Chapter 14: The King and the Champion

Aron kept running, his breath steady, his strides effortless. Yet his mind was in turmoil.

Is this really me? He felt weightless, powerful—his muscles responding with a strength he hadn't known in decades. His body was fast, his stamina endless.

Reaching a riverbank, he leaned over, staring into the water's surface. The reflection staring back at him was not the aging man he had come to accept. It was his younger self—his prime, his peak. His hands traced his jawline, his chest, his arms. Every detail was exactly as he remembered from his youth.

Then, a memory surged through his mind—the young lady he had encountered.

Vaelora.

Her words echoed in his head. "I'll grant you one wish… if the dice lands on 1-5."

His stomach twisted. He clenched his fists, whispering to himself, "I didn't wish for this… I wanted to go home. I wanted my wife, my family, my life back."

For three days, he ran without stopping, his mind raging against the impossibility of it all. For three days, the guards hunted him. Yet no matter how many times they neared, he was too fast, too strong. He evaded them effortlessly, his body carrying him beyond human limits.

But exhaustion settled—not in his muscles, not in his bones, but in his spirit. Running wasn't answering his questions. It wasn't bringing him home. It wasn't changing anything.

And so, on the dawn of the fourth day, he stopped.

He turned himself in.

The guards, wary yet triumphant, seized him and dragged him back.

Aron didn't fight. Didn't resist.

He was tired of running.

He needed answers.

The guards, intent on breaking his spirit, threw him into the dungeon—a cold, damp cell buried beneath the kingdom. The stench of decay clung to the air, and the only light came from a flickering torch outside the iron bars.

As he adjusted to the darkness, a raspy voice echoed from the shadows.

"So... another one has fallen to their game."

Aron turned sharply. In the corner of the cell sat a frail yet imposing figure—a man with piercing eyes that held the weight of years past.

The old king.

The old king studied Aron for a moment before speaking. "Why are you here?"

Aron exhaled sharply, his mind still clouded with questions. "Why am I here... in this world? With this strength? With this stamina?"

The old king's eyes narrowed. "Strength? Stamina?" He leaned forward slightly. "Have you encountered a goddess?"

Aron frowned. "Goddess?"

The old king let out a dry chuckle. "No... not a goddess. Not truly. A godly being—one beyond gender, beyond mortal understanding."

Aron's breath caught. "A... god? A lady?"

The old king shook his head. "No. It was Zeraphis."

The name sent a strange chill down Aron's spine.

The old king leaned back against the cold stone wall. "Before me was my father, and before him, his father. My grandfather was nothing but a simple king—the lowest among the seven. He had only one wish upon the stone tablet. And that wish... was what started everything.

The old king's gaze darkened. "I was the one who created the laws that govern this kingdom. The Five Immutable Laws."

He took a deep breath before continuing:

A King Cannot Be Killed – No man, no army, no rebellion may strike down a reigning king unless the laws permit it. The Arena Must Always Have a Champion – A cycle of bloodshed is the foundation of our rule, ensuring the gods' satisfaction. A Victor's Wish Must Be Granted – Whatever the winner of the arena desires—wealth, power, revenge—the king must fulfill it. A Former King Shall Never Return to the Throne – Once dethroned, a king is forever cast aside, forbidden from ruling again. Every Five Years, One Law May Be Changed – The king can alter only one law from the stone tablet every five years, but the first law can never be changed.

The old king's voice grew distant, his mind drifting to the past. "Before me, my father ruled simply, obeying the gods without question. But I... I sought to make the throne untouchable, to ensure that no king could ever suffer the fate of a fallen warrior. And yet, here I am. Just like the ones before me. Just like you will be."

Aron narrowed his eyes, his modern mind analyzing every word. He wasn't just another warrior thrown into a cycle of bloodshed—he had lived in a world ruled by logic, strategy, and power beyond brute force. He had seen corporations manipulate laws, politicians twist justice, and systems built to protect the elite.

He leaned forward. "These laws… they don't protect the people. They protect the king. You ensured no rebellion could ever succeed. You forced warriors into an endless bloodbath for entertainment. And the wishes? What if someone wished to break the system?"

The old king sighed, his expression unreadable. "They can't. The first law is absolute. The gods demand a game, and I made sure I would never be its pawn."

