Chapter 9: The Council of the Cruel and the Awakening of the Shield

The cosmos trembled. This was no metaphor. In the higher planes of existence, where physics are merely suggestions and time flows like a whimsical river, reality itself was cracking. Winds of pure energy battered structures built from solidified dreams; earthquakes of inconceivable magnitude shook lands floating above the void; and a sky, once an infinite blue, now burned a deep, threatening red—like the gaze of an enraged god.


At the heart of this chaos, in a chamber that occupied no space yet contained everything, ten entities gathered. They weren't mere gods; they were incarnated principles, forces of nature elevated to consciousness. Some had forms, others were mere presences, and some were concepts that hurt to behold.


One of them—a being whose silhouette constantly shifted, composed of multiple animal faces overlapping and spinning like a living kaleidoscope—raised a hand with fingers too long and joints bending in impossible directions. With sickly elegance, he dragged his nails across the table's surface—a monolith of polished obsidian reflecting the distorted forms of those present—and brought a steaming cup of tea to his many mouths. The liquid changed color depending on which face drank.


"I've heard," he said, his voice a chorus of synchronized roars, bleats, and caws, "that some insignificant nobody, a newborn without rank or name, has chosen a human. From a virgin world. One of those that doesn't even know we exist."


One of his fingers, as if possessing its own life, detached from his hand and began tracing circles on the table, leaving a trail of phosphorescent energy. His tone dripped with pure contempt.


"Hahaha… trash will always be trash," he continued. "I wonder if he'll even manage to enter the tournament, or if his champion will die before setting foot in the arena."


BOOM!


A fist—or something resembling one—slammed into the obsidian table, unleashing a shockwave that rattled the chamber and sent tremors through the lower planes. Another being, an amorphous, shifting mass from which limbs and faces occasionally emerged, roared.


"He's still one of us, you shapeless creature!" he bellowed. "No matter how young! He's a god! And you're nothing but an upstart!"


The many-faced being, far from intimidated, leaned back in his seat, which deformed to accommodate his posture. Laughter erupted from all his mouths simultaneously—a cacophonic, disturbing sound.


"Hahahaha! A bastard who ran away from a Primordial is insulting me? Hahahaha! Oh, this is delicious! Rinka, look at this!"


At a corner of the table, a being resembling a colossal white-furred feline with slanted eyes, who had been licking one hand with insulting nonchalance, paused. His name was Oskit, and when he spoke, his voice was a deep, threatening purr.


"Damn it, Rinka," he said, addressing the many-faced entity. "I've told you not to bother a gentleman. El Deseo has his reasons for being here, like all of us. Save your jabs for the tournament."


"Enough, enough," interjected a third voice, seemingly emanating from a simple floating mouth—bodiless, suspended in the air above the table. Its lips moved, revealing rows of perfect, white teeth. "Stop squabbling like dragon hatchlings. Remember why we're here: to decide the tournament locations. Let's save personal grudges for when the champions are in the arena."


Silence fell. Not an empty silence, but one dense, charged with contained power. The ten entities looked at (or perceived) one another, and the tension eased slightly.


A being shaped like a huge, clumsy teddy bear, but with empty, glowing eyes, raised his pudgy arms with the awkwardness of a carnival mascot. "I want the Stardust Bex fields!" he shouted in a childish, unsettling voice. "They're pretty and shiny!"


SLAM!


"I refuse!" exclaimed another—an ethereal, beautiful silhouette answering to the name Dashas Prim. "The Stardust fields are bland! I claim the floating mountains of Kael'thar. They have the finest delicacies, fruits that grant ecstasy to those who taste them, and their peaks would be ideal for interesting battles. Imagine champions fighting among the clouds!"


A third being, this one resembling a colossal beast with a head that rotated three hundred sixty degrees on its neck, flashed rows of giant, sharp teeth. "You're always so selfish," he growled, his voice rumbling like an earthquake. "I prefer a metropolis, a city in ruins. Urban chaos, ambushes in skyscrapers, close-quarters combat among rubble. That's entertainment. Though I'd settle for any city. Any city at all."


Glup. Glup.


The sound came from a corner of the table where what looked like a miniature black hole floated—a sphere of absolute darkness that absorbed light and occasionally emitted a sucking noise. This was Maxon, and his only apparent activity was swallowing everything that approached him, including the energy motes drifting through the chamber.


"Maxon!" shouted the many-faced Rinka, slamming the table. "Damn black hole, stop swallowing and pay attention!"


Maxon didn't respond. He just kept swallowing.


Glup.


Rinka's patience snapped. With a swift motion, his form elongated, and an appendage solid as cosmic steel struck Maxon squarely.


The impact was devastating. The miniature black hole compressed upon itself, emitting an ultrasonic shriek, then exploded. Black viscous blood, impossible organs glowing with their own light, and fragments of matter that existed in no known universe splattered across the table and nearby gods.


"How disgusting!" Dashas Prim exclaimed, recoiling with a grimace.


"How unpleasant!" added the floating mouth.


