You Already Won

Xizelen stood at the edge of her White Room, eyes fixed on the fractured world below. Half the room remained suspended in reality—its sleek floors, shifting lights, and ancient white glyphs unwavering. The other half bled into reality, making it feel as if she were staring out a massive glass window.

She had done her best. Had made it clear to this crusade of Outlanders and desperate natives that entering the Tournament meant forfeiting their connection to the gods. The divine would no longer watch over them. And many listened—thousands, in fact, stayed behind. On top of those, she had personally filtered out even more.

Still, thousands had made it through.

Most of them were Outlanders, chasing glory. Glory made it easier. Losing divine favor was just another step in their arc. A price to pay for leveling up. That was how they framed it—how they rationalized it. But she knew better.

She sighed.

It even seemed one group had already made contact with Lord Jonathan.

That… was earlier than expected.

A ripple formed behind her.

Xizelen froze.

Not many dared to enter the White Room willingly. Fewer still would approach a member of the Jafar Empire so openly.

She turned slowly, then immediately kneeled. Whoever stepped through had to be a god. She was right.

A neon door flickered into existence—unfitting for the sterile white serenity of her half-real, half-metaphysical plane. From it walked Jason Miller Basingal, the right hand of the Basingal Family Head. His glowing cyan-pink eyes contrasted against his deep brown skin, the light catching the scar across his neck like a halo. The trim on his pitch-black coat shimmered with vibrant neon arcs, and a plush magenta fur collar draped around him like a trophy.

Xizelen smirked as she bowed her head.

This came faster than she expected.

"Rise, Overseer," Jason said flatly.

She stood, keeping her smile polite despite the annoyed expression painted across his face. If it weren't for her standing within the Empire's graces, she'd be dead already.

"You've been very busy, Xizelen."

Jason's voice was calm, but the weight behind it was anything but.

"First, you force a member of my family to keep quiet about Jafar's Jujisn."

His eyes narrowed. A pressure built on her body—slow, steady, unrelenting. Crushing.

She couldn't move. Couldn't fight it. Magic. And as a native without Sryun, there was nothing she could do except smile politely and pray he didn't lose his temper.

"I was only—"

"Silence."

The room began to tremble.

"You not only made the Family look incompetent," he continued, "you then decided to intercept and funnel those trying to join. Was that part of your orders too?"

She sighed but didn't drop eye contact. "No."

Jason stepped in, his aura pulsing like an electric tide.

"You're going to tell me what's going on. Why you want this Jujisn hidden, yet willingly entered him into one of the biggest events of the year. And then you act on your own?"

She blinked. She didn't even disagree with him. She also found this entire setup odd. But long ago, she'd stopped trying to understand the logic of gods.

Still, seeing one just as confused as a mortal? That almost made her laugh.

She smirked.

The hand came faster than her reflexes could register.

CRACK.

Blood hit the pristine floor. Her vision blurred.

The room responded immediately, reacting with defensive aggression. But Jason's aura surged in neon arcs that twisted through the air, infecting the entire construct like a virus. Her control evaporated. The walls flickered. The floor warped.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Her hand barely found the floor as she gasped, trying to reorient.

Jason stood over her, burning with irritation. He raised his hand again.

But then—the air changed.

No, that wasn't quite right.

Reality itself convulsed. The hunger of a distant, ancient thing peeled through space. Not so much an arrival, but like this world had opened its stomach to allow something else inside.

And it had.

Another presence stepped into the White Room.

Jason froze.

The being that entered did not walk so much as unfold into existence, like a forbidden thought made real. He wasn't summoned. He was acknowledged.

He looked like something torn from a corrupted scripture, the type of entity you'd pray never learned your name.

His skin was crimson, glowing faintly, only wearing black shorts as attire. Every inch of him carried symbols: a black, tattooed star across his chest, cryptic runes wrapped around his throat like a collar of dominance, and an All-Seeing Eye etched into his palm.

White hair fell wildly across his forehead and curled around two dark horns that pierced out like rotted wood, flanking a third, vertically-slitted golden eye that blinked independently. His regular eyes glimmered with a sadistic playfulness, flecked with gold and curved like crescent moons.