Aron clenched his fists. "Then what happened to you? If you built a throne that couldn't be taken, how did you end up here?"

The old king chuckled bitterly. "I was outplayed. Not by warriors, not by champions—but by the very gods I sought to appease. And now, you are caught in the same game."

His voice lowered, his eyes dark with something Aron couldn't quite name. Regret? Fear? Or something else entirely?

"I built a throne that could not be taken, a kingdom bound by laws even the gods respected. Yet, when the final battle came, I was not slain... I was replaced. I fought for my right to rule, yet the gods remained silent. My opponent made a wish, and I was simply... cast aside."

Aron stiffened. "You're saying the gods allowed a king to be overthrown—without death?"

The old king exhaled sharply. "Not just any king. Me. The architect of these very laws. And as I watched him closely... something was wrong. His presence, his very being—it was beyond mortal." His fists clenched, knuckles pale. "I am not sure if it was truly a man… or if it was Zeraphis itself, taking the throne in disguise."

Aron and the old king locked eyes as the figure stepped forward into the light.

King Greg.

Aron's breath hitched. His vision blurred for a moment—not from fear, but from sheer disbelief. Greg…? The man standing before him, the one now wearing the crown, bore the same face as his wife's former lover.

The old king's eyes widened. His voice, though hoarse, carried unmistakable authority. "You… you're not the true king on that throne."

Aron's pulse quickened. He had barely begun to grasp the absurdity of this world, and now he was being told that a god might have stolen the throne? It made no sense—but then again, none of this did.

His mind spun with questions. If Zeraphis could become king, what did that mean for the other gods? Were they merely watching, or were they playing their own game? And most importantly—what was his role in all of this?

The old king let out a hollow laugh, snapping Aron from his thoughts. "I see that look in your eyes. You think you'll be different, that you'll break the cycle. So did I. And where did it bring me?" He gestured to the damp, crumbling walls of the dungeon. "The gods do not bargain. They do not negotiate. They only play."

Then suddenly, the door of the dungeon creaked open, its rusted hinges groaning in protest. A shadow stretched across the stone floor, long and imposing. Aron tensed as the flickering torchlight revealed a towering figure standing at the entrance—flanked by a hundred soldiers, their armor gleaming under the dim glow.

Aron and the old king locked eyes as the figure stepped forward into the light.

King Greg.

Aron's breath hitched. His vision blurred for a moment—not from fear, but from sheer disbelief. Greg…? The man standing before him, the one now wearing the crown, bore the same face as his wife's former lover.

The old king's eyes widened. His voice, though hoarse, carried unmistakable authority. "You… you're not the true king on that throne."

Greg's smirk didn't falter. Instead, he turned to the guards. "Put him back in his cell. And let the old king rot in this dungeon."

Aron's pulse quickened. He had barely begun to grasp the absurdity of this world, and now he was being told that a god might have stolen the throne? It made no sense—but then again, none of this did.

His mind spun with questions. If Zeraphis could become king, what did that mean for the other gods? Were they merely watching, or were they playing their own game? And most importantly—what was his role in all of this?

The old king let out a hollow laugh, snapping Aron from his thoughts. "I see that look in your eyes. You think you'll be different, that you'll break the cycle. So did I. And where did it bring me?" He gestured to the damp, crumbling walls of the dungeon. "The gods do not bargain. They do not negotiate. They only play."

Then suddenly, the door of the dungeon creaked open, its rusted hinges groaning in protest. A shadow stretched across the stone floor, long and imposing. Aron tensed as the flickering torchlight revealed a towering figure standing at the entrance—flanked by a hundred soldiers, their armor gleaming under the dim glow.

Aron and the old king locked eyes as the figure stepped forward into the light.

King Greg.

Aron's breath hitched. His vision blurred for a moment—not from fear, but from sheer disbelief. Greg…? The man standing before him, the one now wearing the crown, bore the same face as his wife's former lover.

The old king's eyes widened. His voice, though hoarse, carried unmistakable authority. "You… you're not the true king on that throne."

Greg's smirk didn't falter. Instead, he turned to the guards. "Put him back in his cell. And let the old king rot in this dungeon."