The framed photo on his desk—Mom at his undergrad graduation, her smile tight around the edges as she’d whispered, “Maybe you’ll find something more stable next year?”—watched him fail in real time.
He slammed the laptop shut too hard, making the empty ramen cups tremble. Pathetic.
Then the world broke.
The first tremor sent his bookshelf crashing down, clay tablet replicas shattering against the floor. His thesis notes—“Comparative Analysis of Mycenaean Linear B and Arcadian Dialects”—fluttered like dying birds. The framed photo of his parents’ wedding slipped from the wall, glass fracturing across their smiling faces.
His phone buzzed with an emergency alert:
[FEMA WARNING: MAGNITUDE 7.8 EARTHQUAKE DETECTED. SEEK COVER.]
7.8? In New York? Impossible. The last major quake here was in 1884, a footnote in his old geology textbook. But the floor buckled before he could finish the thought. Plaster rained from the ceiling. A bookshelf toppled, spilling his thesis notes into the dust.
General Miriam Carter stared at the holographic globe hovering above the conference table. Red pulses throbbed along tectonic lines—the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, the San Andreas, the Eurasian Arc.
“It’s not just one quake, Madam President,” said Dr. Eli Voss, her chief seismologist. His hands trembled as he adjusted his glasses. “It’s… synchronized. Twenty-three major fault lines rupturing simultaneously. The energy release is off the scales.”
The President of the United States leaned forward, her face pale in the hologram’s glow. “Cause?”
“Unknown. No volcanic activity, no nuclear signatures. It’s like the planet just… cracked.”
A junior aide sprinted into the room, clutching a tablet. “Ma’am—live feed from Istanbul. The Bosporus is splitting apart!”
The screen switched to a drone’s-eye view: The iconic strait boiled as tectonic plates sheared sideways, swallowing ferries and waterfront mansions alike.
“God help us,” the President whispered.
Aris crawled toward the door, lungs burning with drywall dust. The apartment groaned like a dying beast. His mother’s framed photos—graduation day, his parents’ wedding—smashed on the floor.
Get to the stairwell. Now.
He’d almost reached the hallway when the second quake struck.
This one wasn’t a tremor. It was a fist.
The floor split. Wood and metal screeched as the building’s foundation sheared sideways. Aris lunged for the doorframe, fingers scraping plaster—
—and missed.
He fell.
Not down, but through, as if the world had become a funhouse mirror. The apartment dissolved into streaks of light. Cold swallowed him.
Aris floated.
No ground. No sky. Just endless black and the faint glimmer of stars light-years away. His body felt weightless, numb. Am I dead?
Then, sound:
[Welcome, Candidate. Your Throne Awaits.]
The voice was everywhere and nowhere, crisp and mechanical. A blue screen flickered before him:
ARISTOTLE PANNER - THRONE SELECTION
SOVEREIGN LEVEL: 0 (0/50 Essence to Next Level)
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THRONE LEVEL: 0 (0/150 Essence to Next Level)
ESSENCE POOL: 0
EDICT : 100/100
[STATS]
VITALITY: 8 (Avg. Human: 10)
CONSTITUTION: 7
STRENGTH: 6
AGILITY: 9
INTELLIGENCE: 14 (Exceptional)
WISDOM: 12
CHARISMA: 3 (Below Average)
[STATUS EFFECTS]
- Sleep Deprivation (-5% WIS)
Aris’s mind stuttered as his breath hitched. Essence? What? “What… is this?”
[You have been selected for System Integration.]
“Selected by who? What system?”
[Throne Selection Required.]
The screen refreshed. A list unfurled, endless and dizzying. The void rippled. Thrones materialized—[Throne of the Berserker], a barbed ziggurat of swords; [Throne of the Fleshweaver], a living tree of pulsating veins; [Throne of the Timekeeper], a clockwork citadel—each radiating power that made his skin prickle.
Then he saw it: a jagged monolith of black stone, its surface etched with glowing glyphs. Just like the ones he’d spent nights tracing until his fingers cramped.
Though dilapidated, it called to him like none of the others, almost making him forget the apocalypse he’d briefly experienced. Its name seared into his mind as he focused:
[Throne of the Forgotten Warmage]
Something in his chest clenched, and he absently reached out to it…
[Warning: Legacy Throne Detected.]
