Scene Cut —
Gold Tumbler Headquarters
BOOOOOOM—!!!
The sound didn't just echo.
It detonated.
The entire skyscraper groaned as if something massive had punched the air itself. Windows rattled. Holograms flickered violently, distorting into static for a split second before stabilizing.
Hundreds of fighters froze mid-motion.
A massive holographic map hovered in the center of the hall, littered with glowing quest markers—herb retrievals, artifact hunts, monster exterminations. None of it mattered anymore.
BOOOOOOM—!!!
The floor shuddered.
Ceiling lights swayed.
Someone screamed.
"What the hell was that?!" a boy yelled, stumbling back.
"Is— is that an earthquake?!" another shouted, gripping a railing.
A black-haired man leaned casually against a pillar, arms crossed, lips curled in amusement.
"Nah," he said smugly. "Relax."
Everyone turned toward him.
"That's just King Tudor."
Silence.
"…Doing his regular training."
A nervous laugh rippled weakly through the crowd.
"Y-You're kidding, right?" someone stammered.
"That sound?" another whispered. "That's what training looks like for an S-rank…?"
The black-haired man smirked wider. "Welcome to Gold Tumbler."
Underground — Training Chamber
A cavernous space carved deep beneath the building.
Reinforced walls layered with composite alloys. Impact craters overlapped one another like scars, each one evidence of failed resistance.
At the center—
A giant.
King Tudor.
Bare-chested. Towering. His body was a monument of muscle—each fiber thick, dense, coiled like steel cables beneath scarred skin. Veins pulsed slowly, deliberately, as if his blood itself moved under command.
His arms spread wide.
"HAAAAAARDERRRRR!!!"
A brown-haired man lunged forward.
An A-rank.
Muscular. Trained. Sweating bullets.
He roared and drove his fist forward with everything he had.
BOOOOOOOOM—!!!
The punch landed squarely in Tudor's gut.
The shockwave rippled outward, cracking the floor.
But King Tudor—
Didn't move.
Not even a millimeter.
His abdominal muscles hardened visibly, every fiber locking together like forged iron. The impact dispersed uselessly across his body.
"…Again," Tudor growled.
The A-rank screamed and punched again.
CRACK.
Not Tudor's body.
His hand.
Bone snapped like dry wood. Fingers bent at impossible angles as the man collapsed, howling in agony.
"Aaaaaaagh—!!!"
King Tudor blinked.
Then laughed.
A deep, booming laugh that swallowed the chamber whole.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
The walls vibrated.
"Your hand broke?" Tudor mocked, resting his massive hands on his waist and puffing out his chest.
"What is your hand made of—wood?! HAHAHAHAHA!"
The A-rank dropped to his knees, clutching the ruined limb, sobbing through clenched teeth.
Tudor squatted.
The shadows swallowed his face, leaving only his eyes visible—cold, merciless, disappointed.
"…Is this the best my own son can do?"
He reached out.
His hand engulfed the boy's skull completely.
One-handed.
"Get up," Tudor said softly.
"Surely… you can hit harder than that."
His grin widened.
The boy trembled—then slowly stood.
He raised his broken hand again.
Then—
A calm voice cut through the tension.
"Haven't you bullied him enough, Oswald?"
King Tudor froze.
He turned.
Behind him stood a man draped in regal attire—long coat trimmed with gold, immaculate boots, posture perfect.
Blonde hair fell neatly around a beautiful face.
Dark eyes. Amused. Sharp.
King Arthur.
One of the Kings of the High Table.
Tudor's face twisted.
"I told you not to call me that!" he roared.
"That name is embarrassing!"
He straightened, towering over Arthur.
"What do you want?!"
Arthur smiled lightly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
"Can't an old friend check up on his best friend?"
Tudor's fists clenched.
The air around them compressed.
"After you betrayed me," Tudor snarled,
"you've got the mouth to call me a friend?"
Arthur sighed theatrically.
"I didn't betray you, Oswald. You were just too weak to join us."
He tilted his head. "Quite sad, really. Since you couldn't become a real king… you decided to name yourself one."
The floor cracked beneath Tudor's feet.
His fists tightened so hard the space around them warped, a vacuum forming with a faint shriek of pressure.
Arthur turned away.
"I'm not supposed to tell you this," he said casually, walking off.
"But you've been assigned as an assassination target."
Tudor scoffed.
"You didn't need to warn me," he said.
"No rookie has ever even hurt me. So why come all this way?"
Arthur paused.
Then—without turning back—
"Don't get cocky, trash."
Tudor stiffened.
"You're weak. Don't get proud just because you can defeat dirtier trash."
Tudor clicked his tongue.
"Tch."
Arthur continued walking.
"This time," he said calmly,
"it isn't trash coming for you."
"They're unrefined gems. Dirty, yes—but gems nonetheless."
He reached the exit.
Stopped.
"And especially…" Arthur added, his voice dropping just enough to bite—
"…the one called Shadow."
Then he was gone.
The chamber fell silent.
King Tudor stood alone, jaw tight, eyes burning.
"Two, huh?"
A grin spreads slowly.
"And you're saying they're not garbage?"
"…Good. I was getting bored."
Somewhere far away—
Adrian and Dravers stood in an abandoned warehouse, a place light barely reached.....
Scene Cut
Camera zooms to Jake's right eyes...
One second it's his normal crimson red eye he slowly blinks and opens, his eye pattern had changed, glowing red.