Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

The shrine quieted again.

Elden stood alone at its center, wind brushing past him like the breath of gods. The three obelisks behind him had sunk back into the ground. The Trial of Truth was complete—but not the end.

Fenrir hovered high above in the divine veil, gaze locked onto the solitary figure below.

"He passed the first trial without flinching. Time to see how he handles the second."

He murmured.

[Initiating Trial of Conflict. Would you like to select a custom opponent?]

The system intoned.

"Yes. Use my old self, but tone it down."

Fenrir replied.

[Specify form.]

"My body before I became a god. Sword-class, enhanced reflexes, full aura control. Draw directly from my memories."

[Constructing battle projection. Estimated karma cost: 20. Confirm?]

"Do it."

There was a flash of red light within the shrine. Dust and wind exploded outward. And then, standing before Elden where once there was nothing, was a warrior clad in black.

Dressed in jagged armor etched with runes long since erased from the world. A cruel smile cut across his face. His sword, slender and curved, was already in hand—its edge whispering hunger.

Fenrir saw the past version of himself now—before godhood.

The warrior he once was.

And Elden stood facing him with only his greatsword and silence.

Below, the image of Fenrir tilted his head.

"You're the chosen one? You look like you kneel too often."

The projection sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Elden didn't answer.

He simply planted his feet, drew the greatsword from his back in one fluid motion, and pointed it forward.

Above, Fenrir folded his arms.

"Show me what you do, Elden."

The clash came fast.

Fenrir's image shot forward in a blur, faster than most mortals could see.

Elden brought his sword up just in time—barely—and the ground beneath his boots cracked from the impact. Sparks flew. The two blades locked, groaning under the strain.

Then the image pushed, and Elden was sent skidding backward across the stone.

He recovered instantly.

The two met again—blades clashing, ringing through the shrine like war bells.

Elden's greatsword, heavy and deliberate, contrasted with the projection's sharp and precise movements.

For every sweeping arc Elden committed to, the old Fenrir struck with brutal efficiency.

And Fenrir, watching above, was honest with himself.

"He's outmatched."

This wasn't just a warrior.

This was the tyrant who had ended the tower. The projection fought like the world owed him blood. With every step, he pressed forward—testing Elden's balance, strength, patience.

And Elden, despite his experience, could barely keep up.

A shallow cut appeared on Elden's arm.

Then another on his shoulder.

The projection gave no pause.

"Is that all you are? A sword polished for ceremony?"

It barked, eyes narrowing.

Elden gritted his teeth. He parried another flurry, redirected a strike, then took a deliberate blow to land a powerful counter—one that made the projection stumble for the first time.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes.

"That's new."

But it wasn't strength.

It was intent.

Elden wasn't trying to win.

He was trying to understand.

And that was dangerous.

Down below, the projection snarled and charged again. Elden blocked high—deliberately—and let himself be knocked down.

Then he rolled away, used the momentum to grab his blade in both hands, and struck upward.

A deep gash tore across the projection's side.

The image of Fenrir hissed in pain—but laughed.

"Now you're starting to look like someone worth killing."

Elden didn't respond.

He was breathing hard, but not desperate. No panic. No fear. He circled, watching, learning.

[Projection health: 71%. Elden is adapting. Switching to defensive posture.]

The system reported into Fenrir's thoughts.

Fenrir said nothing. He didn't want to adjust the simulation.

He wanted to see.

And what he saw… was a man who refused to meet force with more force. He wasn't trying to crush the projection. He was reading its patterns, using its aggression against it.

Just like Fenrir, long ago.

The final clash came fast.

The projection lunged forward with a spinning slash meant to take Elden's head.

Elden stepped inside the arc, absorbed the blow against his armored shoulder, and drove the pommel of his sword into the image's throat.

Then—one precise, brutal strike across the chest.

The projection staggered.

Dropped to one knee.

And vanished in a flicker of smoke.

[Trial of Conflict: Completed.]

[Karma gained: +30. Total remaining: 1,038.]

Fenrir let out a long breath.

He hadn't expected Elden to win. Not truly. That wasn't the point. This wasn't about dominance—it was about endurance, clarity, restraint.

And Elden had proven himself again.

"He's not trying to conquer anything," Fenrir said under his breath.

"Not even me. He just wants to walk forward without being turned into a weapon."

He could work with that.

