The strategy evaluation hall was smaller than King expected. About two hundred candidates remained from the original thousand-plus who'd started. They were divided into groups of twenty, each assigned to a different testing room.
King's room was sparse—just tables, chairs, and a large tactical map projection in the center.
"Sit anywhere," the examiner said. A young man with glasses and tired eyes. His name tag read "Instructor Vale."
King sat near the back. Marcus took the seat beside him, while Nero claimed the one across.
"Comfortable?" Nero asked, that perpetual grin on his face.
"The chair is nice," King said. "Sturdy."
"I meant in general. After that whole 'catching golems with your bare hands' thing."
"Oh." King considered. "Yes, I'm comfortable."
Marcus leaned over. "People are staring at you again."
King glanced around. Sure enough, most of the room was watching him. Some curious, others wary, a few openly hostile.
"Why?" King asked.
"Because you're weird," Marcus said bluntly. "No offense."
"None taken. I am weird."
"At least you're self-aware," Nero said.
Instructor Vale cleared his throat. "Settle down. This evaluation tests tactical thinking, not combat prowess. You'll be presented with battlefield scenarios and must provide solutions."
He tapped the tactical map. It flickered to life, showing a mountainous region with blue and red markers.
"Scenario one," Vale announced. "You're leading a unit of fifty soldiers. Enemy force of two hundred approaching from the north pass. Defend the village behind you. Limited supplies, no reinforcements. What do you do?"
Hands shot up immediately.
Vale pointed at a noble-looking girl near the front. "You."
"Fortify the pass entrance," she said confidently. "Use the terrain advantage. Set up archer positions on the high ground and—"
"Time limit is thirty seconds per answer," Vale interrupted. "Next."
Another candidate: "Evacuate the village and burn it. Scorched earth tactics prevent enemy from—"
"Tactical, but ruthless. Next."
More answers came rapid-fire. Some good, some terrible, all delivered with varying degrees of confidence.
King listened, fascinated. Everyone had different approaches. Different priorities. Some protected the village, others sacrificed it. Some fought, others fled.
So many possibilities, King thought. They're all correct in their own way.
"You," Vale said, pointing at Marcus. "Your solution?"
Marcus straightened. "I'd... send scouts to determine exact enemy numbers and equipment. Then use hit-and-run tactics to whittle them down before they reach the pass. Buy time for civilians to evacuate to secondary location."
Vale nodded. "Practical. Cautious. Shows awareness of information gaps." He made a note. "You, dark-haired one."
Nero smiled. "I'd fake a plague outbreak. Corpses in the water supply, burning buildings, leave some 'sick' villagers to spread the story. Enemy army either goes around or contracts an imaginary disease that tanks morale."
The room went quiet.
"That's..." Vale paused. "Morally questionable but tactically sound. Psychological warfare has merit." Another note. "And you."
King realized Vale was pointing at him.
"Me?" King asked.
"Yes. Your solution."
King looked at the tactical map. The blue markers representing soldiers, the red markers representing enemies, the village icon pulsing between them.
"I'd ask them to leave," King said.
The room erupted in laughter.
"Ask them?" someone mocked. "He's going to ask an invading army nicely?"
Vale held up a hand for silence. "Explain your reasoning."
"Well," King said, "if they're invading, they probably have a reason. Territory, resources, revenge. If I understood the reason, maybe we could negotiate. Or if negotiation failed, I'd just..." He trailed off.
"Just what?" Vale prompted.
"Handle it myself. Go talk to their leader. See if we can work something out."
More laughter. Even Marcus looked uncomfortable.
"That's not strategy," the noble girl said. "That's suicide."
"Is it?" King tilted his head. "One person is harder to see than fifty soldiers. Easier to approach unnoticed. If I could reach their commander—"
"You'd be killed instantly," she interrupted.
"Maybe," King said. "Or maybe not. Depends on how I approached."
Vale studied him for a long moment. "Unconventional. Borderline nonsensical. But there's logic there." He made a note—longer this time. "Moving on. Scenario two."
The map changed. This time it showed a fortress under siege.
"You're trapped inside with dwindling supplies. Enemy has superior numbers and siege equipment. Surrender means slavery. What do you do?"
The answers came again. Desperate last stands. Underground escape tunnels. Poisoning the water supply before retreat.
When Vale pointed at King this time, the room quieted to hear what ridiculous answer he'd give.
"I'd break the siege," King said simply.
"How?" Vale asked.
"Walk out the front gate. Remove the siege equipment. Tell them to go home."
"By yourself?"
"Yes."
"That's not strategy," someone said. "That's fantasy."
King shrugged. "You asked what I'd do."
Vale's expression was unreadable. "You seem to think one person can solve every problem."
"Can't they?" King asked genuinely.
"No," Vale said flatly. "They can't. That's why strategy exists. Because individuals have limits." He switched to the next scenario. "Scenario three."
---
This one showed a naval battle. Ships, sea monsters, complex formations.
King stopped paying attention to the map and watched Instructor Vale instead. The way his fingers moved across the projection controls, the slight tension in his shoulders, how his eyes tracked each candidate's response.
