#alaska symbols | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

magnagaruzenmon · 29 days ago

Text

A Day to remember

Introduction The world changed forever the day the Hulk returned from space. But it wasn’t Bruce Banner, the brilliant scientist, who came back. No, all that was left was the Hulk—a relentless, unstoppable force of nature. Hardened and empowered after years among the stars, he brought with him the strength and knowledge of not just one, but four planets: Sakaar, planet Kree, Spartax, and Planet Skrull. This unparalleled combination of might and resources allowed him to launch a swift and devastating campaign to claim Earth as his own. It wasn’t just a victory—it was a conquest.

And so, the Hulk crowned himself Champion-King of Earth.

One of his first acts was to deal with the Illuminati, the secret cabal of Earth’s most brilliant and powerful minds who once sent him into exile. With the exception of Black Panther, the Hulk exiled the Illuminati and their allies—including my parents—to a so-called “idyllic paradise” somewhere off-world. It seemed like justice in his eyes, though it left Earth in an unprecedented state of transition. One day, I had human neighbors. The next, I was surrounded by Sakaarans, Kree refugees, and even a mutant or two. Earth wasn’t just Earth anymore. It was a crossroads for the galaxy.

Surprisingly, despite the terrifying aura of power he radiated, the Hulk turned out to be a capable and, dare I say, effective ruler. Crime plummeted, and the economy soared as he forged strong intergalactic trade and alliances with the new empires of Asgard and Wakanda. Life on Earth became both unrecognizable and…stable.

But that stability is about to be shaken again. Hulk has just announced a new tradition: the Gladiatorial Tournament of Champions. This brutal competition will determine Earth’s Realm Champions, the individuals he deems worthy of ruling specific territories under his reign. Each champion represents a distinct region of Earth, acting as both its protector and enforcer of the Hulk’s rule.

Here’s how it breaks down: • Wolverine oversees Canada and Alaska. • Steve Rogers rules the United States, Puerto Rico, Cuba, Costa Rica, Haiti, and the rest of Central America. • Namor dominates South America and Antarctica. • M’Baku holds Africa. • Shang-Chi governs all of Asia. • Devil Dinosaur and Skaar share dominion over Australia. • Doctor Doom controls Europe…when he’s not busy running his own intergalactic empire (it’s complicated).

And now, the tournament will determine the newest champions—or perhaps, challengers to their thrones. The stakes are high, the rules unclear, and the competition fierce. In this world reshaped by gamma-fueled ambition and intergalactic alliances, it’s anyone’s guess who will rise—and who will fall.

Reassemble TJ was surprised by how few had shown up to apply for the Realm Champion Tournament. Out of the vast expanse of the Gamma Force Empire, only 64 participants stood ready to compete. For an event of such magnitude, the hall of ceremonies felt oddly intimate, though the grandeur of the setting made up for the lack of numbers.

Golden chandeliers bathed the room in a warm glow, their light reflecting off walls lined with intergalactic banners—each one a symbol of the Hulk’s reign. The crowd was a mix of the famous, the powerful, and the curious. TJ recognized a few familiar faces from both legend and pop culture: Venom, towering and menacing but oddly polite; Luna Snow, the Korean pop idol turned superhero; Dazzler, the timeless mutant songstress; and a collection of idols, including Wonyoung and Yujin from IVE and Hanni from NewJeans. The blend of celebrity and power was overwhelming, but TJ—despite his less affluent upbringing and humble attire—moved through the procession with unexpected ease.

When people approached him, he introduced himself calmly and confidently. “Tiberius,” he said, his voice steady, “but you can call me Tibby. I’m one of the contestants.”

There was something magnetic about him, a palpable charm that made even the most skeptical faces soften. He listened attentively, asked genuine questions, and exuded a warmth that drew others in. It wasn’t intentional, but a few of the women couldn’t help but look a little flustered as they spoke to him.

For an hour and a half, Tibby navigated the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and learning names. But as the Master of Ceremonies stepped onto the elevated dais at the front of the hall, the atmosphere shifted.

“Contestants, it is time for your introductions,” the voice boomed, silencing the room.

One by one, the 64 fighters were named, and their achievements and titles were announced with a flourish. Most were unremarkable to Tibby, but a few stood out: • Lucion, a cybernetic warrior from Latveria, is rumored to have ties to Doctor Doom. • Leviathan, a towering Atlantean gladiator with a cold, unreadable demeanor. • Momotaro, a swordsman from Japan, clad in armor said to be enchanted by Asgardian forges. • Praetorius, a mysterious figure veiled in shadow, whose reputation as a mercenary preceded him.

And finally, Tibby. Though his name lacked the weight of the others, murmurs rippled through the crowd, many remembering the impression he had already made. By now, “Tibby” was on more than a few lips, and the nickname had stuck.

The Master of Ceremonies gestured to a row of ornate cups lined on a silver tray, each adorned with a symbol representing the Hulk’s empire.

“Champions,” he announced, “step forward and claim your Champion’s Cup. Within this drink lies a blend of the synthetic Heart-Shaped Herb, Asgardian blood rites, and a precise mixture of potions and medicines. Together, they will elevate you to a level worthy of this tournament.”

Unbeknownst to the contestants, the concoction was more than just a power booster. It was preparation—for a brutal process known only to the Empire’s inner circle as The Culling.

Tibby stepped forward and took his cup, examining the shimmering liquid inside before raising it to his lips. Around him, others did the same. The hall erupted into cheers and applause as each contestant drank, sealing their fate.

With the ceremony concluded, the party began in earnest. Music filled the air, laughter echoed, and the contestants mingled freely with the crowd. But Tibby had never been one for celebration before the victory. Quietly, he slipped away from the festivities, weaving through the throng toward the exit.

He almost made it.

As he turned a corner, Tibby’s path was blocked by a massive green figure. He froze, his heart skipping a beat. The Hulk stood before him, radiating power. His gaze was unreadable, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the corridor.

Tibby swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.

“Well,” the Hulk rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “Where do you think you’re going, Champion?”

Tibby stood face-to-face with the Champion King, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could match the Hulk’s strength, but he didn’t cower. Instead, he stood firm, holding his ground with a mixture of respect and resolve.

“I was heading home,” Tibby said evenly, his voice steady despite the fear flashing in his eyes. “Parties aren’t really my thing—especially before I’ve won anything.”

Hulk raised an eyebrow, surprised by the man’s candor. Most who stood before him either groveled or puffed themselves up with false bravado. This one, though? He spoke with sincerity. The Champion King regarded him with a faint smirk.

“You’ve got guts,” Hulk rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “Few people would talk to me that way. But there’s one more rite you need to complete before you leave.”

Tibby hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Lead the way.”

Hulk turned and began walking, his heavy footsteps echoing through the grand hall. Tibby followed, his nerves fraying with each step as they entered a glowing laboratory with a massive circular chamber at its center. The room hummed with energy, the air thick with the scent of ozone and sterilizing agents.

Hulk gestured toward the chamber. “This is the Culling Machine. It’s a tool we use to help contestants prepare. It simulates ten thousand years of forced evolution, compressing what would take eons into minutes. It’ll speed up your development and put you on par with the other fighters.”

Tibby stared at the chamber, his stomach twisting. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He thought of stepping back, walking out of the lab, and leaving the tournament behind. But then images of his past flooded his mind: the ridicule, the doubts, the dismissive sneers from the so-called geniuses of the Illuminati, and the whispered taunts of those who told him he’d never make it on his own.

Clenching his fists, he stepped forward, his eyes blazing with a cold fury. He couldn’t let them be right.

Hulk watched with quiet admiration as Tibby approached the chamber. For the second time that night, this contestant had surprised him. As Tibby entered the machine, Hulk closed the door and prepared the controls.

“Brace yourself,” Hulk warned as he pressed a series of buttons. “This is gonna hurt.”

The machine roared to life, flooding the chamber with a brilliant, almost blinding light. Tibby’s body was enveloped in its glow, and at first, everything seemed to go as expected. But then something went wrong.

