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

The moment had finally come.

For days, the people had gathered at the foot of the Tower—rulers, adventurers, priests, and heretics alike—all staring at the obsidian spire that stretched endlessly into the clouds.

Some thought it a curse, others a blessing. Most simply didn't know what to make of it.

They had questions.

Fenrir would give them answers.

He rose from the divine veil and stepped forward.

[Karma cost for physical descent: 10,000. Confirm?]

"Yes."

He said without hesitation.

The veil split open.

Light unlike anything the world had ever seen descended upon the Tower, cascading in waves of gold and violet.

Wind howled. The earth trembled. A single, massive sigil burned into the sky—a rune that only the soul could read.

And from that light… Fenrir walked forth.

He appeared above the crowd, suspended in midair, his cloak flowing behind him like shadow.

His body shimmered with divine radiance—one foot in form, the other in flame. His presence was weight itself.

The world quieted.

Thousands had gathered.

Kings dressed in war-forged robes. Archpriests gripping relics. Mercenaries. Thieves. Farmers.

All fell silent beneath his gaze.

Then Fenrir spoke.

His voice wasn't loud.

But it was heard.

"Behold, the Tower of Trials."

He said.

He looked over them—these people he had watched from afar, shaped in silence, guided with whispers and karma.

"This is your test. Not of strength, nor blood. But of faith."

He said.

He raised his right hand, and golden runes danced across the tower's surface in answer.

"You ask what it is. It is a gate. A ladder. A challenge given to all worlds."

He continued.

He paused.

"But only those who believe in more than themselves… can climb it."

A murmur swept the crowd.

"Faith? And what if we don't care for faith?"

One noble scoffed.

Fenrir's eyes met his. Not with wrath—but with something far more dangerous: indifference.

"You'll be left behind."

A pulse of his divine aura expanded outward like a shockwave. Those closest fell to their knees, unable to breathe.

Even the doubters found their heads bowing, their voices silenced by the crushing force of his presence.

No more arguments.

Just awe.

Just fear.

Just truth.

Then, among the thousands, a single figure stepped forward.

Elden.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, still clad in battle-worn armor, the sword Fenrir had gifted him strapped across his back. His eyes flicked up to the divine form in the sky.

And without hesitation, he knelt.

His voice rang out, firm and clear.

"I am your sword, my god."

He raised his head, and his eyes locked with Fenrir's, unwavering.

"If this is your will, I will carry it into the darkness. I will climb. And I will carve your name into the heart of every world that denies you."

Fenrir felt the pulse of karma shift.

He said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Elden rose, turned toward the tower, and without another word, stepped into the black doorway that had opened at its base.

The tower accepted him with a low hum, and his silhouette vanished into its depths.

It was all the crowd needed.

Dozens more surged forward—adventurers who had trained their whole lives, knights who had prayed for a calling, priests who had once doubted and now feared being left behind.

One after another, they entered.

Then came the banners. Then came the rulers.

The tower awakened with each step.

Above it all, Fenrir watched silently.

[Divine presence acknowledged. Your appearance has triggered a full-cycle convergence of belief. Karma gained: +1,700.]

The system intoned beside him.

A pause.

[Your world ranking has risen by 100 positions.]

He narrowed his eyes.

"Where am I now?"

[Current standing: 10,288 out of 100,000 ranked realms. You are still outside the top ten thousand.]

"Hmph."

So close. But not yet there.

Still, it was progress. He hadn't been anywhere before. The old world hadn't even qualified. He'd clawed his way into the system with broken gods, shattered doctrine, and raw will.

Now?

Now he had a Paladin, an army of believers, and a tower that would shake the realms with his name.

Fenrir floated lower, just above the tower's opening. The wind curled around his divine form, and the runes on his arms pulsed brighter than ever.

"This is where it starts."

He murmured.

And below him, the world trembled—not in fear, but in anticipation.

Fenrir stood in silence, his divine form veiled within the clouds above the Tower.

Below, Elden climbed.

Floor by floor, trial by trial, he endured. Blades, illusions, divine beasts—each one more brutal than the last.