He's tired, King realized. Not physically. Mentally. Like he's heard all these answers before and none of them matter.
"You're not even looking," someone hissed.
King glanced at the speaker—a muscular candidate with a scar across his jaw.
"Sorry," King said. "Should I be?"
"The exam? Yes, you should be paying attention to the exam!"
"Oh." King looked at the tactical map. Ships were arranged in attack formations. "What was the question?"
Instructor Vale sighed. "How do you defeat an enemy naval force with superior numbers?"
King looked at the water. The ships. The markers indicating wind direction and currents.
"Sink the water," he said.
The room went dead silent.
"What?" Vale said.
"Sink the water," King repeated. "If there's no water, there are no ships. Then it's just people standing in a very deep hole, and whoever has the better ladder wins."
"You can't..." Vale started, then stopped. Rubbed his temples. "You cannot sink water. That's not how water works."
"It could freeze," King offered. "Frozen water sinks—well, actually no, ice floats. Never mind."
Nero was shaking with silent laughter.
Marcus had his face in his hands.
Vale looked at King like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?"
"No?" King said. "I'm trying to answer honestly."
"Your 'honest answers' defy physics and tactical logic."
"Should I lie instead?"
"No—I—" Vale took a deep breath. "Just... sit quietly for the rest of the evaluation."
King sat quietly.
---
The exam continued for another hour. King watched other candidates give complex, well-reasoned answers to increasingly difficult scenarios. Some were brilliant. Others were clearly memorized from textbooks.
All of them operated within the same framework: limited power, limited options, make the best choice with what you have.
That's what strategy is, King understood. Working within limitations.
He'd never had limitations before. No wonder he was bad at this.
When Vale finally dismissed them, candidates filed out in various states of confidence and despair.
Marcus waited until they were in the hallway before speaking. "That was... well, you tried."
"I failed," King said.
"Spectacularly," Nero agreed cheerfully. "I mean, 'sink the water'? That's going in my top ten ridiculous things I've heard."
"It made sense to me," King said.
"That's the problem," Marcus said. "You think like—I don't know what you think like. Nothing I've ever met."
They walked toward the exit. The exam was over. Results would be posted in three days.
"You two want to get food?" Nero asked. "I know a place that's cheap and doesn't ask questions."
"Questions about what?" King asked.
"Where you got your money, mostly." Nero grinned. "Lot of broke exam-takers around. Pickpockets love this time of year."
"I have money," King said. He did—he'd materialized some silver coins this morning from ambient morning dew and loose mana particles.
"Of course you do," Marcus said. "Why am I not surprised?"
They were halfway to the exit when someone stepped into their path.
Yuki Winters crossed her arms, green eyes fixed on King. "You. White-hair."
"Me?" King said.
"Yes, you. We need to talk."
Marcus and Nero exchanged glances.
"About what?" King asked.
"About what you did in the combat trial." Yuki's voice was level, but there was intensity underneath. "No F-Rank candidate stops enhanced golems. No one blocks A-Rank fire magic with their bare hand. So what are you really?"
"Just someone taking an exam," King said.
"That's what you keep saying. I don't believe you."
"Okay," King said.
Yuki blinked. "Okay? That's it?"
"You don't have to believe me. That's your choice."
"That's—" She seemed thrown off-balance. "You're not going to defend yourself? Explain? Make excuses?"
"Would you believe those either?" King asked.
Yuki opened her mouth, closed it, then narrowed her eyes. "You're frustrating."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize!" She threw up her hands. "I'm trying to figure you out and you're just... being weird!"
"He's good at that," Nero offered helpfully.
"Not helping," Marcus muttered.
Yuki took a breath, visibly composing herself. "Fine. New approach. I'm Yuki Winters. Rare Talent, B-Rank, ice manipulation." She extended her hand. "Let's start over."
King shook her hand. It was cold—actually cold, like she was actively cooling her body temperature. "King Von Deluxh. F-Rank. Unknown variable."
"Right." Yuki didn't let go of his hand. "Your hand is warm."
"Is that strange?"
"Mine's cold enough to give people frostbite if I'm not careful. Yours is warm enough that I can feel it through my natural temperature." She released his hand, looking at her palm like it had told her a secret. "That shouldn't be possible. I'm actively suppressing heat. You should feel cold to the touch, not warm."
"Maybe I'm just warm-blooded?" King suggested.
"That's not—" Yuki stopped herself. "You know what? Fine. Be mysterious. But I'm watching you."
"Why?" King asked genuinely.
"Because mysterious people are either incredibly dangerous or incredibly stupid, and I can't tell which you are yet."
"Can't I be both?"
Yuki stared at him. "Are you being serious right now?"
"Yes?"
She laughed—sharp and short. "Okay. Okay, you're interesting. I'll give you that." She turned to Marcus and Nero. "You two his friends?"
"Working on it," Nero said.
"Unfortunately," Marcus added, but he was smiling.
