Sleep was strange.
King lay on the inn bed, eyes closed, waiting for something to happen. The mattress was softer than standing, which was nice. The pillow smelled like soap and lavender, which was also nice.
But nothing was happening.
Am I doing it wrong? King wondered. Marcus said you just "close your eyes and wait." I'm waiting. How long does this take?
He'd been lying there for three hours.
Around him, the inn creaked and settled. Someone snored in the next room. A cat yowled outside. The city had its own nighttime rhythm, quieter than day but not silent.
King kept his eyes closed and tried to understand what "tired" felt like.
His body didn't get tired. Couldn't get tired. Even sealed to 0.0001% of his power, exhaustion was a foreign concept. But he'd seen mortals yawn, stretch, complain about being sleepy.
Maybe I need to breathe differently?
He tried breathing slower. Then faster. Then holding his breath entirely.
Still nothing.
This is harder than I thought.
Eventually, King gave up trying and just lay there, listening to the world. That was pleasant enough. The sounds, the smells, the way moonlight filtered through the window and painted geometric patterns on the wall.
Maybe this is what sleep is, King thought. Just... being still. Existing quietly.
He stayed like that until sunrise.
---
Morning came with the smell of baking bread and the sounds of vendors setting up shop. King sat up, stretched experimentally—he'd seen people do that after sleeping—and looked at his hands.
They looked the same as yesterday. No different for having "rested."
I should ask someone how to sleep properly, King thought. Maybe there's a technique I'm missing.
He got dressed, left the inn, and wandered the morning streets. The city was already alive with activity. Merchants shouting, children running errands, the clatter of cart wheels on stone.
King bought breakfast from a street vendor—skewered meat and some kind of sweet pastry. Both were delicious. He was starting to understand why mortals spent so much time thinking about food.
"King!"
He turned. Marcus was jogging toward him, looking slightly panicked.
"There you are," Marcus said, breathing hard. "I've been looking everywhere. Word's spread about you and Dante."
"About the sparring match?" King asked.
"Yes! Do you know who Dante Cross is?" Marcus grabbed King's shoulders. "He's a former gladiator! Fought in the bloodiest pits in Bahari Dominion! He's killed people, King. Actual people. And he wants to fight you!"
"He seemed nice," King said.
"Nice?!" Marcus's voice cracked. "He's called the 'Chain Demon' because he strangled seven opponents with his bare chains! That's not nice!"
"He asked politely," King pointed out.
Marcus made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scream. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"I don't think so," King said. "But I appreciate your concern."
"This isn't—" Marcus stopped, taking a breath. "Okay. Okay, you're going to do this anyway, aren't you?"
"I said I would."
"Right. Of course." Marcus ran a hand through his hair. "Then I'm coming with you. Someone needs to pull your corpse out of the arena."
"That's very thoughtful," King said genuinely.
---
The training grounds behind the south wall were usually reserved for military drills.
Today, it was packed.
"How did so many people find out?" King asked.
"Dante told people," Marcus said weakly. "He always draws a crowd."
At least two hundred spectators lined the edges of the training ground. Some were exam candidates. Others looked like local fighters, gamblers, curious citizens.
Dante stood in the center, chains wrapped around his forearms, doing warm-up exercises that looked painful.
Nero appeared from the crowd, grinning. "There's the man of the hour! I put five silver on you lasting more than thirty seconds. Don't make me look bad."
"People are betting?" King asked.
"Of course they're betting. It's Dante Cross." Nero gestured at the crowd. "Current odds are twenty-to-one you get knocked out immediately. Thirty-to-one you last a minute. Fifty-to-one you actually land a hit."
"What are the odds I win?" King asked.
Nero laughed. "No one's offering those odds. That would be stupid money."
King walked toward the training ground. The crowd parted, whispers following him.
"That's the white-haired kid?"
"He doesn't look like much."
"Poor bastard. Dante's going to break him."
Dante stopped his warm-up when King approached. Up close, he was even more intimidating—muscle layered on muscle, scars covering his arms and chest, eyes that had seen too much violence.
"You came," Dante said.
"I said I would," King replied.
"Most people who say that don't show up." Dante unwrapped his chains, letting them pool at his feet. "Ground rules. No killing. No permanent damage. Fight until one of us can't continue or surrenders. Understood?"
"Understood," King said.