"System. Prepare the third and final trial."

Fenrir said. "

[Acknowledged. Trial of Choice is next. You may begin at will.]

Fenrir looked down again.

Elden was already rising, steady, bloodied—but standing.

And the final decision awaited.

______

Elden stood alone once again.

The air had changed. The shrine, once heavy with silence and memory, now seemed to hold its breath.

The ground beneath Elden's feet pulsed faintly, resonating with divine presence. His armor was cracked, blood streaked across his gauntlet, but his posture remained upright.

Fenrir observed him from the divine veil, arms folded behind his back, gaze locked on the battered warrior below.

[Trial of Choice is ready. Would you like to proceed?]

The system intoned.

"Yes."

Fenrir said.

The shrine darkened. Not in shadow—but in reverence. As though the world itself bowed to what was about to come.

Fenrir extended his hand.

A manifestation of light descended from the heavens—a column of pure white fire that struck the center of the shrine.

It carved a glowing circle into the stone. Within it, a single sword emerged, hovering in place. It was sleek, simple, forged of light and silence. Not a weapon of war, but one of oath.

And then Fenrir's voice filled the shrine.

Not thunderous. Not loud.

But inescapable.

"Elden."

The warrior looked up, his eyes locking onto the sky.

"You have walked through memory, pain, and battle. You have faced what you were, what you could have been, and what you feared to become."

"Now, the choice stands before you."

Fenrir's gaze sharpened as he watched the man below—still breathing hard, knuckles white from gripping his sword.

"You may raise your blade and turn it against me. Defy the divine, as you've done all your life. Or…"

A pause.

"Lay down your weapon, and I will name you mine. Not a slave. Not a symbol. But a sword that cuts through falsehood. A hand that moves with mine. A voice that carries truth."

Fenrir waited.

Below, Elden looked at the greatsword in his grip.

The same weapon that had carved his legend.

The same one that had defended him when men called him a god.

And slowly—without hesitation—he let it fall.

The blade struck stone with a dull ring.

"I was never your equal. Not once. Not in strength. Not in will. Not in understanding."

Elden said, raising his hands in surrender. His voice was quiet, but steady.

"I don't deserve to defy you. Nor do I seek to be worshipped anymore. If my deeds made people kneel, then I've led them poorly."

He added, lowering himself to one knee.

Fenrir felt something stir in him.

Not pride.

Something deeper. Recognition.

Elden raised his eyes again.

"I don't want glory. But I do want purpose. Give me a mission worthy of who you are. Let me serve—not as a king, not as a god, but as your sword."

He said.

The system chimed softly beside him.

[Trial of Choice: Submission acknowledged. Will you accept the candidate?]

Fenrir spoke aloud, letting his voice fall over the shrine once more.

"Then hear me now, Elden."

The sword of light floated down toward him.

"You will walk this world in my name—not to conquer it, but to steady it."

"You will remind mortals that divinity is not silence or absence, but choice."

"You will speak only truth, even when it cuts deeper than steel."

The sword stopped just before Elden's face.

"And when the time comes, you will be my flame in the time of clash."

Elden looked up at the floating blade. His fingers curled around its hilt.

He drew it slowly, reverently, and held it with both hands across his chest.

"I swear myself to you. In body, in truth, and in silence. I will walk where you point, speak only what you will, and cut through the rot of this world."

He said.

He bowed his head.

"I am yours, Lord Fenrir."

A surge of light erupted from the shrine. The stone circle beneath Elden's feet burst into glowing runes. The sword pulsed once—then dimmed to a steady glow.

Fenrir felt the connection lock in place.

This wasn't worship.

It was allegiance.

Chosen, not demanded.

Earned, not stolen.

[Paladin accepted. Karma reward: +500. New status unlocked: Voice of the Whispering God.]

The system whispered. Fenrir let out a slow breath.

He had walked through war in his past life. Worn dozens of titles. Broken the bones of kings and gods alike. But none of those victories had come with the clarity of this one moment.

Elden had not submitted out of fear.

He had chosen him.

And now, Fenrir finally had what he needed—not a puppet, not a vessel—but a man who would carry his will without needing chains.

The shrine calmed.

The wind returned.

And far below, Fenrir's first true servant stood quietly beneath the fading glow of divine light—his sword drawn, his eyes forward.

The world would know his name.

And through him… the world would never forget Fenrir.