"Good. Keep an eye on him. I think he'll need it." Yuki started to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and King? When results are posted and you get accepted—and you will, despite that disaster of a strategy exam—don't think this conversation is over. I will figure you out."
She left before King could respond.
"Well," Nero said. "That was intense."
"She seems nice," King said.
Marcus laughed. "Nice? She basically threatened to investigate you!"
"Did she? I thought she was just curious."
"You're impossible," Marcus said, but there was warmth in his voice. "Come on. Let's get food before something else weird happens."
They headed for the exit.
Behind them, in the strategy evaluation hall, Instructor Vale was writing his report.
Under King Von Deluxh's evaluation, he wrote:
Candidate displays non-standard tactical thinking. Answers border on absurd but show creative problem-solving outside conventional frameworks. Physical capabilities far exceed F-Rank classification. Recommend further observation. Possible special case.
Then he crossed out "possible" and wrote "definitely."
---
The restaurant Nero led them to was cramped and smelled like fried fish and questionable oil. King loved it immediately.
"Three of the daily special," Nero told the owner, a woman with more scars than teeth.
She grunted and disappeared into the kitchen.
They sat at a corner table. Marcus leaned back, finally relaxing. "So. That happened."
"Which part?" King asked.
"All of it. The crystal explosions, the golem catching, the terrible strategy answers, Yuki Winters hunting you down." Marcus counted on his fingers. "That's a full day."
"Is that a lot for one day?" King asked.
"YES," both Marcus and Nero said simultaneously.
Food arrived—bowls of stew that looked suspicious but smelled amazing. King took a bite.
It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
Granted, it was only the third thing he'd ever tasted since arriving in the mortal world, but still. The flavors were complex, layered, real.
"Good, right?" Nero said, watching King's expression. "Old Mara uses mystery meat, but whatever it is, it's delicious."
"Mystery meat?" Marcus said weakly.
"Don't ask questions. Just eat."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. King watched the other patrons—laborers, mostly, coming in after long shifts. Tired faces, rough hands, but they laughed and talked with each other. Found moments of joy in small things.
This is what they have, King thought. Each other. Simple moments. And somehow that's enough.
"Hey King," Marcus said suddenly. "Why'd you really come here? To the academy, I mean."
King considered the question. "I wanted to understand something."
"What?"
"What it's like," King said. "To have limits. To struggle. To try for something you might not achieve."
Marcus and Nero exchanged glances again.
"That's a weird reason," Marcus said. "Most people come here to gain power, not understand weakness."
"Maybe that's why I don't understand," King said.
"You're philosophical for someone who suggested sinking water," Nero said.
King smiled. "I contain multitudes."
They finished their meal. Nero paid—claimed he'd lifted a noble's purse earlier, which made Marcus uncomfortable but not surprised.
Outside, the sun was setting. The city was bathing in orange light.
"Three days until results," Marcus said. "What are you going to do until then?"
"Explore the city," King said. "Maybe sleep. I haven't tried that yet."
"You haven't—" Marcus started, then shook his head. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask."
"Smart man," Nero said. "Hey, want to meet here tomorrow? Same time? We can compare notes on our inevitable failure."
"I'd like that," King said.
"Yeah," Marcus agreed. "Me too."
They parted ways at the crossroads. King watched them go—Marcus toward the cheaper district where he probably rented a room, Nero disappearing into an alley with practiced ease.
King stood at the intersection, breathing in the evening air. Somewhere in the city, someone was singing. A child laughed. Horses clip-clopped along cobblestones.
I made friends today, King realized. Real friends. Not subjects or worshippers. Just... people who chose to spend time with me.
The sensation in his chest was new. Warm and expanding and slightly uncomfortable in a pleasant way.
Is this happiness? he wondered.
---
A voice spoke behind him. "You're King Von Deluxh?"
King turned. A tall young man stood there, muscular and scarred, with chains wrapped around his forearms. His eyes were hard but not unkind.
"I am," King said.
"Heard you caught a combat golem with your bare hands." The man's voice was rough. "That true?"
"Yes."
The man studied him for a long moment. "I'm Dante. Dante Cross. Used to fight in the Bahari gladiator pits before I bought my freedom."
"Nice to meet you," King said.
"Save the pleasantries. I want to fight you."
King blinked. "Why?"
"Because I've spent five years fighting the strongest people I could find, and I still haven't found my limit." Dante's hands clenched into fists. "But watching you today? Something in my gut says you're different. So I want to test myself against you."
"I don't want to hurt you," King said honestly.
"Then don't. Just fight me. Tomorrow. The training grounds behind the south wall. Noon." Dante started to walk away, then paused. "And don't hold back. I can take it."
He disappeared into the crowd before King could respond.
King stood there, processing. Made friends, ate food, and now had a fight scheduled.
Mortal life is eventful, he thought.
He smiled and headed toward the inn he'd seen earlier. Time to try this "sleeping" thing everyone seemed to do.
Behind him, the city continued its evening rhythm, completely unaware that the most powerful being in existence was trying to figure out which inn had the softest pillows.