The grand hall of the Royal Court was a tinderbox of suppressed outrage.
Ren's story, intended to prove his legitimacy, had instead confirmed the deepest fears of the noble faction. He was a commoner, an orphan, a survivor who had clawed his way out of a grave they had tried to forget. He was a living reminder that their "divine" systems could be slow, glitchy, and that a nobody could achieve the power of a lord through sheer, bloody-minded refusal to die.
"Unacceptable!" Lord Zilton's voice sliced through the murmurs, his face flushed a deep, mottled purple. "Your Majesty, this story only proves my point! This boy has no lineage, no formal academy training, and no loyalty to the traditions of Syrius! He is a stray dog that learned to bite. To grant him a title is to spit on the graves of every noble knight who has bled for this crown!"
Several other council members stood up, their silk robes rustling like dry leaves.
"He is an unknown variable!"
"His power is unvetted and dangerous!"
"Send him back to the frontier before he brings the slums into the palace!"
The King's face remained grim, his jaw set. He was being cornered. The weight of his council's prejudice was a political mountain, threatening to crush the authority of his own decree. Behind Ren, Ser Kaelen didn't hide his smirk; he looked at Ren's back as if he were already a ghost.
Just as Zilton opened his mouth to deliver a final, crushing tirade, the heavy oak doors of the court burst open with a resounding BOOM.
A Royal Herald, his uniform stained with the dust of a hard ride and his face pale with exhaustion, stumbled into the hall. He clutched four ornate scrolls, each bearing the heavy wax seal of a foreign power.
"Your Majesty!" the Herald gasped, falling to one knee and holding the scrolls aloft with trembling hands. "Urgent... diplomatic communiqués! From the Azure Empire, the Shogunate of Yamato, the Khanate of Jochai, and the Hanseong Theocracy! They arrived at the border towers simultaneously!"
The court fell into a deathly silence. To receive a message from one neighboring nation was a matter of state. To receive one from all four at the exact same second was a coordinated strike. It was a declaration.
The King's eyes sharpened. "Bring them to me. Now."
The scrolls were presented on a silver tray. The King broke the seal of the first—the Azure Empire of Qin. He read it, his eyes narrowing. He moved to the second, from the Shogunate of Yamato. His grip tightened until the parchment crinkled. By the time he finished the fourth, his expression was as cold and hard as the marble floor.
He looked up, not at the Herald, but at his council. His gaze landed on Zilton like a physical blow.
"Lord Zilton," the King began, his voice dangerously calm. "You spoke of threats to this kingdom. It seems you were looking at the dirt beneath your feet while the sky was falling."
He held up the four scrolls. "Our neighbors have sent us a... proposal. A 'Grand Hero Festival,' they call it. A competition to foster goodwill and measure the strength of the heroes that the System has blessed our nations with."
The King's voice turned sharp, dripping with sarcasm. "It is, of course, a thinly veiled declaration of a new world order. A way to establish a global pecking order. A table to find out who is the predator... and who is the prey."
He unfurled the first scroll. "The Azure Empire of Qin informs us they will be sending their fifteen Otherworlder Heroes. All of them Rank C or higher, led by their S-Rank Sword Saint."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Fifteen?
He unfurled the second. "The Shogunate of Yamato will be sending twelve of their own."
He unfurled the third. "The Khanate of Jochai, in their typical fashion, will be sending a staggering twenty warriors."
He let the scrolls fall to the dais, his gaze sweeping across the stunned, pale faces of his council. "Even the reclusive Hanseong Theocracy boasts ten heroes ready for this slaughter."
The King paused, letting the numbers sink in. The disparity was a physical weight in the room. Fifty-seven heroes. Fifty-seven monsters in human skin, coming to one place.
"And we," the King said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant growl, "the Kingdom of Syrius... have five."
The number landed like a hammer blow. Five against fifty-seven. It wasn't a competition; it was an execution of national pride.
"The festival is to be held in six months," the King continued. "The venue is the Chaotic Lands—that barren, dry wasteland governed by no one. A place where the System's laws are thin and strength is the only currency."
He turned his gaze from the council and locked eyes with Ren. The King's expression was no longer one of sorrow or curiosity. It was the look of a gambler who had just found an extra ace in his sleeve.
"Lord Zilton, you asked about this boy's origin. You called him a threat to our honor. You were wrong."
The King's voice boomed, vibrating the very glass in the windows. "He is not a threat. He is a necessity. The heavens did not let this boy die in the forest. They forged him in the fires of Batch Two. They sent him back to us because they knew Syrius would be standing on the edge of an abyss."
The King pointed a regal, trembling finger at Ren.
"They have sent us our Sixth Hero."
The hall was utterly silent. Zilton stood frozen, his mouth agape, his arguments turned to ash by the crushing weight of geopolitical reality. The nobles who had supported him now looked at Ren with a desperate, calculating hope. He was no longer a "stray dog"; he was the only thing that could keep them from being humiliated on the world stage.
The King then turned a sharp, predatory gaze back to Lord Zilton. "Lord Zilton," the King said, his voice deceptively soft. "Since you were so concerned with this boy's legitimacy and the honor of our kingdom, I am entrusting you personally with his preparations. You will be responsible for overseeing his residence, his training budget, and ensuring he has everything he needs to bring glory to Syrius."
Zilton's face went from pale to ghostly white. It was a political masterstroke. The King had just made Ren's most vocal enemy directly responsible for his success. If Ren failed, it would be Zilton's head. If Ren succeeded, Zilton would have to publicly praise the "commoner" he despised.
"As... as you command, Your Majesty," Zilton stammered, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor to hide the fury in his eyes.
The King's gaze softened as he addressed Ren directly. "Dragon Slayer Ren. Your past is your own. But your future... your future now belongs to the Kingdom of Syrius."
"You will not be joining the Royal Knights as a subordinate," the King declared. "You will be given a title, a residence, and the full support of the Crown. You will stay in the capital. In one week, you will begin a specialized training regimen with our other five heroes. You have six months to prepare. Six months to show the world that Syrius does not break."
Ren bowed his head, playing the part of the humbled, loyal hero. "I will not fail you, Your Majesty."
The court erupted in applause. They saw a hero accepting his destiny.
But inside, Ren's mind was a whirlwind of cold, pragmatic calculation.
'Six months,' he thought, his survival instincts already mapping out the opportunity. 'A competition in a land governed by no one. A place where I can kill without a guild watching. A place where fifty-seven "Heroes" will be carrying high-rank loot and massive amounts of currency.'
He wasn't thinking about the honor of the kingdom. He wasn't thinking about the King's pride.
He was thinking about the prize money. He was thinking about the conversion rate. He was thinking about how many stat points he could buy with the gear of fifty-seven dead heroes.
The King had given him a mission. The council had given him a title.
But the System had just given him the perfect hunting ground.
'The Grand Hero Festival,' Ren thought, a predatory smile hidden behind his mask of humility. 'It sounds... profitable.'