sacred vow.
He wasn't interested in the martial arts part. He had seen enough cosmos-shattering duels to last him a dozen lifetimes. The 'cosmic' part of the tournament was also a bore, just an over-the-top setting for galactic egos to clash. And the fact that these tournaments usually ended with several small galaxies being accidentally imploded? That was just a Tuesday.
But free food? A lifetime supply of spicy noodles? That was a cause worth fighting for. That was a prize worth getting out of his pajamas for.
The sign-up process was simple, perhaps insultingly so. The System didn't even ask for his name or qualifications. It just presented him with a big, glowing "Join" button. He tapped it with the reverence of a man accepting a knighthood.
The next moment, reality politely stepped aside. The walls of his apartment shimmered, dissolving into glittering, multi-colored light. His battered couch vanished beneath him, replaced by a momentary sensation of weightlessness.
Aetherion didn't even have time to be surprised; he'd been teleported for less.
He landed with a soft thud on a floating arena the size of a city.
The air was crisp, charged with raw magical energy, and the ground beneath his feet was a pristine, polished chrome that reflected the impossibly vibrant nebula surrounding them. All around, alien warriors of every imaginable shape and size warmed up. Some were breathing fire, the flames an intense violet that danced harmlessly on the arena floor.
Others were juggling asteroids the size of houses for fun, their muscles rippling with god-like power.
Above them all, a colossal hologram of the Tournament Host boomed across the sky. He was a being of pure light, eight meters tall, and wearing a suit so shiny it reflected entire constellations in every one of its countless facets.
"WELCOME, CHALLENGERS!" the Host's voice thundered, rattling the very air. "Today, you fight for glory, honor, and possibly snacks!"
Aetherion's stomach growled, a surprisingly loud and very human sound in this celestial gathering.
He had skipped lunch for this, and a pang of deep regret hit him. But he quickly reminded himself of the prize: a lifetime supply of spicy noodles. It was a trade-off he was willing to make.
The first match began instantly. A roar echoed across the arena as an enormous, scaly lizard-man swung a sword the size of a bus. His opponent, a thin, purple-skinned sorcerer with three eyes, raised his staff and chanted a spell that made the very air crackle with violent, unpredictable electricity. The scene was intense, a glorious spectacle of cosmic power and brute strength.
Aetherion, however, was busy examining the snack table in the far corner of the arena. It was a long, pristine table laden with treats from across the galaxy. He picked up a deep-fried orb that smelled like a distant solar system and popped it into his mouth. It tasted surprisingly good, like a mix of fried shrimp and existential dread.
The Host's voice cut through his contemplation. "Contestant #77! You're up!"
Aetherion looked up from the table, a perfectly crisp pastry in each hand. "Huh? Oh. Right. Me." He finished the last pastry in a single, unhurried bite and dusted his hands off.
He stepped into the arena with the tired slump of a man forced to do chores on his day off. His opponent stood ready, a literal mountain of muscle wearing a helmet shaped like a shark's head. The man, or whatever he was, snarled, cracked his knuckles, and a wave of pure, unfiltered menace rolled off him. The crowd roared in anticipation.
The referee, a small, multi-limbed creature in a tiny, official-looking vest, raised its arm. "Begin!"
Shark-Head charged forward, each step shaking the chrome arena floor.
He swung his massive, fist-sized fists toward Aetherion's face, a punch that could shatter a moon—or at least a brand-new, smiling one.
Aetherion… yawned.
He didn't even move.
The punch froze midair, just a few inches from his nose, as if it had hit an invisible, impossibly dense wall. It wasn't because he blocked it.
No, he hadn't raised a hand or cast a spell. He just politely asked physics to take a break for a second, and in his reality, physics listened.
"Uh… w-what—?" Shark-Head stammered, his eyes wide behind his helmet.
The sheer force of his punch was still present, but it was being held in place by an invisible, inexplicable force.
Aetherion, ever the gentleman, reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a cookie he'd snagged from the snack table and casually placed it in his opponent's trembling, impossibly strong hand.
"You look like you need a snack," he said, his voice completely deadpan.
The man blinked, staring at the cookie as if it were a reality-bending artifact. The next instant, he was lying outside the ring, the match over, a single cookie clutched in his giant fist. He hadn't been pushed; he had just… ceased to be in the ring.
___________________________________
[Victory!]
Reward: One voucher for free Dragon Puff noodles.
___________________________________
The crowd went wild. The commentators screamed about "unseen movements," "unmatched technique," and a "new school of telekinetic redirection." Aetherion just looked at the voucher, a single piece of paper, and wondered if there'd be extra dipping sauce for the noodles.
Somewhere, in the lavish VIP lounge high above the arena, The Host watched him closely on his colossal screen. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of intense, analytical scrutiny. He took a sip from his goblet, a celestial concoction of glowing nebulae and stardust.
"That one," The Host said to an unseen attendant. "Keep an eye on him."
Because this wasn't just about noodles. Something bigger was brewing, a conspiracy spanning entire galaxies, and Aetherion—whether he wanted to or not—was now in the center of it.