The smell of high-grade disinfectant and roasted ozone fills the massive, luxurious dining room of the Maliqun estate. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the remnants of a battle that shook the entire stadium. On one side of the long mahogany table sits Mark, his body wrapped in dense, high-tech biometric bandages that hiss periodically as they inject low doses of localized MATERIALS to repair his torn muscle fibers. On the other side sits Ninten, his arms crossed, his face sporting a few stubborn bruises that his system hasn't fully cleared away yet.
They both wake up after the brutal battle, their consciousness returning in waves as the medical drones finish their primary cycles. The atmosphere is tense, yet strangely domestic.
Mark rests his chin on his metallic gauntlet, his eyes flashing with a bright blue light as his internal INTELLIGENCE systems process the final match data. A smirk slowly spreads across his face. He looks at his brother and begins the onslaught.
"You know, Ninten, for someone who boasts about ultimate reflexes, you sure spent a lot of time lying flat on your back looking at the stadium ceiling. I calculate that your view of the upper rafters was approximately 100% more detailed than your view of my actual movements."
Ninten snorts, leaning back in his chair with his usual effortless, cool demeanor despite the aching pain in his ribs. He glares at his brother with a charming, defiant grin.
"Oh, please, Mark. You won because you turned yourself into a walking pharmacy! You didn't beat me with skill; you beat me with three liters of performance juices and a bucket of literal kitchen jelly. If I hadn't hesitated to see what stupid toy you were pulling out next, your little TECHNOLOGY suit would be scrap metal in the recycling bin right now."
Mark buckles softly, taking a sip of an energy-replenishing fluid. His THINKINGS are always three steps ahead, ready to dismantle Ninten's arguments with cold, hard facts.
"Ah, the classic excuse of the swift but simple-minded. Let us review the INFORMATIONS, dear brother. A victory is a victory. My PHYSIC formulas accounted for your speed, your acceleration, and your absolute lack of caution. You rely so heavily on your unique traits that you forgot the most basic rule of engagement: never underestimate an engineer. You ran directly into a trap because your brain operates strictly on a single, straight-line trajectory. I didn't just beat your body, Ninten. I completely out-calculated your entire existence."
Ninten slams his hand on the table, though he keeps his tone light and competitive.
"Keep talking, Mr. Calculated! Next time, I am not stopping to talk. I am rushing you down before your little SENSORS can even register the shift in the air pressure. You got lucky that the gas canister cracked exactly where it did!"
"Luck is simply the residue of design," Mark replies smoothly, folding his hands over the table. "My gas trajectory was mapped out the moment you activated that ridiculously flashy form. You became heavy, Ninten. Your momentum pulled the particles right toward your own feet. You literally assisted in your own knockout. Therefore, mathematically speaking, you are the co-author of your own defeat."
Ninten opens his mouth to strike back with another witty retort, but the words die in his throat. Mark's smug expression vanishes instantly. The blue hum of Mark's cybernetic armor dims as his EMOTIONS sensors detect a massive, overwhelming spike of hostile energy approaching the dining hall.
THE FATHER'S FURY
The heavy steel doors of the dining room fly open with a deafening bang, echoing through the marble halls. Walking into the room is their father, the Patriarch of the Maliqun lineage. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. The air around him grows icy cold, suffocating the natural warmth of the room. He doesn't look at Mark. His piercing, judgmental eyes lock entirely onto Ninten.
"Father—" Ninten starts, standing up from his chair, his usual confident posture faltering under the sheer weight of the older man's gaze.
"Silence!" the Patriarch roars, his voice vibrating with a force that shatters the crystal glasses sitting on the table. He marches over, stopping mere inches from Ninten. His fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
"You disgrace," the father spits, his words cutting deeper than any high-frequency blade. "You stand there and joke about your pathetic performance? You are not my son! Ninten! You destroyed my whole respect! Lost the first match of the grand tournament to a display of chemical tactics and mechanical suits! The Maliqun name demands absolute supremacy from its heirs, and you allowed yourself to be grounded!"
Mark steps forward, his calculative mind instantly analyzing the high stress levels in the room. He tries to intervene, keeping his voice level. "Father, the data shows that Ninten's output was actually—"
"I did not ask for your calculations, Mark!" the Patriarch snaps, waving a dismissive hand. He turns back to Ninten, his eyes burning with disgust. "The world watches us. The rival factions laugh at us because my eldest son couldn't even bypass a basic defensive armor without collapsing into unconsciousness. I have no room for losers beneath my roof. Get out of my place and never come back!!!"
At that moment, the doors burst open again, and Team Thunder rushes into the dining room. Having caught wind of the situation, Ninten's loyal teammates step forward, desperate to salvage the situation.
"Sir, please reconsider!" the vanguard of Team Thunder begs, stepping between Ninten and the furious Patriarch. "Master Ninten fought with everything he had! He pushed his THINKINGS and his limits to the absolute edge! He didn't lose out of weakness; it was a battle of extreme circumstances!"
Another teammate chimes in, "You cannot cast him out for a single loss! Team Thunder belongs to him! We stand by his strength!"
