Three days had passed since the duel that rewrote history.
In that short time, legends had already taken root in the sand.
They called him Squidward the Seer—the clairvoyant cashier, the prophet of patties, the tentacled tactician who foresaw the fall of Neptune. His victory was hailed not as a fluke, but as destiny. A duel won not with might, but with cosmic wisdom.
And now, in the glimmering halls of the Royal Palace, that destiny was being realized.
Trumpets blared. Coral confetti rained from above. The grand throne room—once the domain of Neptune himself—was packed with nobles, generals, bureaucrats, sycophants, and an entire school of choir fish humming in unison.
At the center, flanked by guards clad in golden armor, stood Squidward Tentacles.
No longer in his Krusty Krab uniform.
Now he wore flowing sapphire robes trimmed with platinum sea thread, a high collar fanning behind his head like a lionfish's crown. His eyes glistened. His skin practically shimmered with the divine glow of high thread count.
A tall officiant raised a conch shell and bellowed, "By decree of divine rite and popular acclaim, let it be known—today marks the ascension of Squidward Quincy Tentacles to the throne of Oceanic Sovereignty. From the waves of the Coral Ridge to the volcanic trenches of Molten Gulch, from Sponge Valley to the upper reef domes, we welcome... His Majesty, Squidward I!"
A roar echoed through the palace.
The crowd chanted, "LONG LIVE THE SEER! LONG LIVE THE KING!"
The royal guards brought their pikes down with a synchronized BANG, sending shockwaves through the marble floor.
A towering, jewel-encrusted crown—reshaped from Neptune's own—was lifted by two jellyfish monks and placed gently atop Squidward's bulbous head. It sparkled like a thousand polished clarinet reeds. It was heavy.
It was perfect.
Squidward's lips trembled. "I've dreamed of this…" he whispered. "Since the first time a customer screamed at me about extra pickles."
A squire stepped forward with a scroll.
"With this final decree, we welcome your rule and grant you full control of Bikini Bottom, the Outlying Coral Colonies, and all subordinate crustacean principalities."
"I accept," Squidward said, voice steady. Regal.
He turned to the crowd, arms wide. "No longer shall the arts be belittled! No longer shall fast food workers be stomped upon by the gluttonous foot of greed! I will bring culture. Refinement. Peace."
The crowd exploded into applause.
Later that evening, the newly-crowned monarch glided through the polished halls of the palace. A retinue of servant fish trailed behind him, each with a specific duty: fanner, foot buffer, nose powderer, harpist. He waved them all away as he arrived at his royal chambers.
The doors swung open automatically.
He stopped.
Then gasped.
It was perfect.
A 1:1 replica of his old house—from the lava lamp in the corner to the horrifically off-center portrait of himself above the sofa. The shag carpet. The dusty clarinet case. Even the couch that squeaked when you sat down just a little too hard.
"How did they—?" he muttered.
"As you wished, Sire, we copied the blueprint of your old home perfectly," a servant said helpfully.
Squidward nodded in stunned approval. "Excellent. Leave me."
As the doors shut behind him, a flicker of green smoke coiled through the air, curling into a familiar shape.
Lurala emerged from the shadows like a phantom at a gala.
Her rotting wings glistened faintly under the chandelier light. "Well, well, Your Squiddyness. You really outdid yourself."
Squidward turned and offered a satisfied smirk. "It was the only path forward. The only way to stay safe. I knew eventually someone would connect the dots. Sandy was already close. But now?" He gestured to the walls. "Now, I'm untouchable. I have the army. The resources. The respect. Anyone who questions me is labeled a traitor or a heretic."
Lurala twirled midair. "And all it took was… oh, let's see…" She pulled a comically long scroll from her clamshell bra. "Thirty-seven confirmed deaths. One demigod. Several dozen cops. A disgraced socialite. A starfish. Not bad for someone who didn't even want the notebook at first."
"I don't feel guilty," Squidward said flatly, walking to his desk.
Lurala raised a decaying brow. "No?"
He sat down.
"I'm happier than I've ever been," he said simply. "No customers. No SpongeBob screaming in my face. No Krabs barking about fryer grease. I have two hundred and fifty personal servants. An indoor orchestra. A bath filled with imported Dead Sea sponges." He smirked. "The irony isn't lost on me."
He pulled open a drawer.
Inside sat Les Royal Journal — a gilded, regal-looking diary that held, hidden within its pages, the Death Note itself.
He opened it and stared.
Names. Dozens of them. Written in ink. Dates. Causes. Lies neatly arranged to maintain the illusion of fate.
He didn't flinch.
He just whispered, "It was for the greater good."
Lurala clapped slowly. "So noble. So brutal. I love it. You'll be a fan favorite in the underworld."
Squidward closed the journal and set it aside.
Then unfurled a new scroll.
"What's that?" Lurala asked.
"Planning," Squidward said. "Now that the kingdom is mine, I intend to rule it properly."
Lurala cackled. "Are we talking infrastructure planning, or dissident purges?"
Squidward looked up with the calm smile of a man sipping tea while watching a riot.
"Both."
The chandelier dimmed. The windows darkened.
And somewhere outside, a mural was already being painted—of Squidward I, clad in ocean silk, standing atop a mound of crushed clarinets, holding a golden scepter... and smiling.