Fangs peeked from behind a mischievous, too-wide grin. Piercings and rings danced along his ears, lip, and fingers, each catching some light that didn't exist. His entire form was sex, hunger, and ruin sculpted into a singular divine mockery of charm.

And when he spoke? The air didn't vibrate—it stuttered.

"My, my, my… what-what are you doing to my dear Xizelen? That's my, my Xizelen."

He stepped forward—and in an instant, he was beside her.

With a graceful motion, he helped her to her feet. The hunger leaking from his form rolled outward, consuming everything intangible. Pain. Scars. Bruises. Blood. All of it devoured. Gone. Xizelen straightened, her breath smooth, body fully restored. She bowed with trembling respect.

"Master Zequlot, thank you for your kindness. I—"

"Quiet, quiet, my-my Xizelen," he cooed, still smiling. Then he turned, slowly, appearing in front of Jason.

"You-you-you have yet to answer my question."

Jason exhaled, grounding himself as that sickening presence pressed in.

His voice didn't shake, but every cell screamed at him to be cautious.

"I apologize for losing my temper, but I have questions that need answers too."

He met Zequlot's gaze. That third eye blinked once—and Jason felt his thoughts peel back like pages in a burning book.

He expected the Empire to react. It was why he had prepared countermeasures—to avoid appearing weak while also ensuring he didn't provoke them into retaliation. But even in his layered planning, he hadn't accounted for this. He hadn't accounted for drawing the attention of the Jafar Bloodline.

Zequlot Xul Sabben Jafar.

The First Overseer. One of the earliest to be inducted into the bloodline of Jafar. It was rumored he had existed since the beginning—when Jafar and the Supreme Families first emerged. Though he was a native, the blood of an Absolute Being flowed through his veins, granting him power that could rival or even exceed the highest forms of magic.

Even now—despite being only the fifth-strongest presence in Basingal—Jason wasn't confident he could win in a direct confrontation with Zequlot. And facing off against a member of the Jafar bloodline was, in every way, like raising arms against Jafar himself.

And no one in their right mind would dare to anger a King.

Zequlot smile didn't fade. If anything, it widened as he leaned forward, voice soaked in mock curiosity and syrupy condescension.

"Oooooohhh… dear-dear Jason. Is-is-is that a question? From you? About… plans?"

Jason straightened, his aura starting to flare in subtle flickers. "If decisions have been made regarding the tournament—regarding Outlanders and Jujisn—I should be informed. I'm not just a bystander. I am—"

"Beyond. Your. Station," Zequlot said, the words slow, final, and accented by the faint hum of his third eye opening wider, golden iris swirling like a whirlpool.

"You...you… still haven't answered-answered my question."

Jason clenched his fists. "I assaulted your Overseer, because she went rogue. Acted outside command. You're just going to let that transgression go?"

Zequlot tapped his chin playfully. "Hmmmmmm. Rogue-rogue Overseers… wandering eyes and curious fingers… yes, yes, a slap feels… appropriate. Mmhm. Consider that her… consequence."

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Jason's voice sharpened. "That's not enough. The Family won't—"

The room darkened. Not from lack of light, but from a pressure that made light seem optional.

Zequlot's smile remained, but the hum of his three eyes intensified—a triune glare of amusement and warning.

"The Empire—" he said, dragging the word like it tasted stale, "—is allowing this. With… interest. But not involvement. The concerns of the Supreme Families… are not… our concern."

He tilted his head and whispered through dagger-like teeth:

"Tell your Family Head… to stay in their realm. Stick-stick to your schemes and little wars. Stay in one's place, hmm?"

Jason's aura burst—neon flaring across the floor in jagged streaks. For a heartbeat, the pressure could've cracked the room.

Then—he calmed.

His eyes darted once toward Xizelen, once toward Zequlot's still-hovering gaze.

Without another word, Jason vanished—his departure a violent blink of neon static that fizzled out against the quiet tension.

Zequlot tilted his head.

"Hmph. So-so dramatic. They always leave before the-the fun."

Xizelen twirled a strand of her red-and-green hair, heart fluttering like a captive bird. Zequlot appearing had been both a salvation and possibly a sentence.

