They just stared at each other for a moment—Jonathan, the elf girl, and the massive bear in a robe. Jonathan’s brain spun with options, but nothing seemed like a good idea. He didn’t want to lose his place in line, didn’t want to back down, but trying to look tough in front of a bear with a battle-axe felt… questionable.
The bear’s gaze alone was enough to make him reconsider every bad decision in his life.
“Oooh, someone’s quiet now,” the elf girl teased, smirking.
Jonathan shot her a glare, trying to recover. “Didn’t know your… pet could talk.”
The bear’s ears twitched. “Pet?” His voice was perfect English—but with a crisp, unmistakable British accent.
“Oh, apologies. I mean familiar? Or perhaps summon? Or—” his eyes narrowed just slightly—“boyfrie-“.
“Okay, enough,” the elf girl snapped, but she was grinning too.
The bear huffed, puffing his chest with a certain dignified pride. “For the record, I am a Byeark. From the continent of Burreda. My name is Bourage, thank you very much.”
Jonathan threw his hands up. “Alright, alright, my bad. Sorry for the… bear racism. Honest mistake.”
The elf girl laughed—not a mocking laugh, but a surprised, delighted one. Even Bourage let out a deep rumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
Jonathan relaxed, just a little, as the tension in the air eased.
“So, uh,” he said, “do all bearfolk have axes that size, or is that a ‘you’ thing?”
Bourage grinned, teeth gleaming. “If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to find out.”
Bearfolk exist. Jonathan tried to wrap his head around that—and realized, weirdly, it shouldn’t have been crazy. But somehow, the way most of the crowd faded into the background, almost like video game NPCs, made it easier to forget he was surrounded by the impossible.
The elf girl? She was pure fantasy. He’d almost expected someone like her, though he’d half-hoped for the helpful, lore-dump kind of elf—someone who’d tell him everything and save him from social annihilation.
Instead, she just gave him a sly smile and cut right through his thoughts. “So, what made you want to take this event?”
He hesitated. “I, uh—” But before he could fumble an answer, another voice, this one crisp and commanding, broke in from behind.
“Leave him alone, S?urtinaui.”
Jonathan turned. The newcomer was a man with dark green hair, cut short but wild, and eyes a sharp, stormy mix of blue and gray. He wore a scout’s outfit—leathers, layered greens, bits of metal—everything practical, everything designed to vanish in a forest. Two harp-like bows rested on his back, but oddly, no arrows in sight.
Jonathan decided it was time to risk an aura check. He focused—fumbled, really—but still got a faint sense of it: this guy was strong. So was the elf girl. So was the bear. It made him feel… well, like the weakest member of a high-level raid party.
S?urtinaui shrugged off the rebuke. “I can’t help but notice him. He’s at least a cadet. He’ll die.”
“That’s his choice,” the green-haired man said, not unkindly. “If he’s in line, he has a ticket. Leave it.”
She turned back to Jonathan, eyes twinkling. “How long did you train?”
He frowned, a little defensive. “How long did you train?” He shot back.
She smirked, clearly enjoying this. “Individually? Forty years. Then we got together and trained for another thirty. So, seventy years in total. Now…” Her eyes sparkled with challenge. “How long did you train?”
Jonathan gawked for a second. Seventy years? Jafar had talked like that, but Jafar was a god. The elf girl was… well, an elf. Maybe that made sense. But hearing people just casually drop numbers like triple his age was still unsettling.
He fumbled, then reached for the only experience he could relate to. “Twenty-two years. I, uh, had a late start.”
S?urtinaui snorted, but the man with green hair shot her a look. “Seriously. Leave him be, S?urtinaui. I’m sorry about our friend,” he said, extending a hand. “She’s a bit… invasive. Blame her upbringing. I’m Senten Laor.”
Jonathan shook his hand, feeling some of that practiced, world-weary strength in the grip. “I’m…” He froze, almost blurting out Jonathan.
No. Enough of this. He wasn’t some lost puppy. Maybe he was bewildered and maybe, just maybe, he was in a coma, but he could at least act like he belonged.
He squared his shoulders. “I’m North.”
That got a pause. Even Bourage raised a furry brow.
