Leon stood at the edge of the battleground, letting the wind brush past him. The arena had returned to silence, the shards of mirrored energy slowly disintegrating into light. Behind him, Vireus knelt motionless—defeated, not dead. Not broken, but denied.

The Realm of Thrones didn't judge victory by how hard you struck. It judged by what remained when the storm passed.

Roselia stepped to Leon's side. "You really meant it," she said quietly. "You could've claimed that throne."

"I did," Leon replied. "Just not the way they expected."

Naval tilted his head. "We're not here to rule over seats."

"No," Leon said. "We're here to challenge the ones who already do. Until they have no choice but to stand and meet us."

A pulse echoed through the Realm.

Far ahead—beyond the line of thrones, past the central arch that led deeper into the Upper Tower—another light appeared.

It wasn't a gate this time.

It was a ripple.

A fold in the fabric of space.

Kael squinted at it. "That's a summon."

"Someone's calling you," Milim said with a grin. "Must've pissed off the next Sovereign."

Leon didn't smile. He simply moved.

Each step forward hummed with the resonance of recent victory, and still, the Tower didn't say a word. There was no announcement. No dramatic system voice. Just the sound of presence being noticed.

He passed several thrones—none empty, none reacting.

Until one did.

Throne Twelve.

Its occupant, who had sat slouched with arms crossed for the last hour, suddenly leaned forward.

A man cloaked in crimson metal armor, marked by scorched scars and black flames crawling beneath the plates. His left eye glowed with molten amber. His right socket was empty, sealed with a jagged rune.

He stood.

And the sky above darkened.

The Tower finally spoke:

[Sovereign Challenge Triggered – Floor Designation Overridden]

Opponent: Bal'Azhur, the Burned Crown

Trial Type: Absolute Clash – No Restrictions

Conditions: Direct Duel. No allies. No time limits. All weapons and powers permitted.

Failure Results in Forfeiture of Reputation and Throne Access

Roselia moved forward, but Leon raised a hand.

"No," he said. "This one's mine."

Kael frowned. "He's older. Has territory. Has ruled a floor for decades."

"I know."

Roman nodded. "And he's been waiting for someone to punch him hard enough to remind him what it means to bleed."

Leon's gaze didn't waver as Bal'Azhur stepped down from his throne.

Flames followed in the Sovereign's wake—living fire, ancient and thick with ash. The ground cracked beneath each footfall.

He stopped twenty paces from Leon.

"You've climbed high, boy," Bal'Azhur said. His voice was gravel wrapped in fire. "But there's a weight to ruling you haven't carried yet."

"I don't plan to carry it," Leon said calmly.

"I plan to earn it."

The two locked eyes.

Then moved.

No bell. No signal. Just motion.

Leon vanished into Shell Reverb: Echo Slide, pulse energy snapping behind him. Bal'Azhur roared and swung an axe made of obsidian and burning soulsteel, its arc cutting a molten path through the air.

Leon ducked under it—barely—and struck with Tripart Echo, only for Bal'Azhur to meet it with a counterflare: a burst of heat that turned one echo into harmless steam and shattered the other with pure weight.

They clashed again.

And again.

Fist to flame. Reverb to ruin. Ash scorched the field as the two blurred across the arena. This was no technical fight—this was raw combat.

For the first time since Floor 500, Leon bled.

Bal'Azhur slammed him into the ground, the heat of his armor igniting the air. "This is what it means to stand above," the Sovereign growled.

Leon responded by activating Karmic Loop, shifting the blow back into Bal'Azhur's past trajectory, flipping him over his own shoulder. He rose, eyes burning.

"And this," Leon said, "is what it means to carry every floor I earned."

Their weapons crashed again.

Shell Reverb: Absolute Return met Sovereign Flame Channeling.

Light met fire. Precision met rage.

And then—

Leon stepped forward.

Not back.

Not to the side.

Forward.

Straight through the wave of heat, his armor scorched, skin blackened at the edge, but his eyes focused.

Bal'Azhur grinned for the first time—and swung with both hands.

Leon didn't block it.

He let it hit. Keep us going by reading on MV_LEM_PYR.

And used that moment—that impact—to release Fracture Requiem, point-blank.

The explosion of echoed force and reversed pressure shattered the ground beneath them.

Bal'Azhur was thrown back—crashed into the base of his own throne.

Silence.

For five long seconds, the Tower waited.

Then, the system voice spoke:

[Victory Achieved – Sovereign Bal'Azhur Yields]

Title Gained: Ashborn Challenger

Reputation Boost: Realm of Thrones Council Interest Triggered

Skill Acquired: Ember Core Integration

Bal'Azhur coughed once, then laughed—deep and raw.

"Damn. It's been a while since I've felt my ribs crack."

Leon stood, breathing hard.

"You gonna stand back up?" he asked.

"No," the Sovereign said. "I'm gonna watch. Because now, I believe you might actually make it to the top."

He sat—on the floor this time, not the throne.

Leon didn't climb to replace him.

He climbed through him.

And as he turned to face the rest of the Realm…

Six thrones shimmered.

Their occupants now awake.

One by one…

The rulers began to rise.

Leon wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His body ached, but it was a good kind of ache—the kind that came from a fight worth every bruise. A fight that reminded you why you climbed in the first place.

He didn't speak. He didn't gloat.

He just turned and walked forward.

The flames of Bal'Azhur's domain had settled. The ash no longer drifted in the air, and the heat that had blanketed the battlefield now simmered in silence. Behind him, the fallen Sovereign leaned against the base of his throne with a crooked smile.

"You're not done," Bal'Azhur called, voice rough but steady. "You keep going, and you're going to find someone who doesn't stop fighting when they're beaten."

Leon didn't look back. "That's the plan."

Ahead, the Realm of Thrones shifted again.

The six thrones that had shimmered during the fight now burned with intent—six Sovereigns no longer content to watch. No longer silent. Each of them had risen from their seat, and each now stood with a different expression. Curiosity. Contempt. Calculation. Caution.

One even smiled.

The Sovereign who stood highest among them—on the fifteenth throne—stepped forward.

She was tall, elegant, clad in robes that shimmered like glass beneath a waterfall. Her hair, silver and translucent, floated as if underwater. Her gaze was sharp, and when she spoke, her voice was the sound of rain on stone—calm, measured, but impossible to ignore.

"You are not what I expected from the lower tiers," she said.

Leon stopped, eyes meeting hers. "And yet I climbed here."

She inclined her head slightly. "True. But climbing doesn't mean you belong."

"Then test me," Leon replied. "See if I fall."

The other Sovereigns stirred at that—some amused, others irritated.