He was suddenly beside her.

Too close. As if the concept of space dared not exist between them.

Zequlot's hand lifted her chin with delicate reverence, his other hand brushing her hair aside, his long fingers caressing the back of her neck like a lover admiring their bride.

"Oh, oh my-my, Xizelen… my Xizelen," he whispered, lips curling. "You-you've been so rambunctious lately. I-I haven't seen you like this since… mmm, since the day we-we met."

The memory made her smile—a fragile, fleeting thing. That day, she had been chosen. One of the fastest Overseers in the Empire's long, savage history.

But depending on the next few seconds, she could just as easily become its fastest-deleted.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Shh-shh, it's okay, my-my Xizelen…"

His lips hovered just above hers, warm breath tickling her skin.

"You-you did so well… but-but-but… this—"

His gaze deepened, each word a nail on glass.

"—can't happen again."

She nodded instantly, offering another bow of apology.

Zequlot smiled like he meant it, "Oh-oh, how I wish you'd take my offer. Become one of my wives. Mmm. I'd love-love to devour your essence… over and over…"

She chuckled nervously, dipping into a deeper bow.

"I thank you for the opportunity to decline with honor and respect, Master."

He waved a hand lazily, "I'm-I'm over forcing brides. Lost-lost its flair… oh, hundreds of thousands of years ago."

She dared a glance upward, voice careful.

"My actions haven't… compromised the Empire's goal? I only wanted to help the young lord."

That smile returned, wide and wrong. It touched all three of his eyes, and for a moment, she could feel her thoughts melt in its gaze.

"Worry not… my-my purest flower. Everything…"

He leaned forward, tongue brushing a fang.

"…is going exactly according to plan."

——

Things were not going according to plan.

First off?

Some blue-haired lunatic dive-bombed the battlefield like a predator missile, snatched Tinsurnae mid-reaction, and rocketed out of sight before anyone could blink.

Destiny dipped.

Shouldn't they all just agree to team up? Uniting the Jujisn, standing together, blah blah it just made sense. Apparently, that went out the window the second she got teleported into an evac carrier like it was a VIP Uber.

But North's real problem?

The ships.

Dozens of them. Straight out of a Star Wars knockoff and thirsty for blood.

They hovered like hungry vultures—and the second they laid eyes on him?

They opened fire.

Not just Ryun blasts—actual artillery.

Cannon fire. Ryun mortars. Beam spam. Explosive barrages that lit up the city like a festival of pure overkill.

They were treating him like he was some final-phase raid boss.

And North, for all his cunning and power, for all his experience surviving impossible fights…

He hadn't been expecting the full wrath of thousands of desperate survivors treating him like their last loot drop.

This wasn't a battle.

This was desperation dressed up as entertainment.

He sighed.

He could feel it—most of them were Outlanders. Lost souls, desperate challengers, or just unlucky people chasing a goal they barely understood. And even the ones who weren't? They were still people. Still breathing. Still alive.

But they were trying to kill him.

And North had long accepted the truth: if he hesitated, he'd die.

They had their reasons. Maybe some were even better than his. But it didn't matter anymore.

He wasn't Jonathan.

He was North.

And North would carry the stain, the weight, the burden—

so that one day, Jonathan could come back clean.

He looked around. Caroline and Sšurtinaui had vanished from his immediate perception, their auras lost in the chaos of screeching artillery and crackling Ryun blasts. He trusted they were okay—probably thinking of a plan. He didn't have the luxury to babysit them. That statement also went for Tinsurnae, they would have to handle whoever that was.

Besides, if he just killed everyone, the exit plan would be a lot simpler.

He'd already said it:

Make the first group examples.

His gaze locked with someone on the lead ship.

A knight.

Full armor. Standing on the edge like a statue. One hand gripped a broad blade. The other, a longsword humming with blue energy.

They raised both to the sky like they were preparing an execution.

North didn't blink.

"Yeah…" he muttered. "Can't afford to be generous here."

He reached into himself—not to summon power, but to become a beacon.

He pressed his palm to his chest, then raised it skyward—

And the sky answered.

The clouds split open with a thunderous shriek.

From above,

red lightning came crashing down.

