The Valtorian Galaxy hung in the void like a jeweled crown, its spiral arms glittering with billions of stars and the civilizations that orbited them. At its heart, on a planet whose name had been forgotten in favor of its title—the Throne—the Emperor of the Aethorian Empire reclined in his private viewing chamber.
The room was smaller than one might expect for a man who ruled fifteen galaxies. Intimate, almost. Walls of polished obsidian that drank in light and gave back nothing. A single throne—not the ceremonial monstrosity he sat upon during public functions, but something simpler. Comfortable. A place where he could watch and think without the weight of performance.
Before him, holographic displays floated in perfect geometric arrangement. Twenty screens, one for each battle stage. Smaller windows showing rankings, statistics, betting odds, commentary feeds. Everything happening across the tournament, compressed into this single room.
He'd been watching for hours.
Not continuously—he had an empire to run, after all, and even tournaments took secondary priority to the endless political machinery that kept fifteen galaxies functioning. But he returned between meetings, between decisions, watching the chaos unfold with the detached interest of a man who'd seen fifty tournaments come and go during his reign.
Most were predictable. Core world participants dominated. Backwater fighters were eliminated quickly. The occasional surprise—a talented individual from an unexpected planet—provided brief entertainment before being overwhelmed by superior resources and training.
This tournament was following the pattern. Mostly.
His eyes tracked across the displays, cataloging the expected performances. Stage 1 showed Darius Kane dismantling his fourth opponent with the same overwhelming force that had carried him to the top of elimination rankings. Other stages showed the same battles.
But they were all predictable, expected and boring.
Then his gaze drifted to Stage 14.
The Emperor leaned forward slightly—a minute shift in posture that his attendants would have noted with alarm if any had been present. But he'd dismissed them hours ago. This was private time. Personal observation.
On Stage 14, a hooded figure stood over an unconscious opponent. The tenth such victory in as many hours. Each match ending the same way. One strike. Complete knockout. No variation. No struggle. No drama.
Just... efficiency.
The Emperor pulled up participant 847,392's profile with a gesture. The holographic display expanded, showing limited information. Nexarion origin. Age seventeen. Registered beta. No prior tournament history. No notable family connections. No academy sponsorship. Nothing that should have produced a fighter capable of this level of performance.
And yet.
He watched the replay of the most recent match. The hooded fighter's opponent had been a B-rank fire manipulator, elimination rank in the low thousand. Competent and experienced. The kind of fighter who should have at least lasted a full minute against an unknown.
The match had lasted ten seconds.
The Emperor's fingers drummed against the arm of his throne—a rare display of interest. Around him, the other displays continued their relentless progression. Thousands of matches across twenty stages. Hundreds of thousands of participants grinding through the tournament's brutal mathematics.
But his eyes kept returning to Stage 14.
To that hooded figure who moved like violence incarnate wrapped in deceptive stillness.
"Interesting," he murmured to the empty room.
On screen, participant 847,392 returned to their seat. The hood remained secure. The face remained hidden. And the Emperor found himself wondering what kind of boy hid beneath that concealment.
What kind of fighter from a planet that had never produced anyone notable could dominate this completely.
His network of informants would be investigating already. By tomorrow, he'd have reports on Nexarion's background, participant 847,392's history, any connections that might explain this anomaly. The intelligence apparatus of an empire didn't sleep, and questions this interesting demanded answers.
For now, though, he simply watched.
And wondered.
...
Three thousand light-years away, in a private estate on Celestine Prime, Duchess Amara Solenne sat in her observation room with a glass of wine that had been forgotten in her hand for the past hour.
She was a woman who'd built her power through careful observation. Through recognizing talent before others did. Through investment in potential that paid dividends years later. Her house wasn't the strongest of the four Ducal families—that honor belonged to the Herculios—but it was perhaps the most influential in matters of talent acquisition and development.
Every major awakener who'd risen to prominence in the last thirty years had passed through her observation at some point. She'd offered contracts to seventy percent of them. Secured exclusive agreements with forty percent. Made fortunes on the remaining thirty who'd declined and later regretted it.
She had an eye for this.
And right now, that eye was fixed on Stage 14 with an intensity that made her attendants nervous.
"Pull up everything," she said quietly to her assistant.
"Participant 847,392. Nexarion origin. Age seventeen—"
"I can see the public profile," Duchess Amara interrupted. "I want the things that aren't public. Family background. Training history. Any connection to existing organizations. Financial records if you can access them. Everything."
"That will take time, Your Grace. Nexarion's records are—"
"Then start now and report when you have something." She took a sip of wine, eyes never leaving the screen. "And draft preliminary recruitment documentation. Full contract. Exclusive five-year term with option to extend. Academy placement at Celestial Heights. Personal mentorship from our S-rank combat specialists."
Her assistant's stylus paused mid-stroke. "Your Grace, we don't know their talent yet. The matches have shown physical capabilities but no actual awakened ability. What if they're just an enhanced physical specialist?"
"They're not." Duchess Amara's voice carried absolute certainty. "Physical specialists don't move like that. Don't have that kind of control. That's someone who's been training with high-level techniques for years." She paused, considering. "Or someone with resources we haven't identified yet."
"Perhaps another house is sponsoring them? Using Nexarion as cover?"
"Possible. Check for that too." She set down her wine glass, fingers steepling as she watched participant 847,392's eleventh match begin. "But I don't think so. The other houses wouldn't be this subtle. If any prominent house had a prospect this strong, they'd announce it. Make it a statement."
"Then where did they come from?"
"That," Duchess Amara said with a slight smile, "is exactly what I intend to find out."
On screen, the match ended. One hit. Ten seconds total.