The Patriarch's expression remains stone, unyielding and cruel. "Then you may follow him to the streets if you value failure so highly. My decree is absolute. He is stripped of his title, his inheritance, and his name within this house."
Ninten stands perfectly still. The initial shock leaves his face, replaced by a cold, quiet realization. The charming energy inside him doesn't explode into rage. Instead, it settles into an icy, focused calm. He gently places a hand on his teammate's shoulder, pulling him back.
"Stop," Ninten says softly, his voice carrying a strange, dangerous weight. He looks directly into his father's eyes, refusing to lower his gaze. "If respect in this house is measured only by a scoreboard, then this house has nothing left to offer me. You want me gone? Fine. Keep your walls and your titles. I don't need them to prove who I am."
Without another word, Ninten turns on his heel. He walks past his teammates, past Mark—who watches him with a mixture of intense calculation and uncharacteristic silence—and exits the grand Maliqun estate, leaving everything behind.
THE HAUNTED FOREST
Hours pass as Ninten walks away from the civilized sectors of the continent. The bright lights of the metropolis fade into the background, replaced by the jagged, unnatural silhouettes of the Haunted Forest. This is a place where the laws of conventional geography do not apply. The trees are massive, twisted structures of dark, iron-infused wood that absorb the ambient light. A thick, purple-tinted mist clings to the damp ground, swirling around Ninten's boots as he steps deeper into the wilderness.
The air here is heavy with ancient, unstable energy. Normal people lose their senses within minutes, their minds broken by the illusions that haunt the paths. But Ninten keeps walking. His inner THINKINGS are clear, focused entirely on the betrayal he just experienced. His powers are quiet, coiled deep within his core.
The deeper he goes, the more the forest tries to test him. Phantom shadows creep along the edges of his vision, and eerie whispers echo from the hollow trunks of the trees. Ninten doesn't even look at them. He simply releases a short, sharp pulse of energy from his skin, the bright light tearing through the darkness and vaporizing the nearby mist instantly. The illusions scatter in terror, realizing that even an exiled prince is still an apex entity.
He stops in a small clearing where the canopy opens up slightly, revealing a fractured, blood-red moon hanging in the night sky. He sits down on a moss-covered boulder, staring at his hands. He can still feel the residual strain from the match, the way his abilities failed to stabilize when Mark unleashed that final beam. For so long, his affinity as the Qadirun Maliqun of Games felt entirely useless in actual high-stakes combat. How was loading data and system rules supposed to protect him from a direct laser blast or a physical blade?
"I need to work harder," Ninten mutters to himself, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the woods. "I need to learn how to bridge the gap between game mechanics and reality."
THE ARRIVAL OF P.M.T.V.C.S
"A very wise conclusion, Master Ninten."
The voice is smooth, clear, and carries an underlying affection that cuts right through the eerie atmosphere of the forest. Ninten's reflexes kick in instantly; he springs up from the boulder, his right hand instantly rising into a defensive guard as he scans the area.
From the deep shadows of the twisted trees, a unique figure steps forward. It is a girl, her presence entirely unaffected by the malevolent aura of the Haunted Forest. She is a magnificent creature whose ancient destiny is tightly bound to his own—she is the one chosen to marry the Qadirun Maliqun of Games. Her eyes are sharp, yet filled with an absolute, unwavering love as she looks at Ninten.
Ninten lowers his hands, his classic charming smirk returning to his face. "Who are you? How did you track me all the way out here?"
The girl steps closer, a warm, devoted smile touching her lips. "My name is P.M.T.V.C.S. I have been watching your path for a very long time, far beyond the narrow vision of your father's house. Master Ninten, I know what your father did to you, but don't worry. We will train you, unlock the true depth of your gaming authority, and make you stronger."
Ninten narrows his eyes, his curiosity piqued by her presence. "Train me? You speak of my gaming authority as if it can actually match the destructive output of Mark or Thunder. Right now, compared to them, my systems are lagging behind."
P.M.T.V.C.S steps into the center of the clearing, her eyes locked onto his with pure adoration. "That is only because you have been treating your power as a passive trait, my love. You are the ruler of games. The characters, the rules, the scaling of entire fictional realities belong to your command. You do not need to endure dark torture or lose your emotions to become powerful. You simply need to learn how to compile that data and load it into the real world. Together, we can unlock it."
Ninten listens, his internal thoughts evaluating her words. He looks at her genuine smile and the absolute devotion in her eyes. He doesn't feel the weight of a grim training master; he feels the presence of a true partner. He lets out a short laugh—the same cool, cheerful laugh that always defined him.
"A cooperative quest, then?" Ninten says, extending his hand forward as a faint grid of golden energy begins to ripple around his palm. "Fine. Show me how to unlock the high-tier files. If we are going to level up, let's make sure we break the leaderboard."
"An acceptable arrangement, my King," P.M.T.V.C.S says softly, her hand meeting his as the ancient energy of the forest begins to sync with Ninten's grand gaming architecture. "Let us begin your evolution."