Tibby’s skeleton began to glow, a fiery orange radiating from within as if his very bones were on fire. His skin bubbled and reformed, his body tearing itself apart and reassembling over and over. Each cycle was accompanied by flashes of pain and primal screams that sent a chill even through the Hulk’s hardened spine.

“WHAT THE HELL?” Hulk muttered, his massive hand hovering over the emergency shutoff. But he hesitated—Tibby was surviving. Somehow.

The machine’s timer finally reached zero, and the chamber powered down. The door slid open with a hiss, and Tibby stumbled out, his legs barely holding him upright. Steam rose from his body, and his skin flickered with faint traces of scales. His eyes glowed briefly before fading back to normal.

Hulk steadied him with one massive hand. “You good, kid?”

Tibby coughed, then nodded weakly. “Define… good.”

The Champion King let out a rare, deep laugh. “Fair enough. Let’s get you checked out.”

Hulk carried Tibby to the medical bay, where his advisors and doctors hurriedly ran tests. It didn’t take long for them to uncover the truth: Tibby’s X-gene—his mutant ability—had been dormant until now. The Culling Machine had triggered its activation, but instead of settling into one stable form, his mutation was in a constant state of flux, his body forever evolving.

“The only thing that seems consistent,” one of the doctors explained, “is that under stress, his mutation pushes him into a dragon-like form. Beyond that… well, it’s unpredictable.”

Tibby sat on the edge of the medical bed, his mind racing. A dragon? That wasn’t what he’d expected when he signed up for this tournament. But as he flexed his hands, feeling the latent power coursing through his veins, he realized he didn’t feel fear. He felt ready.

Hulk crossed his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re full of surprises, Tibby. This might just get interesting.”

The festivities were in full swing, the grand hall alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, contestants, dignitaries, and spectators mingled, each with their own agendas. At the center of it all stood Momotaro, the clear favorite to win the Realm Champion Tournament.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a warrior’s poise and a face that seemed sculpted by the gods, Momotaro exuded confidence. The legendary champion from Okinawa had already made a name for himself as a formidable warrior in countless regional tournaments. His reputation had preceded him, and now it seemed, so had his charm.

Wonyoung and Gaeul of IVE, radiant in their evening gowns, had positioned themselves at either side of Momotaro. They were playful, their voices carrying just enough laughter to turn heads, and their smiles were dazzling, each glance carefully measured.

“You must hear this all the time,” Wonyoung said, her tone light and teasing, “but you’re even more impressive in person than the stories say.”

Momotaro chuckled, his deep voice cutting through the lively room. “I’ve found that the stories are usually exaggerated. I’m just a man who’s good at what he does.”

“And modest too,” Gaeul interjected, leaning in slightly with a sly smile. “That’s rare in someone so… accomplished.”

Momotaro gave her a small nod, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Modesty isn’t rare when you’ve faced enough challenges. The moment you start believing your own hype is the moment someone surprises you.”

Wonyoung tilted her head, her eyes sparkling. “A wise answer. But surely you’ve noticed how everyone is watching you tonight. They’re not just here for the tournament—they’re here for you.”

Momotaro smirked. “And yet here I am, lucky enough to have the attention of two of the most talented stars on the planet. How do you explain that?”

Gaeul laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “We know a good story when we see one, and you, Momotaro, are definitely a story worth following.”

Their banter drew subtle glances from others at the party. Some watched with curiosity, others with envy. Among the crowd, Lucion and Leviathan exchanged knowing looks.

“Momotaro sure knows how to play the part,” Leviathan muttered, sipping his drink.

“Play?” Lucion smirked. “He’s not playing. He’s just that good.”

Meanwhile, Hulk, standing near the entrance, glanced at the scene as he returned from checking on Tibby. His sharp eyes missed nothing: the glances, the positioning, the subtle games of influence.

“Momotaro’s already won half the battle,” Hulk muttered to himself. “Let’s see if he can win the other half in the arena.”

As the night wore on, Wonyoung and Gaeul remained close to Momotaro, their charm never wavering. He entertained them with grace, but there was a quiet focus in his eyes, a steady awareness of the competition that lay ahead.

In another corner of the room, a subtle buzz spread among the attendees as whispers of Tibby’s ordeal began to circulate. The dragon-like transformation, the unexpected resilience—it was enough to draw the attention of a few, including Momotaro, whose gaze briefly flickered toward the doorway Hulk had reentered from.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself before turning his full attention back to his admirers.

As the night continued Momotaro found himself needing to relieve himself. After he excused himself he didn't expect the two vixens to corner him in the restroom as he washed his hands.

“Oh ladies how may I help you?” he said politely the girls groaned and Wonyoung said,

“Cut the good guy schtick we know all about you. We know how bad you are,” she said as she closed the gap. Yujin was also not far behind as her arms wrapped around, the man. He sensed their less-than-pure intentions as Wonyoung and Gaeul brought him in for a shared kiss. Momotaro’s mask slips as the Helpful Hero gives way to the vicious villain underneath. Encouraged by Wonyoung’s prodding he lifts her dress up to see her bare ass.

“Spank it,” Gaeul whispers in Momotaro’s ear and he does so. The resulting jiggle serves to set Momotaro to take everything he wants. He undoes his belt and rams his cock into the idol’s tight cunt.

“Yes God“ Wonyoung moans as his cock ravages her. Momotaro continues to rail against Wonyoung while he and Gauel engage in a passionate liplock. Gaeul’s tongue dances and wraps around his as he fucks into Wonyoung deeper. She moans tirelessly as Momotaro’s cock pistons in and out of her tight pussy. Driven into a lusty haze Gaeul begins spanking the younger girl, before degrading her,

“Yes take that cock you filthy slut. Fuck you're so hot,” Gaeul growled possessive. She smiled as she watched Momotaro’s cock plunge in and out of the young woman. Gaeul for her part got on the other side of Wonyoung and began groping the young woman before settling her fingers in Wonyoung's clit. Momotaro watches as he feels Wonyoung get tighter and tighter before yanking her hair.

“Gonna cum slut?” he asks,

Wonyoung nods wordlessly as her mind is made mush by the pleasure. Momotaro keeps thrusting until Wonyoung screams cumming all over his cock before Momotaro carelessly cums inside of Wonyoung. Her pussy convulsed feeling his seed before sending her into another orgasm. Feeling cheated he spanks Wonyoung and says “No cumming more than me,” Wonyoung regains her wits and glares at you before saying “Don't push your luck,”

The following day Momotaro arrived to two guests in his quarters after his successful culling. The interior of Momotaro’s quarters was as opulent as the man himself—polished stone floors, walls adorned with accolades, and an array of expensive wines and delicacies displayed on a low table. Wonyoung lounged gracefully on a plush chaise, her long legs crossed, while Gaeul stood by the window, inspecting her reflection in the glass. Both were impeccably dressed, their attire chosen to emphasize their poise and elegance.

The door hissed open, and Momotaro strode in, his figure commanding. Unlike Tiberius, his time in the culling machine left no visible marks. He radiated confidence, his movements effortless, his smirk that of a man certain of his greatness.

“You survived,” Wonyoung said, her voice dripping with mockery masked as playfulness. She rose smoothly to meet him, her eyes glinting with admiration. “Not that there was ever any doubt, of course.”

“‘Survived’ is putting it mildly,” Momotaro replied with a smirk, loosening his collar as he crossed the room. “I thrived.”

Gaeul turned from the window, raising an eyebrow. “Thrived? Modesty as always.” She approached him, her tone teasing but laced with genuine admiration. “I suppose it’s safe to assume the others weren’t as fortunate. Did you hear about Tiberius? They say the machine nearly tore him apart. Poor thing. Talk about biting off more than you can chew.”

Wonyoung scoffed, settling back into her seat. “Honestly, I’m surprised he even made it out alive. I don’t know why they let riff-raff like him enter. The man’s practically a charity case.”

Momotaro chuckled, pouring himself a glass of wine and leaning against the table. “Let them have their dreams. It makes crushing them so much sweeter when the time comes.”