Not in a single bolt—not in a dozen. A hundred.

Each one danced and twisted like blood-colored serpents, writhing as they coiled from the sky like they were descending from invisible branches.

They didn't just strike the earth—

They consumed it.

Mountains exploded into craters.

Ships were split clean in half.

Entire squads of Outlanders and Natives vaporized before they could even scream.

The ground around North melted into scarred glass and smoldering ruin.

And still, the lightning kept coming.

But not everything died.

The knight on the lead ship moved.

Their swords crossed above them like a ritual, the energy on their blue blade erupting in a circular barrier. They swung downward—deflecting several of the red strikes. The shockwave hurled nearby debris away, shattering smaller vessels in the process.

Then they jumped.

No hesitation. No fear.

The two blades glowed brighter with every step they took mid-air, a storm of shattered red and blue behind them—

—charging directly at the Blood Prince.

——

Tinsurnae hadn't felt this way in a long time.

The last time her instincts screamed like this, she'd been in her male form—bloodied, fractured, and one decision away from having her soul bound to the Warsavage Supreme Family. She still remembered that fight. The overwhelming force. The razor's edge between dominance and annihilation.

This wasn't that.

But it was close.

Caelus the Calmbrand.

She had heard the name before. Ranker-tier threat. Fast, clean movements. Aura described as tranquil but sharp—like a frozen lake hiding a predator beneath the surface.

Odd name, though. "Calmbrand" sounded like a contradiction. But she didn't have time to ponder it.

Because he moved.

Her primal vision lit up, lines crisscrossing through possibility, mapping out every swing, every faint ripple of intent in his shoulders, his knees, his grip.

So, no—he couldn't overwhelm her through speed or trickery.

But the problem became clear very quickly.

He was better.

Better with his feet.

Better with his weight shifts.

Better with his feints and rhythm changes.

"He's not just reacting…" she thought, backstepping as he chased. "He's leading."

Tinsurnae twisted and snapped her water claws forward—Tidecoil Barrier flared to life, water spiraling like ribbons to block the next strike. It held. Barely.

Caelus didn't press.

He stepped back. Fluid. Patient. Watching her with glowing golden eyes that didn't blink once.

She straightened.

Nostrils flaring.

Heart steadying.

Tinsurnae twisted sideways, her body bending at the waist as three precise slashes carved through the air she'd just occupied. She arched low, weight fluid, then snapped back upright—hair flicking, as he dodged her uppercut.

The fourth strike came in sharp—shoulder-level—meant to bisect her neck. She leaned back, balance perfect, knees bending like coiled springs before launching into a backward handspring, her feet kicking off an invisible current of wind and water. The world blurred in fragments. Blades, breath, instinct. Her reactions danced a hair's breadth ahead of death.

She needed to open her domain.

Tinsurnae called out for the local wildlife as she dodged a downward cleave. Nothing answered. Not a whisper of fur or fang. That wasn't right.

She considered chanting to summon the Wyrms again, but something told her they wouldn't last long here. Not against him.

She flipped again, higher this time, and summoned a condensed bead of water in her palm—the anchor for her Stillwater Domain.

Before she could finish the trigger—

SLASH.

His blade cleaved through the bead with surgical precision. It popped, spraying mist and pain. Her hand stung. She looked down.

One cut.

The first cut.

But she felt it.

The pain was nothing. What wormed its way up her spine was worse: an echo, a crawl, something whispering in the soul. The blade hadn't just sliced flesh—it marked her. Branded something deeper. Her spirit trembled.

Whatever that weapon was, it wasn't normal.

It was divine. Forged by a god. A strong one..

That settled it—this couldn't be a prolonged fight. She'd engage, try to adapt, but she needed a path to escape.

They circled now.

His steps were light, almost reverent, as though he were walking through a temple. Both watched the other's hips, wrists, eyes.

"Have we met?" she asked, voice calm, curious.

"No."

"Then what's with the aggressive attitude? I haven't—"

"Please," he interrupted, raising his blade. "Just fight to defend yourself."

He dashed.

Fast.

Faster than she expected.

Tinsurnae barely had time to shift her stance before he was on her again, blade sweeping in a wide arc, a phantom blur of motion.