The arena was carved directly into the bones of Viltrum's capital — a circle of white stone, polished smooth by centuries of combat. It was not a place for ceremony or games. It was where strength was proven, and where weakness was destroyed.
Chris stood at the center, golden shimmer faint across his skin, the plain Viltrumite uniform hanging awkwardly on him. Around the ring, soldiers and citizens gathered, their eyes sharp with curiosity. Few whispered. Most simply stared.
Above them, Thragg watched from a raised platform, his cloak billowing like a stormcloud. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes burned with cold calculation.
"You stand on Viltrum," Thragg said, voice carrying easily across the arena. "You are not one of us. Yet you live where others would have died. If you are strong, you will prove it. If you are weak, you will die. That is our law."
Chris cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. "Funny. Where I come from, we usually start with introductions."
Anissa smirked from the sidelines, arms folded. "Less talk, more fighting," she called out.
Six warriors entered the arena, each clad in armor, their bodies honed from centuries of war. They circled Chris like predators, sneers tugging at their lips. To them, he was just an upstart anomaly — one they would enjoy breaking.
The first charged.
Chris barely moved. His fist lashed out in a blur, faster than even he realized. The warrior crumpled mid-flight, body skidding across the arena floor.
The crowd stirred, murmurs breaking through the silence.
Another dove at him from above. Chris caught the Viltrumite by the throat, twisted, and hurled him into the wall with enough force to crack the stone.
The remaining four hesitated — but only for a breath. Then they came at him all at once.
For long minutes, the arena became a storm of fists and shockwaves. Chris moved with raw power, each strike carrying the weight of his perfected body. The warriors fought fiercely, with skill sharpened by centuries, but every blow they landed glanced off him, while every one of his punches sent them reeling.
He didn't fight with elegance. He didn't need to. His speed and strength eclipsed theirs, his body unyielding even under their combined assault. One by one, they fell — not dead, but broken, beaten, humiliated.
When the last warrior hit the ground, silence fell.
Chris stood alone in the center, chest rising and falling steadily. Dust drifted around him, golden light faintly trailing from his skin. He clenched his fists, ready for more, but none came.
Thragg rose slowly from his seat, his eyes never leaving Chris. The silence stretched, heavy and tense. Then, at last, he spoke.
"Enough."
He descended into the arena, boots echoing against the stone. For a moment, Chris wondered if this was it — if Thragg himself would test him. But instead, the Grand Regent simply circled him, studying him like a weapon fresh from the forge.
"You are not Viltrumite," Thragg said at last. "But you are not weak. For now… that is enough."
The crowd erupted into cheers and shouts, the roar of warriors acknowledging one more strong enough to stand among them.
Anissa's smirk widened. She stepped forward, clapping Chris on the shoulder. "Welcome to Viltrum," she said.
Chris exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. He didn't say it out loud, but the thought burned in his mind: This isn't home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, for now, he had been accepted.
The trial was over.