The Duchess leaned back in her chair, mind already calculating recruitment strategies, contract terms, political implications. If she could secure participant 847,392 before the other houses realized what they were looking at...
Well.
That would be quite the coup.
---
In the Mordren family compound on Fortress Prime, Lord Commander Vex Mordren watched the tournament feeds with the cold analysis of a man who'd spent one hundred and forty years commanding military operations across three galaxies.
His granddaughter Cassia was performing exactly as expected. Systematic and efficient. Her team had processed fifteen matches with zero losses, their combined ranking climbing steadily. She'd be top three easily.
He was proud. Of course he was proud.
But his attention kept drifting to Stage 14.
"Thoughts?" he asked his second-in-command, a scarred veteran who'd served under him since the Titan Campaigns.
"Unconventional," the man replied, pulling up combat analysis on a secondary display. "No wasted movement. No showmanship. Pure efficiency. Military-grade discipline."
"You think they have formal training?"
"Has to be. That kind of control doesn't come from street fighting or self-teaching." He zoomed in on one of the replays, showing the hooded fighter's positioning. "See the footwork? That's academy-level technical application. Maybe higher. Someone taught them how to fight properly."
Lord Commander Mordren nodded slowly. "But no academy claims them. I checked. None of the major institutions have participant 847,392 in their records."
"Private tutoring, then. Noble house investment. Or—" The veteran paused. "—or military background. Black ops, maybe. Some of the special forces units train their operatives this way."
"At seventeen?" Mordren's voice was skeptical. "Even the youngest special forces recruits start at twenty."
"Then I don't know, sir. But whoever trained them knew what they were doing."
They watched in silence as participant 847,392's twelfth match began. A weapons specialist this time, dual swords flickering with enhancement techniques. The kind of opponent who should have forced at least a defensive response.
Six seconds.
One hit.
Done.
"I want a full profile," Lord Commander Mordren said finally. "Not just the public information. Everything. If they have military background, I want to know which unit. If they have private training, I want to know who funded it. If they're independent..." He paused. "...then I want to know how the fuck an independent fighter from a backwater planet learned to move like one of my special forces operatives."
"Yes, sir."
On screen, participant 847,392 returned to their seat. The hood remained secure, face hidden, identity obscured.
And Lord Commander Mordren found himself wondering if he was looking at a potential ally.
Or a future threat.
------------------------------------
The broadcast reached every corner of the empire. Fifteen galaxies. Trillions of viewers. From the core worlds where civilization had flourished for millennia to the outer rim planets where humanity clung to existence against the void.
Everyone watched.
In the affluent districts of Core Prime, wealthy socialites hosted viewing parties in palatial estates, betting astronomical sums on favored fighters while servants circulated with refreshments that cost more than most planets' annual budgets.
In the manufacturing sectors of Industrial-7, workers crowded around communal screens during breaks, cheering for participants from similar backgrounds, hoping to see someone like them succeed against the odds.
In the military stations scattered across contested space, soldiers watched between shifts, analyzing techniques, discussing strategies, making professional assessments of combat capabilities.
In the academic institutions, students studied the matches like textbooks, breaking down each exchange for lessons in power application and tactical decision-making.
And everywhere—in homes and public spaces, in ships traveling between stars and stations orbiting forgotten moons—people talked about the hooded fighter from Nexarion who'd appeared from nowhere and started dismantling opponents with surgical precision.
The betting odds had dropped to 45-to-1 now. Still high enough to be profitable, low enough to suggest bookmakers were starting to believe. The smart money was piling in. The conservative money was hedging. The desperate money was hoping for an upset that seemed increasingly unlikely.
In gambling halls across the empire, professional analysts were revising their projections. Top twenty was guaranteed at this point.
Top ten?
Nobody wanted to say it out loud yet. It was too early and too presumptuous.
But privately, in secure communications and coded messages, the real gamblers were starting to whisper.
What if participant 847,392 could go all the way?
What if this backwater fighter with the hidden face was looking at the championship?
...
...
On Stage 1, Darius Kane hammered his seventh opponent into the ground with enough force to crack the platform. The golden-armored fighter stood over the fallen body, warhammer resting on his shoulder, breathing hard but victorious.
The crowd roared its approval. This was what they came to see—overwhelming power, dramatic displays, the clash of titans that made for excellent entertainment.
Darius raised his warhammer in acknowledgment before walking off stage.
He'd watched the feeds during his rest periods. Seen the hooded fighter on Stage 14 cutting through opponents like they were made of paper. Seen the match times and the complete dominance.
Part of him was impressed. Another part—the part that had spent years training to be the strongest, that had dominated elimination round specifically to announce his presence—felt something that might have been 'anticipation'.
.....
Back on Stage 14, Jade's thirteenth match was called three hours after his twelfth. The pattern continued—different opponent, different strategy, same result.
This fighter tried talking. Attempted intimidation or conversation or something that Jade didn't bother listening to. The referee signaled start. Jade appeared beside him. One strike.
Four seconds.
The crowd's response was becoming predictable. Initial roar of excitement. Replay analysis. Commentary speculation. Betting odds adjustment. Then the wait for the next match.
In Section 14, fewer people were meeting Jade's eyes now. The earlier speculation about ugly features or alien physiology had faded into nervous silence. Nobody particularly wanted to know what was under the hood anymore.
They just wanted to avoid being matched against participant 847,392.
Three fighters had forfeited upon seeing their opponent's number. Didn't even bother appearing on stage. Just confirmed their forfeit through their watches and took the ranking hit.
Smart.
Jade closed his eyes and tuned it all out.
Around him, the tournament ground on.
....
To be continued....