Leon stood at the edge of the battleground, letting the wind brush past him. The arena had returned to silence, the shards of mirrored energy slowly disintegrating into light. Behind him, Vireus knelt motionless—defeated, not dead. Not broken, but denied.
The Realm of Thrones didn't judge victory by how hard you struck. It judged by what remained when the storm passed.
Roselia stepped to Leon's side. "You really meant it," she said quietly. "You could've claimed that throne."
"I did," Leon replied. "Just not the way they expected."
Naval tilted his head. "We're not here to rule over seats."
"No," Leon said. "We're here to challenge the ones who already do. Until they have no choice but to stand and meet us."
A pulse echoed through the Realm.
Far ahead—beyond the line of thrones, past the central arch that led deeper into the Upper Tower—another light appeared.
It wasn't a gate this time.
It was a ripple.
A fold in the fabric of space.