“You’re so cruel,” Gaeul said, but her smile betrayed her approval. She perched herself on the arm of Wonyoung’s chaise, idly playing with a strand of her hair. “Still, I have to admit, there’s a certain satisfaction in watching the undeserving fail. It’s not like they ever had a chance against you.”

Wonyoung tilted her head, her expression sharpening. “Especially not that Tibby. Did you see how awkward he was at the ceremony? Trying so hard to impress, but it was painfully obvious he doesn’t belong.”

Momotaro grinned. “He has his moments. A certain… charm, I suppose. But charm doesn’t win battles.” He sipped his wine and added, “Still, it’s almost a shame. I could’ve taught him a thing or two.”

Wonyoung let out a soft laugh, her hand brushing against Momotaro’s arm. “Oh, please. You’re being far too generous. The only thing you could teach him is how to stay out of your way.”

“Agreed,” Gaeul said, leaning closer to him. Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “But don’t let him or the others distract you. You’re the clear favorite, Momotaro. Everyone knows it.”

Momotaro set his glass down, his smirk growing. “Distraction isn’t something I’m worried about. And as for the competition…” He gestured dismissively. “They’ll fall in line. One way or another.”

The three of them shared a laugh, the kind of easy, self-assured laughter that came from knowing the odds were in their favor. Wonyoung rested her chin in her hand, her gaze lingering on Momotaro.

“You know,” she said, her tone turning flirtatious, “you’re making it very hard for the rest of us to stay focused. All this strength, charisma… it’s almost unfair.”

Momotaro raised an eyebrow, a playful gleam in his eye. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Wonyoung.”

“Jealous?” Wonyoung leaned closer, her lips curling into a smirk. “Hardly. I’m just making an observation. Someone has to keep you humble.”

“Humble?” Gaeul chimed in, rolling her eyes. “Good luck with that.” She nudged Momotaro’s shoulder lightly. “But seriously, you’d better win. Otherwise, all this flattery will have been for nothing.”

Momotaro laughed, a deep, confident sound. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on losing. To anyone.”

Wonyoung and Gaeul exchanged a glance, their smiles sharpening. They didn’t need to say it out loud—they had chosen their champion, and they were determined to bask in his glow.

But outside the room, the faint hum of distant celebration carried on, a reminder that the tournament had only just begun—and the masks, so carefully maintained, would soon be tested.

Meanwhile having recovered Tibby had begun training in his quarters while waiting for the arena to open properly. Tibby’s training quarters were stark and utilitarian—a far cry from the lavish accommodations Momotaro enjoyed. The dim lighting revealed worn sparring equipment, a simple cot pushed against the wall, and a single rack of weights. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Tibby. He wasn’t here for luxury; he was here to prepare.

Clad in a loose tank top and sweatpants, Tibby stood in front of a heavy punching bag. His knuckles thudded against the bag in a steady rhythm, sweat trickling down his forehead. Each strike was deliberate, his focus sharp despite the lingering soreness in his body from the culling.

The door creaked open softly, and a gentle voice broke the quiet.

“Tibby?”

He paused mid-swing, turning to see Chowon standing hesitantly in the doorway. She clutched a small cloth bundle in her hands, her posture timid but her smile warm. Dressed in a simple dress, she looked entirely out of place in the gritty training room, but her presence seemed to brighten it nonetheless.

“Chowon?” Tibby straightened, wiping his forehead with his forearm. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I heard you were starting your training, and I thought you might need this.” She stepped forward, holding out the bundle. “It’s nothing fancy. Just some snacks I made. For energy.”

Tibby took the bundle, his expression softening. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she said quickly, her cheeks reddening. “You’ve been through a lot already, and… well, I thought it might help.”

He unwrapped the bundle, revealing neatly packed rice balls and slices of fruit. It was simple but thoughtful, and the care she’d put into it was obvious.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “This means a lot.”

Chowon smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re welcome. I just… I think you’re going to do great, you know? In the tournament.”

Tibby chuckled softly, sitting down on the edge of the cot. “Not sure about that. I’m still figuring out what this ‘dragon thing’ means, and most of the other contestants already look like they’ve been training for years.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Chowon said, her voice gaining a rare firmness. She stepped closer, her shyness momentarily giving way to quiet conviction. “You’re strong, Tibby. Not just physically. You… you have a good heart. That’s what really matters.”

Her words caught him off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He glanced down at the food she’d brought, then back at her.

“You’re too kind,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

Chowon blushed again, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “I just… I want to help, even if it’s only a little.”

Tibby smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “You’re already helping more than you know.”

The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the contrast between the sterile training room and Chowon’s sweet presence making it feel almost peaceful. Eventually, Chowon stood, brushing off her dress.

“I should let you get back to training,” she said. “But if you ever need anything, just let me know, okay?”

Tibby nodded. “I will. Thanks again, Chowon.”

As she turned to leave, Tibby found himself feeling a rare sense of calm. The tournament loomed large, and the odds were stacked against him, but at that moment, he realized he wasn’t entirely alone.

He stood and returned to the punching bag, Chowon’s words echoing in his mind. A good heart. Maybe that was enough to start with.

Throughout the following weeks, Tibby and Taro trained relentlessly. The sunlight streamed through the grand training hall’s tall windows, illuminating the polished marble floors and elaborate tapestries that depicted scenes of victorious warriors. The air hummed with the low thrum of energy fields powering the advanced training dummies arranged in the room.

Momotaro stood in the center, dressed in a sleek, form-fitting combat suit that highlighted his muscular frame. A faint smirk played on his lips as he observed his reflection in the mirrored walls.

“Let’s make this quick,” he said, addressing the room’s automated trainer.

The dummies activated with a sharp hum, moving with near-human precision. One lunged at him, but Momotaro sidestepped effortlessly, his blade flashing in the light as he struck. The dummy shattered, its pieces clattering to the floor.

Another dummy approached, it struck faster and more unpredictably. Momotaro parried, his movements sharp and confident, as if rehearsing a dance he had already mastered.

In the distant corner, Wonyoung and Gaeul watched, their eyes gleaming with admiration.

“Flawless, as always,” Gaeul remarked, clapping slowly.

Momotaro turned, flashing a charming grin. “Of course. You don’t think I’d let that dragon boy put a scratch on me, do you?”

Wonyoung giggled. “He doesn’t stand a chance. You’ve already won, Momotaro. This is just… practice.”

His smile widened, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Confidence, yes, but also calculation. He knew the crowd expected perfection, and he intended to deliver it.

With a dramatic flourish, he raised his weapon and stepped toward the next wave of dummies, their metallic frames reflecting the light like distant stars. Each strike was a performance, every movement a declaration of his superiority.

Tibby’s training space was the opposite of Momotaro’s—a dimly lit, open-air courtyard surrounded by crumbling stone walls. The floor was uneven, scattered with patches of dirt and grass. A single lantern swayed in the breeze, its light casting long shadows across the ground.

Tibby stood in the center, his body tense and his hands wrapped in rough cloth. Sweat glistened on his skin, evidence of hours of relentless practice. He faced a simple wooden post, its surface scarred from repeated strikes.

“Again,” he muttered to himself, his voice steady despite the strain.

He lunged forward, his fists striking the post with sharp, deliberate movements. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, but he didn’t stop. His breaths came in steady bursts, each strike pushing him further.

Behind him, Chowon stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her. She watched with a mix of worry and admiration, her gaze fixed on the determination etched into Tibby’s face.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” she said gently. “Maybe you should take a break?”

Tibby paused, his fists resting against the post. He turned to her, his expression softening. “I can’t. Not yet. If I don’t push myself, I won’t stand a chance.”

Chowon stepped closer, her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve already come so far. Don’t forget to trust yourself, too.”

Her words lingered in the air as Tibby nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. He took a deep breath, aTJusting his stance. “One more round,” he said.