But the Paladin never faltered. He bore Fenrir's name on his lips, and his god's weight on his shoulders.

By the eighth floor, only a few chosen had made it that far.

And Elden… was no longer young.

Fenrir watched his once-vigorous champion stagger forward, breath heavy, skin weathered. His steps no longer struck with thunder, but with memory. He pressed on through sheer will—will alone.

And then—

He knelt.

No foe around him. No wound. Just time.

The final silence came.

Elden lowered his blade, touched his forehead to the Tower's stone, and whispered a final prayer. Then, without fanfare, he faded into the light.

Gone.

Not defeated—just… claimed.

By something even gods couldn't hold back.

Fenrir closed his eyes.

[The Paladin Elden has fallen. Cause of death: Natural. No regrets recorded.]

The system reported softly.

That didn't make it easier.

He had hoped Elden would reach the top. That his name would echo not only through one world, but across the whole cosmos. But the man's body had not outlived his spirit.

"Stupid mortal body. He should've had more time."

Fenrir muttered.

He remained still for a long while, watching as the Tower dimmed slightly in mourning. The rest of the challengers had either fallen or descended. No one else had come close.

No one else had carried his name the way Elden had.

He needed a new Paladin.

But not a human this time. Humans burned too fast. Fenrir needed a fire that wouldn't go out in just one lifetime.

That was when he sensed it.

A pulse in the northern forest. Elven mana. A gathering. A ceremony.

Fenrir shifted his vision, casting his sight toward the lush, glowing groves of the Elven capital, nestled deep beneath the emerald canopy.

The high elves stood in their ancient ceremonial plaza, draped in robes of moonlight and silver thread.

A circle had formed. Children stood in the center—ten of them. Young, proud, and bathed in divine energy.

Their elders stood solemnly, arms raised to the heavens.

And they prayed—to him.

They asked, humbly, for his next Paladin to be chosen from their blood.

To carry the honor of Elden's legacy, and elevate their race to divine favor.

Fenrir descended just enough for them to feel his presence—a crackle in the air, a shimmer in the trees. Heads bowed instantly. Knees hit the mossy earth.

He studied the children.

There was one, near the front, who stood with his chin raised, posture firm, confidence radiating from him like heat from a forge. His aura blazed. He had trained for this. Believed he deserved it.

The crowd expected Fenrir to choose him.

Even the high priests looked up at that boy with quiet approval.

But then—Fenrir's gaze shifted.

Just beside him, slightly in his shadow, stood another child.

Smaller.

Timid.

He looked uncertain, nervous. His hands trembled slightly.

But Fenrir saw past the surface.

Inside him… there was something else.

A storm.

His soul shimmered not with pride, but with hunger. Not for glory, but for understanding. For purpose. The raw mana coiled inside his core had yet to awaken, but it burned deeper than the confident child's flare.

Fenrir made his choice.

A golden glow descended, slow and deliberate, weaving through the crowd until it hovered before the quiet one.

The child's eyes widened in disbelief as the divine symbol etched itself onto his forehead—a faint rune that shimmered with silver light.

Gasps echoed through the glade.

The proud child's jaw tightened. His fists clenched.

The priests blinked, barely hiding their discomfort.

None spoke.

But Fenrir could feel their thoughts.

"Why him?"

"He's weak."

"He's afraid."

"He'll fail."

Fenrir's voice rumbled through the glade, not in anger, but clarity.

"You chose to place your faith in me."

"I chose to place my future in him."

The leaves trembled. A gust of divine wind rushed past, scattering petals through the air.

The timid elf stood tall now. Not with pride, but with stunned purpose.

Fenrir withdrew his divine presence slightly, letting the light fade.

[New Paladin Candidate Marked. Name: Kaelir of the Silver Grove. Racial Classification: High Elf. Lifespan: 1,200 years. Potential: High. Loyalty: Unknown.]

The system confirmed.

Fenrir stared down at the boy, Kaelir, as the child blinked and clutched his chest, as if trying to feel the divine imprint left upon him.

He would need training. Strength. Trials.

But he had time now.

More than Elden ever did.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes.

"Let's see what you become."