"Good." Dante rolled his shoulders. "I should warn you—I don't know how to hold back. Five years in the pits taught me that mercy gets you killed. So when we start, I'm coming at you with everything."
"That's fine," King said. "I'll try to be gentle."
Dante's expression flickered—something between amusement and confusion. "You'll try to be gentle? I'm the one who should be saying that."
"I don't want to hurt you by accident," King explained.
"By accident." Dante stared at him. "You caught a combat golem yesterday, and you think you'll hurt me by accident?"
"Yes?"
Dante laughed—a genuine sound that transformed his hard face. "I like you, King Von Deluxh. You're either the bravest person I've met or the craziest." He picked up his chains. "Let's find out which."
They walked to opposite sides of the training ground. The crowd pressed closer, eager for blood or humiliation or whatever entertainment this would provide.
Marcus and Nero stood at the edge, both looking worried despite Nero's usual grin.
"BEGIN! " someone shouted.
---
Dante moved.
Fast, King thought.
Not supernaturally fast, but trained fast. Five years of fighting had honed Dante's body into a weapon. He closed the distance in seconds, chains whipping forward.
King sidestepped. The chains cracked against the ground where he'd been standing, leaving gouges in the packed earth.
He's skilled, King observed. Those chains are extensions of his body. He's not using magic or talent. Just pure technique.
Dante attacked again. A flurry of strikes—high, low, feinting left and striking right. The chains sang through the air, each movement precise and deadly.
King dodged everything, stepping just enough to let the attacks pass by.
"You're quick," Dante said, not even breathing hard. "But dodging won't win fights."
He was right. King should probably attack back. That's how sparring worked.
But how hard should I hit? King wondered. If I use too much force, I'll hurt him. If I use too little, maybe nothing will happen.
While he was thinking, Dante's chain wrapped around his ankle.
Oh, King thought. That's clever.
Dante yanked. The chain pulled taut, designed to sweep King's leg and slam him to the ground.
King didn't move.
The chain pulled harder. Dante's muscles strained, veins standing out on his arms. The chain creaked under the tension.
King remained standing, completely stable, like he was rooted to the earth.
"What," Dante said through gritted teeth, "are you made of?"
"Mostly condensed divine essence," King said. "But I'm trying to be mortal, so let's say flesh and bone."
"Flesh and bone don't—" Dante released the chain and stepped back. "Okay. Different approach."
He charged directly at King, no chains this time. Pure hand-to-hand combat. A punch aimed at King's face—pulling back at the last second to test his reaction.
King didn't flinch.
Dante threw a real punch. Fast, powerful, backed by years of training.
King caught it.
Just reached up and caught Dante's fist in his palm, stopping the momentum completely.
Dante's eyes widened. "How strong are you?"
"I'm not sure," King admitted. "I've never measured."
"Let me test." Dante threw his other fist.
King caught that too.
Now they stood face to face, Dante's fists trapped in King's hands, both of them locked in place.
Except Dante was straining with everything he had, and King was just standing there.
"Push," King suggested.
"I AM PUSHING! " Dante roared.
"Oh. Should I push back?"
"YES! "
King pushed—very, very gently.
Dante flew backward twenty feet, hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a defensive stance. His hands were shaking slightly.
"That was gentle?" Dante asked.
"I barely pushed at all," King said. "Maybe one-tenth of a percent of what I was thinking about pushing with."
"One-tenth." Dante started laughing. "You're insane. Completely insane." But there was respect in his voice now. "Okay. One more technique. My strongest. Block it if you can."
He picked up both chains, wrapping them around his fists. His body began to glow—not magic, but pure physical enhancement. His talent activating.
"Combat Enhancement," someone in the crowd whispered. "Unique Talent. A-Rank. He's getting serious."
Dante's muscles expanded slightly, his speed doubling. He moved like lightning now, chains trailing behind him like steel wings.
The attack came from six directions at once—an impossible combination of chain strikes and physical blows, all aimed at vital points.
King raised one hand.
He caught all six attacks.
Chains wrapped around his forearm, Dante's enhanced fists pressed against his palm, and King just... stood there. Holding everything at once like it weighed nothing.
The training ground went absolutely silent.
"How," Dante said quietly.
"I'm just catching them," King said. "Like before."
"No. Not like before." Dante's voice was steady despite the strain. "I can feel it. You're not exerting force. You're not using leverage. You're just... being immovable. Like trying to push a mountain."