Chowon sat on a nearby stone, watching as he resumed his strikes. This time, there was something different in his movements—not just strength, but precision and resolve. Each punch seemed to carry the weight of his determination to prove himself, not just to the world but to himself.

As the lantern’s flame flickered in the breeze, Tibby struck the post one last time, his fist splintering the wood. He stepped back, breathing heavily, and glanced at Chowon.

“You were right,” he admitted. “I needed that.”

Chowon smiled, her eyes warm. “You’ll be ready, Tibby. I know it.”

The day before the opening bouts of the tournaments the ceremonial chamber was a sight to behold—a cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain, with walls glowing faintly from veins of luminous minerals. Weapons of past champions lined the walls, each displayed with reverence. A long table stretched across the room, laden with ornate weapons wrapped in cloth, waiting to find their rightful wielders.

Hulk’s forgemaster, a towering, broad-shouldered dwarf named Gorund Ironbrand, stood at the head of the table. His beard was braided with bits of metal, and his hammer, massive and scarred from years of crafting, rested at his side.

“Tonight,” Gorund began, his voice resonating through the hall, “each of you will receive the weapon that best matches your spirit. These weapons are forged not just of metal but of meaning. Treat them well, and they will serve you faithfully. Fail them, and they will abandon you.”

One by one, the champions stepped forward as their names were called.

Momotaro’s Weapon

“Momotaro,” Gorund called, his deep voice cutting through the room.

Momotaro strode forward, confidence radiating from his every step. Gorund unwrapped the cloth, revealing an exquisite katana. The blade shimmered with a deadly brilliance, its edge almost too sharp to look at directly.

“This,” Gorund said, “is a katana forged from vibranium, adamantium, and carbonadium. Stronger than any foe you will face. A blade fit for one who carries the weight of many expectations.”

Momotaro accepted the weapon with a flourish, running his hand over the smooth hilt. He nodded in thanks, though inwardly, he savored the murmurs of admiration from the crowd.

“Lucion.”

Lucion, a pale figure with piercing silver eyes, stepped forward silently. Gorund unveiled a bow made of dark, twisting wood that seemed alive, its surface pulsating faintly with shadows.

“A bow crafted from the bark and branches of the World Tree,” Gorund said. “It draws on darkness itself, bending it to your will.”

Lucion took the bow without a word, his thin lips curling into a faint smirk.

“Leviathan.”

The tall, wiry contestant approached, his sharp eyes scanning the table. Gorund unwrapped a pair of daggers, their blades glowing softly with a calming blue light. Etched with ancient runes, they seemed almost alive.

“Daggers of uru and orichalcum,” Gorund said. “Inscribed with mystic etchings to balance their power. They are as precise as the predator who wields them.”

Leviathan twirled the daggers experimentally, grinning.

“Praetorius.”

Praetorius, clad in ceremonial armor, marched forward with the bearing of a king. Gorund unveiled a mace that seemed to hum with energy, lightning arcing faintly along its head.

“A weapon of vibranium and savage world steel, imbued with lightning. A fitting instrument for one who commands authority.”

Praetorius grasped the mace, nodding with satisfaction.

“Tiberius,” Gorund called.

Tibby stepped forward, calm and steady despite the low murmurs from the other champions. Gorund unveiled a single weapon—a staff-like rod forged from an alloy of vibranium, uru, and a rare off-world metal that glowed faintly in shifting shades of violet and teal.

“This,” Gorund said, his voice taking on a weight of reverence, “is a weapon unlike any other. It shifts forms at your command—kusarigama, tonfa, sais—whatever your instinct requires. Its power lies in adaptability, much like its wielder.”

The only embellishment was an inscription etched delicately into the metal: ‘Dragons care not for the opinions of sheep.’

Tibby accepted the weapon with a small bow, feeling its cool surface hum faintly with energy. He twisted his wrist experimentally, and the rod lengthened into a kusarigama. Another flick transformed it into a pair of tonfas, and yet another shift produced a pair of sais.

“Thank you,” Tibby said, his voice even but sincere.

Gorund nodded approvingly. “It is simple in appearance, yes. But simplicity often hides great strength. Remember that.”

Tibby bowed respectfully as he accepted the weapons. “Thank you,” he said simply, running his fingers over the smooth surface.

As Tibby stepped back, the other champions eyed his weapon with poorly veiled disdain. Lucion leaned toward Leviathan, smirking.

“They gave him a transforming stick,” Lucion whispered. “Guess they thought he couldn’t handle a real weapon.”

Leviathan chuckled. “He’ll need all the tricks he can get. Too bad it won’t matter when he’s out in the first round.”

Praetorius shook his head, a faint sneer on his lips. “Adaptability won’t save you when you’re outclassed.”

Tibby ignored the remarks, focusing instead on the shifting weapon in his hand. The transitions were smooth, each form feeling perfectly balanced and natural in his grip. He’d faced mockery before, and he knew that true power didn’t lie in appearances.

Momotaro observed silently, his elaborate katana hanging at his side. Though he refrained from joining the others in mocking Tibby’s weapon, his thoughts were far from kind.

A shapeshifting toy, he mused. How fitting for a second-rate contestant. It might impress peasants, but it won’t stand against real steel.

Outwardly, however, he maintained his composed, heroic demeanor, offering Tibby a polite nod as their gazes briefly met.

As the ceremony concluded, the champions mingled, comparing their weapons. Lucion and Leviathan examined their own with smug satisfaction, while Praetorius marveled at the power radiating from his mace.

“They gave him farmer’s tools,” Leviathan sneered, glancing at Tibby’s weapons. “Did they think he was here to harvest crops instead of fight?”

Lucion chuckled darkly. “Maybe they thought he’d need them to till the earth once he’s out of the tournament.”

Praetorius smirked but said nothing, his eyes flickering briefly toward Tibby.

Tibby, standing off to the side, heard the remarks but didn’t react. He was used to being underestimated, and he had no intention of rising to the bait. Instead, he turned the weapon ( currently a sai in his hand) , feeling the balance and weight, appreciating the craftsmanship.

Momotaro, standing nearby, didn’t join in the mockery. Outwardly, he maintained a neutral expression, but internally, he dismissed Tibby’s weapons as inferior. Farm tools, he thought. And here I was expecting competition.

As the champions laughed and boasted, Tibby took a step back, letting the noise fade into the background. He studied his weapon again, running a finger over the inscription.

‘Dragons care not for the opinions of sheep.’

A faint smile tugged at his lips. He knew what they thought of him, but that didn’t matter. His actions would speak louder than any words or flashy weapon.

In the end, it wasn’t the weapon that made the warrior. It was the heart behind it.

After the ceremony Momotaro went back to his shared penthouse with Gaeul and Wonyoung their contempt and disdain flowed freely behind sealed closed doors.

The flickering light from a nearby lantern cast long shadows across the private room, its cozy ambiance a stark contrast to the tension that lingered in the air. Wonyoung and Gaeul sat on plush cushions, their expressions a mix of anticipation and frustration. Momotaro stood by the window, looking out over the arena grounds, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his katana. He set it down gently before gesturing for Gaeul to approach. She smiled as they both undressed

“So, tell me again,” Gaeul spoke up, her voice dripping with a sharp edge. “You really think any of them stand a chance?” she said as she straddled Momotaro

Momotaro smirked as Gaeul spread her legs for the man. Her wet pussy drooling for him. “No. Most of them are just pawns in a game they don’t even understand. They’ll fall one by one.” he said as he thrust into Gaeul who moaned as Momotaro’s dick rammed itself inside her.

Wonyoung leaned forward, her gaze intense as she fixed Momotaro with a look of quiet calculation. “But there’s one who could be a problem.” she purred as she watched her champion fuck the elder girl.

Lifting his gaze from the window, Momotaro finally turned to face them. The playful arrogance in his eyes hadn’t faded, but there was a glint of something more serious in his expression. “Lucion. That bastard,” he spat as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He’s the only one I’ve seen so far who might be worth my time. The rest are… distractions,” he said after ramming himself deep into Gaeul. She shivered as he ran his cold hand across her waist before fucking her again. Wonyoung watched hungrily but she knew it was Gaeul’s turn to be bred so she accepted it.