"Couldn't you have waited until the meeting ended?" asked Oskit the feline, wiping a bloodstain from his white fur with a snort.


But the blood didn't stay still. It began moving, flowing toward a common point. The fragmented bones floated and reassembled in the air. The organs melted and fused into a pulsating mass. All of it—blood, bones, organs—gathered at the puddle's center, and from it emerged a new form.


Maxon was reborn. He now had three eyes, arranged in a triangle on a face that never quite defined itself, and four mouths opening and closing rhythmically across different parts of his amorphous body. One of them spoke:


"Too impatient, Rinka," it said, its voice an echo of itself, multiplied by four. "You know that doesn't work."


"Grow up, Maxon," Rinka replied with disdain. "You're thirty millennia old. Stop playing hard to get."


Maxon, ignoring the comment, lowered one eye to observe a remaining drop of his own blood, then emitted another satisfied glup.


A figure who had remained silent until now—an old woman with a fragile, kind appearance, dressed in simple robes and seated in a rocking chair floating above the floor—spoke with a soft voice that resonated clearly.


"What if we combined them?"


Everyone turned toward her. Absolute silence.


"Combine them?" Rinka asked incredulously. "Are you insane? Mixing Stardust fields with Kael'thar mountains? Does that make sense?"


"But…" Dashas Prim interjected thoughtfully, "we'd attract a larger audience. A varied arena, with shifting ecosystems, could be more appealing."


"And it might please the constellations," Rinka added reluctantly. "If we beat them in viewership, maybe they'll drop their stupid isekai."


"We'd gain more support!" exclaimed Oskit the feline, sitting up. "The great Oskit, Lord of a Thousand Blades, accepts the proposal!"


"Glup," said Maxon—his way of agreeing.


The old woman smiled—a kindly smile that, in this context, was terrifying. "Then it's decided. The arenas will merge. It'll be a unique battlefield, ever-changing, unpredictable. Notify the champions."


From the shadows surrounding the chamber, from corners where light never reached, grotesque and deformed figures began to form. They were messengers—creatures born from the gods' will, lacking their own, made of nightmares and whispers. They bowed to their masters and, without a word, vanished into the air, carrying the news across the planes of existence.


---
Later that night, in the guest room in Minneapolis…


Night had fallen over the city. Michael lay in bed, exhausted after the first day of training. The dim light of a bedside lamp illuminated the room. Beside him, on the nightstand, a stack of manga borrowed from Vivian formed a small tower.


Xix sat on the edge of the bed (an illusion, of course, but Michael had grown used to seeing him that way), an open manga in his hands, turning pages leisurely.


"Hey, Xix…" Michael murmured without opening his eyes.


Xix turned a page. No response.


"Hey, Xix…" Michael insisted.


Xix turned another page.


"Hey!" Michael shot up, staring intently at the child-god. "Is that really how you gather information? Reading manga?"


"Do you know another way?" Xix replied calmly, closing the volume and setting it on the pile. He turned to Michael, crossing his legs in mid-air. "Look, Xix," he said, mimicking Michael's tone, and out of nowhere unfurled an ethereal list in the air, covered with notes. "You need to rest, and I need to shake off this boredom consuming me. And unfortunately, Dani still isn't doing anything interesting enough to justify spying on her."


Michael froze. The name fell into the room like a block of ice.


"Wait… Dani?" he asked, his voice trembling.


Xix's eyes darted away. His childish form seemed to shrink slightly. "Forget what I said," he murmured, turning back toward the manga, attempting to resume reading with desperate nonchalance.


"Xix!" Michael sat up fully, fatigue forgotten. "Tell me about Dani!"


"There's nothing to tell. Not now," Xix replied firmly, though his voice trembled slightly. He reopened the manga, hiding his face behind the pages.


Michael stared at him. Frustration boiled in his chest, but also a surge of something else: determination. He sank back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling.


"It's okay," he said, his voice calmer. "I wonder if I can do it. All of this. The tournament. Surviving."


Xix lowered the manga. His expression softened. He floated down beside Michael, at eye level.


"Listen, Michael," he said, his voice now warm, sincere. "You can do it. I'm not saying you'll be the best—I won't lie to you. But without a doubt, you can do it. You have something others don't. I saw it from the start."


Michael smiled weakly. "Haha… thanks," he whispered. "I wonder… if my family misses me."


Xix didn't respond. He simply floated back to his position, opened the manga, and resumed reading. But before diving back into the pages, his lips moved in a whisper Michael couldn't hear:


"Don't worry. They'll know. And you will too, someday."


---
The next morning...


The sun rose over Minneapolis, bathing the streets in warm, golden light. Birds sang in the neighborhood trees, and in the distance, children's laughter echoed as they walked to school. The world continued its course, unaware.


In Vivian's private garden, beneath that eternal twilight glow, Michael and his instructor stood ready for the second phase.