[Selection will transform Initiate Sovereign Tribulation to Legacy Tribulation.]
[Trials of worthiness must be passed to retain access.]
[Failure results in erasure of Candidate and Throne.]
Aris’s breath hitched. Erasure. The word slithered down his spine.
“Why?” he whispered.
The System’s reply was ice: [Legacy Thrones defy the Natural Order.]
As dread suffused him, his gaze remained locked on the glyphs in a hypnotic trance. Aris’s scholar mind latched onto them swirling around the throne’s image. That wasn’t just Linear B—it was older. The precursor script he’d theorized about in his abandoned dissertation.
For the first time in years, Aris felt something spark in his chest—not fear, not resignation. Defiance.
He reached for the flickering throne.
“I choose this throne.”
The void screamed.
Stars twisted into chains of fire as the throne’s voice—his throne’s voice—howled into his mind:
[First Trial: The Ember’s Gauntlet.]
[Prove your right to burn.]
Pain exploded behind his eyes. Glyphs seared themselves into his vision:
“Ignis-Vult”
Fire wills it.
Then light swallowed him whole.
Aris woke choking on blood and ashes. The sky was gone, replaced by a swirling bruise of smoke and embers. His apartment building lay in ruins around him, the air thick with the stench of burning plastic and something meaty.
A skittering sound.
He turned slowly, every muscle screaming.
The creature was the size of a Doberman, its segmented carapace glistening with mucus. Too many legs. Too many eyes. It reared back, mandibles clicking.
Run. But his legs were lead.
Fight. His fists were useless.
Die. The thought was almost comforting.
Then—
A whisper. Not in his ear, but in his bones:
“Rise, Sovereign.”
Heat flooded his veins as a slab of black stone materialized beneath him—a fractured piece of his throne, its glyphs burning crimson. Fire roared from his palms, not the orange of normal flames, but the blue-white heart of a forge.
The creature shrieked as it burned.
[Edict: 25/100]
[Beast Slain…]
[+15 Beast Essence Added to Essence Pool.]
His status screen updated:
[ESSENCE POOL]
- Beast: 15
- Sentient: 0
- Spirit: 0
- Eclipse: 0
Aris’s hands shook. The fire left his veins icy, his breaths ragged. What did I just do?
Kenji Tanaka, a salaryman, fled collapsing skyscrapers. His [Throne of the Stormcaller] demanded he “kill 10 mutated creatures” for Level 2. He froze as a bird with razor-blade wings dive-bombed him.
[System Alert: Tribulation Failed. Essence Forfeited.]
Priya, a nurse, had her [Throne of the Resurgent Light] demand she “heal 10 people” to earn Essence for Level 2. Her throne’s [Cleansing Radiance] saved victims on the verge of death, earning the gratitude of many unprepared survivors. When she saw a child suffering from a venomous bite, she overloaded her skill to save them, leaving her temporarily blind.
[Tribualtion Objective : 10/10 people healed ]
[System Alert: Tribulation Success. Reward: 50 Essence.]
[Essence Requirement Acquired. Level Up Sovereign Level?]
[TRIBULATION: Bastion’s Trial]
[Defend Allocated Area from Beast Attacks for 1 Hour.]
Dmitry, a rugged, muscular 40-year-old ex-soldier, stood at the only entrance of a large warehouse, holding his ground against a pack of mutated wolves trying to breach and rush the helpless people behind him. He barricaded the entrance with [Rampart Summon] from his [Throne of the Iron Juggernaut], weathering the onslaught.
[Time Remaining: 15 Minutes.]
Throwing him out of his daze, Aris’s throne flared as a new alert appeared:
[LEGACY TRIBULATION: EMBER’S GAUNTLET]
-
Objective: Survive 1 Hour.
-
Threats Eliminated: 1/10
-
Reward: Unlock Legacy Essence.
Something howled in the distance—a humanoid figure wreathed in ash, its face a smudged void.
[Warning! Legacy Wraith incoming! ]
[Cinder Wraith (Level 3) – Former Sovereign of the Forgotten Warmage.]
Aris ran.