Gaeul scoffed. “Lucion’s a shadow, a ghost. He’s been hiding his true strength. But even then, I’m not worried. He’s as much of an outcast as the others. He’s not a part of our world.” she said trying to stifle her moans as Momotaro continued fucking her. Her walls clenched his rod tightly as she neared her own release.

“Exactly,” Wonyoung added, folding her arms. “He’s been lurking in the shadows, and we don’t even know what he’s capable of. But he’s not a threat until he shows his cards. And when he does, we’ll be ready to crush him just like the rest.” Momotaro exited Gaeul for a moment. She pouted but kept her complaints hidden.

Momotaro’s smirk deepened as he took a step toward the table, where a fresh glass of wine awaited him. He picked it up slowly, swirling it as he spoke. “I don’t fear him, but I respect that he’s dangerous. Unlike the others. The rest? They’re nothing but fodder.”

Gaeul’s eyes flickered with an unreadable expression as she looked toward Wonyoung. “And Tiberius?”

Momotaro’s gaze turned cold at the mention of the name, the edge of his smile faltering slightly. “He’s a joke. A farm boy with no true understanding of what it means to be a champion. He doesn’t belong here.”

Wonyoung raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? He has that… something. Not the same as us. But there’s something there.”

Gaeul gave a short laugh. “Don’t let the unassuming act fool you. He’s just another body in the tournament. A warm-up for the real fight.”

Momotaro took a long drink of wine, the conversation falling into a brief, contemplative silence. His eyes narrowed as if contemplating something deeper. “Let’s make sure we don’t underestimate anyone… not even him. But for now, my focus is on Lucion. He’s the one to watch.”

The conversation turned to more idle chatter, but the underlying tension remained. Lucion—the only one they viewed as a genuine threat—hovered over their thoughts, even as they dismissed the rest of the competitors as beneath them.

At the same time Tibby’s was rediscovering himself with his new weapon. His mind unshackled by the burdens of others and their notions as he trained the weapon became an extension of himself its glow and radiance increasing as the hesitation and fear gave way to resolve and hope. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The air was thick with the sound of metal striking metal, as Tibby swung his newly acquired staff. It wasn’t just the rhythmic clang of his weapon that filled the air, but the undeniable energy that radiated from him. With every shift of his weapon, his movements were sharp, fluid, and somehow… full of life. The weapon morphed from tonfa to sais, then to a chain form with a fluidity that matched the rush of his energy.

Chowon stood at the side, her wide eyes following every shift in Tibby’s stance. She had known him as humble, reserved, even shy—but now, seeing him train, she noticed the spark in his eyes, the lively energy that emanated from him with every move. It was a side of him she hadn’t fully realized existed.

“Wow…” Chowon murmured, unable to tear her eyes away. “I had no idea you were so… intense.”

Tibby paused mid-swing, his expression bright and full of excitement. His usual soft demeanor gave way to an energetic grin as he caught sight of her watching him.

“Intense?” He chuckled, setting down the sais for a moment and walking over with a lively bounce in his step. “I’m just getting started! You should see me when I’m really fired up. But hey, gotta save my energy for tomorrow, right?”

Chowon blinked in surprise, her lips parting slightly as she processed his words. He wasn’t just humble—he was electric. The man who had appeared reserved and almost solemn was now speaking with a warmth, a fire, and a passion that she hadn’t seen before. He was clearly driven—more than she had anticipated—and somehow still managed to exude an extroverted energy that drew people in. She couldn’t help but smile in return.

Tibby’s grin only grew as he twirled his weapon in his hands, the kusarigama shifting back into its tonfa form. He raised an eyebrow at her, his voice teasing. “So, what? You thought I’d just stand there quietly in the corner? Nah. I’m here to make a splash! This tournament’s gonna feel like a breeze!”

He swung the tonfa with a sudden burst of speed, his movements so sharp they were almost impossible to track with the eye. His energy filled the space around him, creating a vibrant, unstoppable aura.

Chowon stood there, her mouth slightly agape, taken aback by the sheer enthusiasm he displayed. She’d seen others train with grit, with determination, but never quite with this much… joy. Tibby didn’t just fight to win—he fought because he wanted to, because he loved it.

“You’re amazing,” Chowon finally said, her voice filled with admiration. “It’s like… you’re completely alive in every move you make.”

Tibby paused for a moment, catching his breath, but still grinning widely. His eyes sparkled with the same energy as when he had first spoken. “What can I say? I love a good challenge! And tomorrow’s fight? I’m so ready for it, you don’t even know!”

His voice was brimming with excitement, and despite the looming uncertainty of the tournament ahead, his optimism seemed unstoppable. He wasn’t worried about the competition, nor the challenges they would throw at him. He wanted to be tested, to prove himself—because, at his core, he was a person who thrived on connection and the thrill of living.

“You really think you can win this, don’t you?” Chowon asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, still in awe of his infectious energy.

Tibby’s expression softened slightly, but his smile never wavered. “Of course I do! I’m not just doing this for me—I’m doing it for everyone who’s ever doubted me, everyone who thought I’d just stay in the shadows. They’ll see who I really am when I step into that arena.”

His enthusiasm was contagious. For a brief moment, it felt as though his vibrant energy filled the whole field. Tibby wasn’t some quiet, reserved contestant in the background; he was alive, a force of nature, and his presence radiated through everything he did.

“Alright, I’m ready to go again. You ready to see some real action?” Tibby grinned, fully revved up and eager to continue his training.

Chowon laughed, shaking her head in amazement. “I think you’re more ready than anyone.”

He winked playfully as he picked up his weapon once more, ready to take on the challenge ahead. With every swing, every movement, Tibby’s energy only seemed to grow, and it was clear: He wasn’t just in the tournament to compete—he was here to make his mark, to prove his existence to others, and nothing could hold him back.

The tournament arrived the next day and Tibby's excitement was palpable. The introvert everyone had seen at the opening ceremony was gone in his place something different. A difference so great the other competitors didn't even recognize him.

He carried himself with the swagger of a champion and the hope of a saint. When interviewed he looked less the part of a hero and ever increasingly the part of the heel everyone loved to hate, yet he spoke with genuine warmth and kindness to those around making rooting against him satisfying but also watching him Electrifying.

The tournament arrived the next day, and the air was thick with anticipation. The arena buzzed with energy, but none more than the competitors themselves. Among them, Tiberius was a beacon of electricity, a stark contrast to the quiet, reserved man everyone had seen just a day prior. The introvert, the humble and shy participant from the opening ceremony, was gone. In his place stood someone altogether different—someone unrecognizable.

Tibby walked through the bustling halls with the swagger of a champion and the hope of a saint. His posture was upright, exuding the confidence of someone who had already claimed victory, even though the battle had yet to begin. His eyes sparkled with a fire that mirrored the glow of his weapon, and every step he took seemed to draw the attention of those around him. His presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore.

When the interviewers approached, they were taken aback. This was no longer the shy, humble man who had stumbled through the ceremony. No, this was someone far more captivating. The crowd, which had seen him as little more than a dark horse before, now watched in awe as he spoke. His voice rang with an infectious enthusiasm, his words flowing with a genuine warmth that resonated with everyone around him.

Despite his energy, there was an edge to him. A slight cockiness that made him impossible to root against, but impossible to ignore. He had become the heel—the antagonist everyone loved to hate—yet, at the same time, he made it thrilling to watch. He was the kind of competitor you couldn’t help but cheer for, even if you knew he was likely going to crush everyone in his path. His charisma was undeniable, and the audience ate it up.