"Listen, Michael," Vivian said, planted before him with hands on her hips. Today she wore an even lighter outfit: a short sports top revealing her toned abdomen, and fitted pants favoring movement. Her figure was, as always, sculptural. "This time I'll teach you to defend yourself. Even though you still can't circulate magic perfectly, there's a way to make it flow faster in dangerous situations. Survival instinct is a powerful catalyst. Ready?"


Michael nodded, but his eyes… his eyes made a small, almost imperceptible journey. A quick glance at Vivian's figure, at the clothing leaving so little to the imagination. Instantly, his face flushed like embers. He looked away, coughing.


"Y-yeah… ready," he stammered. "But… you know? I don't think… your outfit is very… appropriate for… training…" —another glance, this one shorter, guiltier.


Vivian blinked, confused. She looked at her own clothes, patted her arms, her top. "Huh? But it's comfortable, permissive, doesn't restrict movement…"


A giggle floated in the air. It was Xix. "Hahaha," he whispered in Vivian's ear conspiratorially. "He means you're very… stimulating for him."


Vivian looked at Michael, then at herself, and a slow, dangerous smile curved her lips. "Ah… I see." Her voice turned velvety. "Michael… are you still thinking about such nonsense? With what we have at stake?"


"N-no! I wasn't…!" Michael tried to defend himself, but it was too late.


"SMACK!" Vivian exclaimed.


Michael had no time to react. Vivian vanished from his field of vision and reappeared behind him with speed defying logic. Her leg rose in a roundhouse kick that connected squarely with Michael's back.


WHAM!


Michael's body shot forward like a projectile, arcing through the air before slamming into the ground several meters away.


CRASH!


The impact was brutal. Michael felt the air driven from his lungs. He spat out a bloody wad that splattered the green grass. Pain shot through his back like an electric current.


"Damn it…!" he gasped, struggling to rise.


"Left, Michael!" Xix shouted in his mind.


Without hesitating, Michael rolled left. An instant later, Vivian's fist slammed into the ground where he'd been. Grass and earth exploded outward, leaving a meter-wide crater. Cracks spiderwebbed from the impact point.


Michael's body trembled. He knew with terrifying certainty: if Vivian struck him cleanly again, she'd kill him.


"Hahahaha!" Vivian's laughter echoed through the valley—wild, liberated laughter. "Come on, Michael! Feel the magic! Defend yourself! Make it flow!"


"You crazy lunatic!" Michael yelled, scrambling to his feet.


"Down!" Xix warned.


Michael ducked instinctively. Vivian's leg whistled past overhead, so close he felt wind against his scalp. But it wasn't enough. Though the kick didn't land fully, it grazed his hair, and Michael watched—as if the world slowed—several strands torn from their roots, floating in the air.


Lord… he thought, in a flash of existential panic. It's me… I'm sorry for everything I've done… I know I've sinned… but please, I don't want to die…


WHAM!


Another blow—a punch Michael dodged by centimeters, the shockwave throwing him off balance.


"Focus, Michael," Xix commanded, his voice an anchor in the storm. "Feel the magic. Don't fight it. Use it to anticipate her movements."


Michael closed his eyes for an instant, breathed deep, and concentrated. The magic—that strange current he'd felt yesterday—began stirring within. Not a torrent, but a faster trickle, driven by adrenaline, by fear, by the will to live.


"Come on, Michael!" Vivian shouted, unleashing a flurry of strikes.


Whiff! Thud! Whiff!


Each blow, Michael dodged. Not gracefully, not smoothly—but with the desperation of a cornered rabbit. His movements were clumsy yet effective. Xix indicated directions, and he responded. Magic flowed a little more with each dodge, each accelerated heartbeat.


Vivian, seeing the progress, smiled fiercely. She changed tactics.


She vanished.


Michael stood still, heart pounding in his ears. The silence was oppressive. He spun, searching for her.


"Behind you," a voice whispered at his back.


Michael instinctively leaped backward, but Vivian was waiting. She'd anticipated his move. Mid-air, her body twisted and her leg rose in a descending kick aimed directly at Michael's chest—an impossible trajectory to dodge.


Time stopped.


Michael saw her shoe sole approaching. Saw death in that perfect motion. Then, in pure desperation, he concentrated everything he'd learned, all the magic he'd awakened, into a single point: his hands.


A thin layer of golden light—delicate as a gauze veil—appeared before his palms, just in time.


BOOM!


The kick impacted against the light barrier. The force was such that Michael shot backward like a bullet, hurtling through the air until he smashed into a tree several meters away.


CRACK!


The tree shuddered; leaves cascaded down. Michael remained embedded against the trunk, hands still extended, golden light flickering and extinguishing. The barrier had absorbed part of the damage—enough to prevent the kick from shattering his chest.


But it couldn't prevent the impact with the tree.


He felt bones break. Several ribs, perhaps his left arm. The pain was a white explosion blinding him. His vision blurred, edges darkening. Breathing became an agonizing wheeze.


The last thing he saw, before darkness swallowed him, was Vivian's silhouette approaching slowly, her fierce expression replaced by one of serious satisfaction.


Then, nothing.