Aron kept running, his breath steady, his strides effortless, but his mind was in turmoil. He felt weightless, powerful—his muscles responding with a strength he hadn't known in decades. His body was fast, his stamina endless. Yet something gnawed at him.

Is this me?

He reached the riverbank and leaned over to look into the water's surface. The reflection staring back 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.

Then a memory surged—Vaelora. Her words echoed in his mind.

"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 my wife, my family, my life back."

For three days, he ran without stopping, his mind raging against the impossibility of it all. The guards hunted him relentlessly, but no matter how close they came, he was too fast, too strong. He evaded them, his body beyond human limits.

But exhaustion didn't settle in his muscles. It settled in his spirit. Running wasn't answering his questions. It wasn't bringing him home. It wasn't changing anything.

So, on the dawn of the fourth day, he stopped.

He turned himself in.

The guards seized him, wary yet triumphant, dragging him back without a fight. Aron didn't resist. He was tired of running. He needed answers.

They threw him into a cold, damp dungeon beneath the kingdom. The air stank of decay and only a flickering torch outside the iron bars provided light.

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

Old King

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

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

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

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

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

Aron frowned. "A goddess?"

The old king chuckled dryly. "Not a goddess. A godly being—one beyond gender, beyond mortal understanding."

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

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

The name sent a chill down Aron's spine.

The old king leaned back against the stone wall. "Before me was my father, and before him, his father. My grandfather was nothing but a simple king—the lowest of the seven. He had one wish upon the stone tablet. 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, lost in the past. "Before me, my father ruled simply, obeying the gods without question. But I… I sought to make the throne untouchable, to ensure no king would suffer the fate of a fallen warrior. Yet, here I am. Just like the ones before me. Just like you will be."

Aron narrowed his eyes. He wasn't just another warrior thrown into a cycle of bloodshed—he had lived in a world of logic, strategy, and power beyond brute force. He had seen corporations manipulate laws, politicians twist justice, 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 demanded 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 dropped to a low murmur, filled with something Aron couldn't quite name. Regret? Fear?

"I built a throne that could not be taken, a kingdom bound by laws even the gods respected. But when the final battle came, I wasn't 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 closely… something was wrong. His presence, his very being—it was beyond mortal." His fists clenched. "I'm not sure if it was truly a man… or if it was Zeraphis itself, taking the throne in disguise."

The sound of the dungeon door creaked open, its rusted hinges groaning. A shadow stretched across the floor, long and imposing. Aron tensed as the flickering torchlight revealed the towering figure at the entrance—flanked by a hundred soldiers, their armor gleaming.

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

King Greg.

Aron's breath caught in his throat, and his vision blurred—not from fear, but disbelief. Greg…? The man now wearing the crown bore the same face as his wife's former lover.

The old king's eyes widened. His voice, hoarse yet commanding, broke the silence. "You… you're not the true king on that throne."

Greg's smirk never faltered. "Put him back in his cell. Let the old king rot here."

Aron's thoughts spun. A god had stolen the throne? What did that mean for the other gods? Were they 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. "I see that look in your eyes. You think you'll be different. So did I. And where did it bring me?" He gestured to the crumbling dungeon walls. "The gods do not bargain. They do not negotiate. They only play."