The summons came at dawn.
Chris was led to the great arena again, its white stone floor scarred with the memories of centuries of blood. The stands were filled this time — warriors, scholars, children, every Viltrumite in the capital watching. Their voices did not cheer or jeer. They were silent, waiting.
At the far end, Thragg stood cloaked in shadow, his presence like a blade pressed against every throat in the arena. His gaze swept the crowd, then fell on Chris.
"You wish to leave," Thragg said. It was not a question.
Chris's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Then you will prove you have the right."
From the gates, they came — not the trial warriors of months past, but Thragg's finest. Elites clad in the stark white battle suits of Viltrum, their figures nearly identical, every line of fabric stretched over bodies honed by centuries of war.
Their faces told the same story: hard jaws, piercing eyes, and the trademark Viltrumite mustaches — a shared mark of their heritage. The only differences lay in their skin tones, ranging from pale white to bronze to golden brown.
No colors. No variations. No armor.
They moved as one, living symbols of the empire's creed: strength without weakness, uniformity without question.
The sight of them drew a ripple through the crowd. These were not mere soldiers. These were Viltrum's finest predators, chosen to erase the outsider who dared to walk among them.
Chris stood in the center, golden shimmer crawling faintly across his skin. His suit was no longer Viltrumite red and white. Piece by piece, he had remade it over decades, forging it into gleaming white and radiant gold. Against the cold sameness of the elites, his presence blazed like defiance made flesh.
The elites struck as one. Six bodies blurred forward, fists hammering, grapples locking, blows raining down with enough force to shatter mountains.
Chris didn't move.
The first punch landed squarely against his jaw. The second slammed into his ribs. The third struck his back like a falling star.
He stood there, arms loose at his sides, golden shimmer glowing faintly across his skin. Their fists cracked the stone beneath his feet, their strikes echoed like thunder — but he didn't yield an inch.
Blow after blow rained down, relentless, merciless, until the very air trembled. Dust choked the arena. From the stands, it looked like he was swallowed by a storm of white suits and clenched fists.
And still he stood.
Minutes dragged into an eternity. The elites' breathing grew harsher, their strikes slower, their movements ragged. Chris's eyes narrowed. His jaw flexed. And then, at last, he moved.
His hand shot out, faster than their eyes could follow. He caught one elite by the throat and hurled him into the wall, stone exploding outward in a shower of dust.
Another lunged, and Chris answered with a single punch — bones cracked, the warrior collapsed, gasping for air.
He seized a third by the wrist, twisted until joints shattered, then drove him headfirst into the ground.
A fourth tried to grapple him from behind. Chris slammed his elbow backward, caving the warrior's chest before whipping him over his shoulder and into the arena floor hard enough to leave a crater.
The last two rushed together, but Chris blurred forward, caught them both by the neck, and drove them into the stone wall with such force the arena shuddered. He held them there until their struggles slowed, then dropped them unconscious at his feet.
When the dust finally settled, Chris stood tall at the center of the ring, unmarked, unbroken, surrounded by the fallen.
Silence fell again.
Thragg stepped forward, his eyes locked on Chris. For a long moment, the air grew heavy, the crowd holding its breath. Would the Grand Regent fight? Would he crush this outsider with his own hands?
Chris met his gaze, fists clenched, ready.
But Thragg did not move.
He studied Chris, his lips tightening, the faintest flicker of calculation in his eyes. Thragg was strong — the strongest living Viltrumite. But he was not a fool. A battle here, before his people, risked more than his pride. If he lost, he lost everything. And in Chris, he saw not just power, but possibility.
At last, Thragg spoke. His voice was iron.
"You have earned the right to leave."
The crowd erupted, some with fury, others with awe. Chris's glow dimmed, his jaw tight, but he gave a single nod.
From the sidelines, Anissa watched. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes betrayed what her lips would not.
Chris turned his gaze to her one last time. No words passed between them. None were needed.
Then he leapt skyward, golden trails streaking across the heavens, leaving Viltrum behind.