"Is that bad?" King asked.
"It's impossible!" Dante pulled back his chains and stepped away, deactivating his enhancement. "I've fought A-Rank fighters. S-Rank monsters. I've never felt anything like this." He looked at his hands, then at King. "What are you really?"
"Just someone who wanted to spar," King said.
Dante stared at him for a long moment. Then he started laughing again—deep, genuine laughter that echoed across the training ground.
"Just someone who wanted to spar," Dante repeated. "Right. And I'm just a guy with chains." He walked forward and extended his hand. "You win. Obviously. I couldn't even move you."
King shook his hand. "You're very skilled. I learned a lot watching your techniques."
"You learned—" Dante shook his head, still smiling. "You're something else, King Von Deluxh. Tell you what. I'm enrolling in the academy too. When results post and we both get in—and we will—let's spar regularly. I want to understand how you do what you do."
"I'd like that," King said.
"Good." Dante picked up his chains. "Now let's get out of here before people start asking questions we can't answer."
---
The crowd was already pressing in, voices overlapping:
"Did you see that?!"
"He didn't even move!"
"What rank is he really?"
"Has to be S-Rank minimum!"
Marcus and Nero pushed through to reach them.
"That was incredible," Nero said. "Also, I won a lot of money. Thank you."
"You scared everyone," Marcus added. "Again. You keep scaring everyone."
"I was being gentle," King protested.
"YOUR gentle broke the odds board," Nero said. "Some guy fainted when you caught all six attacks at once."
A new voice cut through the noise. "Impressive display."
Everyone turned. A woman stood at the edge of the training ground. Silver hair, stern expression, academy instructor robes. The same woman who'd conducted their combat trial.
"Instructor," Dante said, straightening. "Didn't expect academy staff here."
"I came to observe Candidate 847," she said, looking at King. "The reports about you seemed exaggerated. I wanted to see for myself."
"And?" King asked.
"They were not exaggerated. If anything, they were understated." She walked closer, studying him like a puzzle. "You're F-Rank. Zero measurable talent. And yet you just defeated an A-Rank Unique Talent holder without breaking a sweat."
"I sweated a little," King said. "It's warm today."
Her eye twitched. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," King said. "But I'm trying to give you an answer you'll accept."
"Try giving me the truth instead."
King met her gaze. "I don't think you'd believe the truth."
They stared at each other. The instructor's eyes were sharp, analytical, searching for deception.
Finally, she stepped back. "Results post tomorrow. One day early. Director wants to see you personally before orientation." She turned to leave, then paused. "King Von Deluxh. Whatever you are—and I will figure it out—don't make me regret accepting you into the academy."
"I'll try not to," King said.
She left. The crowd began dispersing, still buzzing with speculation and excitement.
Dante clapped King on the shoulder. "You just made an enemy of the head instructor on your first week. That's a record."
"Did I?" King asked. "She seemed more curious than angry."
"Curious is worse," Nero said. "Angry people yell and move on. Curious people investigate."
"And Instructor Helena Gray investigates everything," Marcus added quietly. "She's famous for it. Uncovered three spy rings in the last two years. If she decides you're suspicious—"
"Then she'll watch me closely," King finished. "I understand."
More people trying to figure out what I am, King thought. Yuki, Instructor Gray, probably others. Should I just tell them?
But no. Not yet. He wanted to experience being treated as an equal first. Being just "King" instead of "The Eternal Supreme."
Besides, the confusion was kind of interesting.
"Come on," Dante said. "I know a place that serves actual breakfast. My treat, since you just made me look like a complete amateur in front of two hundred people."
"You're not an amateur," King said. "You're very skilled."
"Compared to you, I'm a child with a stick." Dante grinned. "But I'll get better. That's what training's for."
They headed toward the city, four unlikely companions: the unchained gladiator, the failed candidate, the disgraced noble's son, and the god pretending to be human.
King looked back at the training ground one last time. The gouges from Dante's chains, the crater where he'd landed, the disturbed earth where they'd fought.
I'm leaving marks on the world, King realized. Not through divine power, but through simple actions. Fighting. Talking. Existing alongside others.
He smiled and followed his friends into the morning light.
Tomorrow, results would post. Tomorrow, his new life would officially begin.
But today? Today he had friends, breakfast, and the warm sun on his face.
This, King thought, is what I came here for.