When asked how he thought the fight would go, Tibby leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with fiery excitement. His words were more than just a prediction—they were a promise. “You ask me, the immortal king of the battlefield, how this fight will go?” His voice boomed across the arena, and the crowd leaned in closer, hanging on every word. “I’ll tell you. You are watching the beginning of the tale of Tiberius, the one who slices the heavens! The story that ends with my dramatic finale against the Champion King himself. I will dazzle, I will amaze, and I will terrify beyond all belief. Today is just step one.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, roaring with approval as his words rang out in the air. They saw something in him—something special. His spirit wasn’t just competitive; it was alive, vibrant, and ready to take on the world. His confidence was infectious, and they couldn’t help but get swept up in it.

Hulk, standing off to the side with Chowon, exchanged a glance. They both knew it in that moment. “He’s gonna go far,” they thought simultaneously, their minds both drawn to the same conclusion. They had seen potential before, but this was different. Tibby wasn’t just a contestant; he was a force of nature.

Meanwhile, in the preparation room, Momotaro fumed. His eyes narrowed as he watched Tibby on the screen, delivering his showmanship to the crowd. He had expected fodder—someone easy to brush aside, a mere stepping stone on his way to the championship. But what he saw before him unnerved him. Tibby had transformed. The self-doubt, the hesitation, the humble man who had seemed like an afterthought had vanished. In his place was a competitor who didn’t need tricks or deception. He didn’t need to scheme his way to victory. Tibby’s desire to face the challenge head-on, with pure strength and determination, sickened Momotaro.

“Heroes…” Momotaro muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with disdain. He turned away from the screen, clenching his fists in frustration. The very idea of someone actually enjoying this game Hulk had set up, of someone fighting for something beyond their own gain, disgusted him. In his eyes, the tournament was nothing more than a game of manipulation, a means to an end. Anyone who thought otherwise was naive.

Momotaro stood there in his preparation room, breathing deeply, trying to center himself. His mind, usually so calm and calculated, was now thrown off-kilter by Tibby’s unexpected transformation. The world he had carefully built, where he was the shining hero, the top contender, was suddenly thrown into chaos. And that made him angry.

He couldn’t shake the image of Tibby—how the crowd had responded to him, how Hulk and Chowon had looked at him with recognition, understanding, and even pride. It was clear. Tibby wasn’t just a threat—he was someone who could disrupt everything Momotaro had worked for. The tournament was no longer just about winning. It was about proving who was the strongest, and Tibby had just made it personal.

“Your legend ends today,” Momotaro muttered, his voice cold and filled with resolve. “I’ll show him just who he’s dealing with. No one gets to stand in my way.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror, a cold smirk curling on his lips. The hero of the tournament had a challenger now, and that challenger was someone who couldn’t be ignored. Tiberius had made himself a spectacle, and Momotaro hated it.

The opening match was simple. The top seeds versus the lowest seeds and that meant Tibby was facing off against Taro. The combatants entered the arena, and Tibby feed off the cheers as he hyped off the crowd before walking over to Momotaro. He attempted a handshake but Momotaro’s only words were

“Focus up clown,” Tibby unfettered nodded and got in a combat ready stance as he took out his weapon. The crowd marveled as it turned into a beautiful nagitana that glowed with the same infectious energy Tibby had. Momotaro grew frustrated as he unsheathed his sword.

He closed the distance on Tibby and clashed with the tip of his nagitana. What he didn't expect was for Tibby to shift the weapon to its chain form and bind both of his hands before dislodging his katana away from him. Momotaro realized then along with all 64 other competitors that Tiberius was going to be a problem. As Tibby removed the priority weapon from his foe he tripped him before shifting his weapon into its Kusagirama form and kicking up dust to obscure Momotaro’s vision. To keep Momotaro off his game he continued to move the sword out of reach as he would look for openings that guaranteed victory, but Momotaro kept his guard dodging and carefully keeping ready for Tibby to slip up in his pressure.

The crowd watched rivetted. Wonyoung and Gaeul’s excitement and terror watching their chosen champion filled them with so much emotion their masks slipped and they cheered with reckless abandon. Chowon noticed this and said.

“Huh I guess Tibby brings out the true self in everyone,” she thought. As she watched Tibby play his little game if keep away. She noticed the shift. She watched as instead of moving Momotaro’s weapon far out of reach that he was placing on the battlefield as he moved the katana closer and closer to Momotaro.

For those who could see magic Tibby was putting chi glyphs that made it so when they were activated they'd explode. However because this was a new trick of Tibby’s he lacked control over this power so for what he was planning he was going for a lethal shot. Hulk’s advisor of mages Baron Mordo noticed this and notified the Champion King. While Hulk admired Tibby’s ingenuity he needed to keep his competitors safe so he gestured for Tibby to stop the fight which Tibby and a few others caught but not everyone so Momotaro unaware and pushed to his limit by this bumpkin hit him with his greatest attack. “Scales of the demon!” he yelled as he slashed his katana at Tibby who was lacerated a total of 356 by the radiant blades. He collapsed and the ref called the victory for Momotaro as he also didn't see Hulk’s signal. After the match was just as hectic as the crew readied for the next fight.

The lounge buzzed with subdued energy as contestants gathered to debrief and decompress after the opening matches. Wonyoung and Gaeul sat in a quiet corner, their expressions composer but held feeling of awe and terror deep within. The screens replayed moments from the day’s most dramatic match—Momotaro versus Tiberius.

“That guy,” Gaeul began, her voice low and contemplative, “he’s not like anyone else here. Did you see how he fought?”

Wonyoung nodded, her arms crossed as she leaned back in her chair. Her usual composure had slipped during the fight, her cheers echoing among the crowd alongside the roar of thousands. Now, her tone was measured, almost clinical. “He didn’t just fight. He put on a show. Every move felt deliberate—not just to win, but to entertain. And the crowd ate it up.”

Gaeul gave a small laugh, though her nerves still showed. “I almost forgot we’re here to root for Momotaro. Tibby’s energy…it’s impossible to ignore.”

Before Wonyoung could reply, the door to the lounge opened with a sharp creak, and Momotaro strode in. His movements were stiff, his expression cold, yet there was a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes. The room fell quiet as he walked past the other contestants, all of whom watched him with a mix of respect and trepidation.

“Momotaro,” Wonyoung called out, her voice breaking the silence.

He stopped, glancing at her and Gaeul before walking over. “What is it?” he asked curtly, his voice tinged with irritation. Gaeul reaches put to soothe the man with her touch.

Wonyoung didn’t flinch under his glare. “How do you think it went? That fight wasn’t exactly clean.”

Momotaro’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I won,” he said flatly.

“Sure,” Gaeul interjected, her voice unusually sharp. “But look at him.” She gestured toward the screen, which now showed Tibby being carried off by medics, his bloodied body a testament to Momotaro’s finishing blow.

“He’ll live. he shouldn't though that blow should have been fatal” Momotaro snapped, though the defensiveness in his tone betrayed him.

“That’s not the point,” Wonyoung said, her eyes narrowing. “You saw it just like we did. Tibby didn’t fight like someone who was out of his league. He pushed you. Hard. And that was round one. He’s going through the loser’s bracket now, but if he makes it back to you…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Momotaro scoffed, though the unease in his posture was unmistakable. “He’s reckless. Flashy. That kind of fighting only works until someone with actual skill shuts it down.”

Gaeul leaned forward, her gaze piercing. “And yet, you had to use Scales of the Demon to stop him. Against the lowest seed.”

The words hit their mark, and Momotaro’s scowl deepened. He glanced at the screen again, his mind replaying the fight. Tibby’s unorthodox tactics, his shifting weapon forms, the calculated placement of the katana—everything about the match had been a puzzle, one he’d only barely managed to solve. And the crowd’s reaction…

“Everyone’s talking about him,” Wonyoung continued. “They’re calling him a genius. A wildcard. Even Hulk looked impressed.”

Momotaro’s eyes flicked to her, his expression dark. “You’re saying you’re rooting for him now?”

“No,” Wonyoung said, her voice steady, and her expression matching his as if scoff that he would challenge her loyalty again. “We’re still in your corner. But you need to take him seriously. If he gets another shot at you, he won’t make the same mistakes.”

“And neither will I,” Momotaro said firmly, though his words felt more like a promise to himself than to them.