“North?” the bear rumbled. “That’s an English word, isn’t it? Were you raised around outlanders?”
Jonathan cursed himself. North sounded cool. Jafar was already taken. Why hadn’t he thought of a better cover?
He shrugged, cool as he could. “Picked it up somewhere. Sounded better than my old name. That one was… stupid.”
Senten Laor seemed to accept it, but S?urtinaui’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Oh? And where are you from, North?”
Damn. Another question. He scrambled through his memory—what did X say again? Oh, right.
“Oloris-Ennai,” he replied, “the Crescent Province.”
He caught a few odd glances. S?urtinaui leaned in, suspicion and curiosity blending. “You’re a Veltherian, but your main tongue is English?”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Jonathan took a breath, holding his ground. “Look. I’m not here to spill my whole life story to the first people who interrupt me in line. So, either have a normal conversation with me or mind your business.”
He tried to keep his tone calm but assertive—a little edge, a little humor. Hopefully, they’d take the hint.
Bourage huffed, not unkindly, and Senten Laor nodded, a small smile breaking his stoic face.
S?urtinaui grinned, but said nothing else for the moment.
After that, things eased up. Once Jonathan made it clear he wasn’t some pushover, the thousand intrusive questions stopped, and the group settled into a more natural rhythm. It turned out you could get a lot of good information out of people just by not panicking—or at least pretending you weren’t.
Over the hours, he learned a lot. The world—no, the realms—were split up, each usually ruled by someone, though no one said that outright. But it was obvious: different realms, different rulers. It was rare for a realm to be lawless or leaderless.
The “Four Kings of Ruin”—that name alone gave him chills when he heard it in casual conversation—were apparently at the top of the food chain. And then there were the “Eleven Supreme Families,” not the “original family heads” as he’d guessed. He was silently grateful he hadn’t dropped that term and blown his cover.
The event itself, “Fortune Holder,” was a big deal. It was being hosted jointly by three of the Supreme Families: Vari, Rituain, Basingsal, and—surprisingly—the Jafar Empire. That was apparently a shock to everyone, since the kingdoms almost never got involved in world events unless it directly affected their power or prosperity. War, famine, plagues—they watched, but rarely participated.
This, though? This was different. And the fact that all four were working together made it even stranger.
Jonathan stored the intel, feeling a little more in control.
He also found himself liking the crew in front of him. Bourage, the bear, had a sharp wit and a dry humor that kept things light. S?urtinaui, for all her teasing, reminded him of a coworker he’d get drinks with after a long shift—not romantic, just good vibes. Senten was the steady, cool “uncle” type; a little gruff, but always looking out. And their fourth member—a woman who looked like a cross between a gator and a falcon, all sinew and feathers in a humanoid frame—mostly communicated with nods and grins. She didn’t speak, but her presence was reassuring.
All in all, it helped the time pass. Which was good, because the line took seven and a half hours to reach the front.
Miraculously, he never had to use the bathroom. Divine intervention, maybe.
At the front of the desk, Jonathan found himself genuinely surprised. The large figures were bodyguards. The table was actually staffed by three women—each striking in her own way—but the one in the middle was unmistakable: Xizelen.
She gave him a soft, knowing smile as he approached, and, judging by the glances from the group behind him, it helped reinforce his shaky cover. See? he wanted to tell them. People from there know me! Sort of!
He stepped forward, taking in the rest of the desk.
The woman to Xizelen’s right was dazzling—white and gold hair, sharp features, and a fitted black jumpsuit that left little to the imagination. Every movement was effortless confidence, her gaze as sharp as a blade. She sat beneath the Vari sigil; even before he got close, something in his mind clicked, like the air itself was offended he hadn’t recognized it sooner.
To Xizelen’s left was someone utterly different: long, living red hair that twisted and rippled as if it had thoughts of its own, and molten purple eyes that seemed to burn right through you. She wore a voluminous red-and-white dress, more regal than anything Jonathan had ever seen.
Above her, the Basingsal sigil glowed—a symbol so powerful it seemed to command attention, even from the banners around it.
Jonathan took a breath. The weight of three empires pressed down on him.