Gaeul sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’d better not. Because the way things are going, Tibby’s not just going to be a problem for you—he’s going to be a problem for everyone.”

Momotaro said nothing, his gaze fixed on the screen as the replay shifted to Tibby’s dramatic introduction before the match. The crowd’s cheers echoed faintly through the lounge, and for the first time, Momotaro felt a flicker of doubt.

He turned abruptly, walking toward the training room without another word. If he was going to beat Tibby he would have to train 3 times as hard as he did.

Wonyoung watched him go, her expression unreadable. “Do you think he gets it?” she asked Gaeul.

Gaeul shrugged. “Who knows? But one thing’s for sure.”

“What’s that?”

Gaeul smiled faintly, though there was no humor in her eyes. “If Tibby keeps fighting like that, this tournament’s about to get a lot more interesting.”

The impact of the first match overshadowed every following match much to Levithan’s Chagrin.

“The winners should be the focus,” he thought to himself before getting ready for his interview. The camera panned to Leviathan, who sat with his arms crossed, his lengthy frame nearly dwarfing the chair beneath him. His crimson scale mail shimmered under the lights of the press room, and his deep, steady breathing hinted at the restrained power within. The reporters eagerly leaned forward, microphones thrust in his direction, eager for a soundbite from the victorious warrior.

“Leviathan,” one reporter began, her voice bright but professional. “First of all, congratulations on your win. Another dominant performance. But if we may, we’d like your thoughts on the match earlier today between Momotaro and Tiberius. It’s all anyone can talk about right now.”

Leviathan’s eyes, cold and calculating, shifted toward the reporter. He took a moment to exhale slowly, as if weighing his words.

“It was… revealing,” he rumbled, his voice deep and deliberate, like the shifting of tectonic plates. “Not in the way most people think.”

A murmur swept through the room. The reporter pressed on. “Could you elaborate? What did it reveal to you?”

Leviathan’s gaze turned steely. “Tibby’s fight wasn’t just about winning or losing. It was a declaration. A challenge. And he succeeded in one thing: showing everyone, including Momotaro, that the rules of this tournament don’t apply to him.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Do you mean his unconventional weapon techniques? Or the chi glyphs?”

Leviathan allowed a small, humorless smirk to play across his face. “The weapon shifts, the traps, the strategy—that’s all surface level. What matters is the intent. Tibby doesn’t fight to defeat his opponent. He fights to expose them. To unravel them. And Momotaro?” Leviathan paused, letting the tension build. “He unraveled.”

The room fell silent, save for the frantic scribbling of notes.

“But Momotaro won,” another reporter countered, trying to challenge the narrative. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

Leviathan leaned forward, his crimson eyes locking onto the reporter like a predator sizing up prey. “Does it? Look at the aftermath. Momotaro isn’t celebrating. He’s not basking in victory. He’s shaken. Questioning himself. And that’s what makes Tibby dangerous. He lost the fight, but he’s still in the tournament. And now everyone knows what he’s capable of.”

The murmurs grew louder. Someone else asked, “What about the role of the officials? Hulk tried to stop the fight, but it seems like his signal came too late. Do you think that played a part in what happened?”

Leviathan’s expression darkened slightly, and his massive tail shifted behind him, the only sign of his annoyance. “Mistakes happen. Hulk’s job is to keep order, but Tibby? Tibby thrives in chaos. Even if the fight had stopped earlier, the damage was done. Momotaro’s psyche, the crowd’s perception, the other competitors’ calculations—Tibby’s chaos reached them all.”

The original reporter spoke up again, cautiously. “And what about you, Leviathan? If you face Tibby in the future, what’s your strategy?”

Leviathan let out a low, rumbling chuckle that reverberated through the room. “Tibby’s clever, but I’m no Momotaro. I don’t get rattled, and I don’t play into someone else’s game. If he tries to unravel me, he’ll find himself staring into the abyss instead.”

The reporters nodded, some murmuring their approval at the confident answer. But Leviathan wasn’t done.

“One more thing,” he said, his tone dropping to something almost ominous. “Tibby said he was here to beat Hulk. That’s a bold claim. But what he doesn’t realize is this: if he wants to climb to the top, he has to go through me first.”

With that, Leviathan stood, his towering form casting a long shadow across the room. The press erupted in questions, but he gave them no further response. Instead, he turned and walked away, his tail swishing with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who knew his power—and didn’t feel the need to prove it.

Later as the legend of Tiberius who slices the heavens spread Lucion sat on the edge of his bed, rolling the hilt of his sword between his hands. His usually calm demeanor was strained, the sharp lines of his face deepened with thought. Yerim lounged nearby, perched between his legs. Her lucious lips slowly rake across his manhood. sThe moonlight framed her figure, her presence an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.

“So?” Yerim’s voice was teasing but gentle, as she slowly worked along his shaft wit her skilled fingers like the wind brushing through a quiet forest. “What’s running through that big, brilliant mind of yours?”she said as she began bobbing on his cock again

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I can’t stop replaying their fight. Tibby was…” He paused, searching for the right word.

“Unexpected?” she offered as she came for air.

Lucion nodded. “And dangerous. More dangerous than anyone gave him credit for. His adaptability, the way he manipulated the battlefield—it’s not just skill. It’s instinct. And instinct like that can’t be taught.”

Yerim tilted her head, studying him as she stroked his rod some more. “You’re worried.”

He chuckled softly, though the sound lacked its usual warmth. “I wouldn’t say worried. Cautious, maybe. Tibby isn’t like the others I’ve faced. He doesn’t just fight; he thinks. Every move he made was calculated to throw Momotaro off balance.”

“And it worked,” Yerim said, her voice soft. “Until it didn’t.”

Lucion frowned, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. Yerim tried to calm him by sucking deeper than usual but Lucion was inconsolable, “Momotaro’s strength is brute force. He overpowered Tibby in the end, but it was close. Too close. If Hulk hadn’t tried to intervene, who knows how far Tibby’s plan would have gone? That kusarigama trick with the chi glyphs—he could’ve ended the match right there if he’d had more control over his magic.”

Yerim’s tongue slid off the of Lucion’s dick as she began to lick his frenulum, her pace slow and deliberate. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. “You’re not Momotaro, Lucion. You don’t rely on brute force. You see the battlefield better than anyone. That’s why you’re still here.”

He looked at her, his expression softening slightly. “You always know what to say.”

“It’s a gift,” she said with a playful smile. Then her expression grew serious. “But you’re right to be cautious. Tibby’s next fight is with you, and he’s not going to come in the same way. He learns too fast for that.”

Lucion placed the sword down beside him, resting his hands on his knees. “The key will be keeping him from dictating the flow of the fight. He thrives on momentum, on keeping his opponent reacting instead of acting.”

“Then take the initiative,” Yerim suggested. “Force him to fight on your terms. You’re a tactician, Lucion. Use that. Make him chase you, and when he slips…”

“…I’ll finish it,” Lucion said, his voice filled with quiet determination. As he spoke he came all over Yerim’s face. She giggled happy to serve her man

Yerim smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “That’s the Lucion I know. Just don’t underestimate him. If you do…”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “Tibby’s dangerous, but I know how to handle danger.”

Yerim stood, her confidence in him evident in the way she carried herself. “Good. Because I have no intention of watching you lose to some upstart with a flashy weapon and a knack for showmanship.”

Lucion smirked, standing to face her. “You don’t think I’d let him get the better of me, do you?”

“I think,” Yerim said, leaning in close, her voice a whisper against his ear, “that you’re going to show everyone why you belong at the top.”

Lucion nodded, her words igniting a spark of confidence within him. “He won’t know what hit him.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Yerim said with a grin. “Just don’t let him turn this into a spectacle. Keep your head in the fight, and it’s yours.”

As she stepped back toward the window, Lucion watched her, his mind clearing as her words settled. He wasn’t Momotaro, and this wasn’t about brute strength. It was about strategy, precision, and control. And those were the things he excelled at.