Xizelen’s smile steadied him. “Glad to see you’re doing well.”
He grinned, lowering his voice. “You saw me like ten hours ago.”
She leaned in a little. “In this world, ten hours can mean the difference between triumph and erasure.”
He rolled his eyes, but with a little less anxiety. “Are you ready?” she asked.
That made him pause. The real answer? He didn’t have a choice. He suspected if he said no, Jafar would just lock him in a dimension of endless suffering until he gave the “right” answer. But beneath the fear and sarcasm, a kernel of curiosity flickered. He wanted to see if he could do it. If he could really become something more.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said at last. “I’m ready.”
He handed her his ticket.
As the registration finished, Senten leaned over and asked quietly, “Do you want to join our group?”
Internally, Jonathan was sure the real reason was concern—Senten probably thought he wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he even liked the kid, but wouldn’t say it aloud in front of the others. Still, Jonathan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, sounds like it be fun.”
Senten nodded once, as if satisfied, and the tension in Jonathan’s shoulders eased just a bit.
A moment later, X explained the next step. “You’ll be taken to an evaluation room. It’s to see your Ryun type, your core resonance, and general aptitude. Sponsors and suitors will watch these tests—sometimes they’ll even offer help during the event, if you catch their attention.”
Jonathan’s stomach dropped. It was starting to sound less like a tournament and more like the Hunger Games—with a cosmic, reality-warping twist. But it was too late to back out now; he’d already handed in his ticket.
The Basingsal judge—the woman with molten purple eyes and living, fire-red hair—waved him over. He approached, tried to greet her, but she brushed past his words, muttering something in a language that didn’t translate in his mind. She pointed at a crystalline door. Get moving, he guessed.
Inside, the room was a clear, prismatic space—walls glowing faintly, the air heavy with anticipation. In the center, a glowing sigil mat. She spoke in English, her tone clipped: “Stand there. Channel your Ryun.”
Jonathan nodded, moving to the center of the mat. His heart hammered in his chest. The judge followed, standing in front of him. Without ceremony, she pressed her hand to his sternum.
“Now.”
He reached for the energy inside him. The way Jafar had taught him—breathe it in, focus, let it answer you. The room felt colder. Shadows thickened behind his eyes.
Something deep—ancient—stirred.
The effect was instant.
From Jonathan’s core, a torrent of Ryun erupted: black and crimson, like a living shadow shot through with shards of red lightning. The aura behind him blossomed into a monstrous, chaotic wave—an abyssal force that stretched impossibly far, eyes and jagged symbols swirling within it. It wasn’t just energy; it was a devouring presence, a hunger.
It filled the room. The oppressive weight slammed down on everything, warping the light, making the air crackle with the static of a thousand dead stars.
The Basingsal woman staggered, dropping to her knees in shock and instinctive fear. Her eyes widened—her own Ryun faltering as she gasped for breath. She was Basingsal—one of the supreme houses—and yet she could barely stand under it.
Jonathan, trembling, tried to pull it back—willed the energy to subside.
It took a moment before the room calmed, the shadows slinking back into his frame.
The judge keeping her eyes locked on him, now with a mixture of awe and wariness.
“…You,” she whispered, “are…”
But she didn’t finish. Instead, she cut herself off, rising shakily to her feet and dusting off her ornate dress. She gave him a final, unreadable look—equal parts wary and impressed—and then, with a gesture that was almost dismissive, waved him toward the exit.
Jonathan’s heart was still thundering in his chest as he stepped out of the evaluation room. What the hell was that? That power, that weight—it felt ancient, enormous… and, if he was honest, more than a little intoxicating. He was beyond relieved he hadn’t lost control like that in the middle of the line. The last thing he needed was a scene with a shadow eruption.
Still, as the fear faded, a new feeling settled in its place—something like pride. Was that really his aura? Or was it Jafar’s leaking through? Well, Jafar was him, right? So it was his either way.
Didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it gave him the shot of confidence he needed. He’d found a team—at least for now—and he’d just made a member of a Supreme Family kneel. He wasn’t just surviving anymore; he was making an impact.
A slow smirk crept across his face as he rejoined the others.
Yeah, he thought. I got this.