Tibby may have made himself a threat, but Lucion was ready to remind him—and everyone else—why he was a contender.

Unsure about his interference in the tournament Hulk went to the people’s Champion infirmary room Tibby sat in the medical bay, his arms covered in bandages and his chest wrapped tight to stem the lingering pain from Momotaro’s brutal final attack. Despite the searing ache of his wounds, his expression was far from defeated. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were fixed on the notepad in his lap, where hastily scribbled notes and diagrams painted a chaotic tapestry of strategy. Hulk sat silent for a moment and watched Tiberius sketch and scribble.

Hulk entered the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the flickering glow of the medical monitors. His usual confidence was tempered, replaced by a somber expression as he approached Tibby’s bedside.

“Tibby,” Hulk began, his deep voice quieter than usual.

Tibby glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Hulk, what brings you to the infirmary? I thought champions didn’t make house calls.”

Hulk crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “I came to apologize.”

That made Tibby pause, setting the notepad aside as he regarded the Champion King with curiosity. “For what?”

“For not stopping the fight when I should have,” Hulk admitted. “I saw where it was headed. I signaled for the referee to call it, but I didn’t act fast enough. You took a beating because I hesitated. That’s on me.”

Tibby blinked, then let out a short laugh that turned into a wince. “Ow—don’t make me laugh right now. These ribs are still protesting.” He shook his head, his tone light but sincere. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Hulk. This is a tournament, not a tea party. Things get rough. I knew what I was signing up for when I stepped into that ring.”

Hulk frowned. “Still, it wasn’t fair. If you’d had time to refine that technique of yours, things might’ve gone differently.”

Tibby leaned back, a faint grin tugging at his lips despite the pain. “Maybe. But fair doesn’t win fights, does it? And let’s be honest—Momotaro needed that win more than I did. Did you see the look in his eyes? I’m living rent-free in his head now.”

Hulk couldn’t help but chuckle at that, though his expression remained thoughtful. “You’re not angry?”

Tibby shook his head. “Nah. Losing’s just part of the game. Besides, I’m not out yet. The loser’s bracket is just another chance to prove myself. And I’ve already started working on my approach for the next fight.” He tapped his notepad, where diagrams of his kusarigama and notes on potential opponents filled the page. “Momotaro was step one. Whoever’s next? They’ll get the refined version of me.”

Hulk studied him, his keen eyes taking in every detail—the lack of resentment, the unwavering focus, the confidence that bordered on dangerous. “You really believe you’ll make it back to the finals?”

Tibby met his gaze, his grin turning sharp. “Oh, I’m not just making it back. I’m going to win this thing. And after that? I’m coming for you.”

Hulk froze for a moment, the weight of those words sinking in. He wasn’t easily intimidated—he’d faced countless challengers before—but something about the calm certainty in Tibby’s voice sent a chill down his spine. It wasn’t arrogance. It was conviction.

“Well,” Hulk said after a beat, his tone measured, “I’ll be waiting.”

Tibby leaned forward slightly, the movement making his bandages creak. “Don’t wait too long, Hulk. You might find yourself surprised.”

Hulk turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. “You’re a dangerous man, Tibby. I can see why the crowd loves you. Just don’t let that spark burn out too soon.”

Tibby smirked, picking up his notepad again. “Oh, don’t worry. The fire’s only just getting started.”

As Hulk walked away, his mind churned with conflicting thoughts. Tibby wasn’t just another competitor. He was something more—something unpredictable, unshakable, and undeniably formidable.

For the first time in a long time, Hulk found himself wondering if the Champion King might finally have met his match.

Praetorius reclined on a plush chaise in his private quarters, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over the royal decor. His long coat was draped carelessly over a chair, and a half-empty glass of wine rested on the table beside him. Across the room, Hanni perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, her delicate features glowing with curiosity as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Her nude form shined in the dimly lit room

“So,” she began, her voice teasing yet thoughtful, “what’s the verdict, oh great king? Did Momotaro barely scrape by, or was Tibby really just that unlucky?”

Praetorius smirked, swirling his wine as he considered her question. “A little of both, my dear consort,” he replied, his tone smooth as silk. “Momotaro’s victory wasn’t without merit—his precision and resolve are undeniable. But Tibby…” He paused, letting the name linger in the air. “Tibby is a different breed of fighter. What we witnessed wasn’t a loss—it was a declaration of intent.”

Hanni tilted her head, intrigued. “A declaration? You make it sound like he wanted to lose.”

“Not at all,” Praetorius corrected, setting his glass down. “Tibby doesn’t strike me as the type to settle for second place. No, what he did was far more dangerous. He forced everyone—Momotaro, the crowd, the judges—to recognize him. Even in defeat, he controlled the narrative. It’s a rare skill, and one that will serve him well in the matches to come.”

Hanni leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You really think he’s that much of a threat? I mean, Momotaro did take him down.”

Praetorius chuckled, the sound low and rich. “My dear Hanni, you underestimate the power of perception. Momotaro may have won the battle, but Tibby won the crowd. Every move he made—the way he wielded his weapon, the audacity of his strategies—it was all designed to leave an impression. And it worked. By the time he’s healed and ready to fight again, his opponents won’t just be facing his skills. They’ll be facing the legend he’s already begun to craft.”

Hanni’s lips curled into a thoughtful smile. “You sound like you’re rooting for him.”

“Rooting? Not quite,” Praetorius said, his smirk widening. “But I do appreciate a well-played game. Tibby’s a wild card, and wild cards have a way of disrupting even the best-laid plans. It’s… fascinating to watch.”

Hanni rose from her seat, crossing the room to sit beside him on the chaise. “So what’s your plan, then? Sit back and enjoy the chaos? Or do you have something more… involved in mind?”

Praetorius turned to her, his gaze sharp and knowing. “Chaos, my dear, is a tool like any other. And a good strategist knows how to wield every tool at his disposal. Let Tibby and Momotaro dance their little dance. I’ll step in when the moment is right.”

Hanni arched an eyebrow, her expression equal parts amused and intrigued. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Only when I want to be,” he quipped, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Now, tell me—what did you think of the fight? I trust your keen eyes caught something I missed.”

Hanni grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I saw plenty. But if you want my insights, you’ll have to earn them.”

Praetorius laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. “You drive a hard bargain, my dear. Very well. Enlighten me.”

Hanni leaned back against the chaise, stretching like a cat before fixing Praetorius with a knowing smile. “Alright, here’s the thing about that fight,” she began, her tone light but sharp with observation. “Everyone’s focused on the big moves—the flashy techniques, the weapons, the crowd reactions. But that’s not what stood out to me.”

“Oh?” Praetorius folded his hands in his lap, his expression interested but unreadable. “Enlighten me, my insightful muse.”

Hanni rolled her eyes at the nickname but continued. “It’s Tibby’s rhythm. The way he fought wasn’t about power or even precision—it was about setting a pace and forcing Momotaro to follow it. Every shift in his weapon’s form wasn’t just an attack, it was like he was conducting a symphony. And for a while, Momotaro was dancing to his tune.”

Praetorius tilted his head, considering her words. “Interesting. So you’re saying Tibby wasn’t just reacting—he was leading?”

“Exactly.” Hanni’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Even when it looked like Momotaro had the upper hand, Tibby was setting him up. Moving the katana closer and closer? That wasn’t just strategy, that was psychological warfare. He wanted Momotaro to think he was slipping. It’s just… well, Tibby got a little too clever for his own good. Those chi glyphs were brilliant, but he couldn’t control them. And that’s what cost him the fight.”

Praetorius chuckled softly. “Ah, hubris. The Achilles’ heel of every would-be genius. But you’re right—it was a fascinating strategy. One misstep, and it could’ve been Momotaro lying in the dirt instead of Tibby.”

Hanni nodded, her expression growing more serious. “And that’s the thing—Tibby doesn’t need to win to get under someone’s skin. He’s already in Momotaro’s head, rent-free. Did you see how rattled he was, even after the fight? That humble, stoic hero act is cracking , and everyone knows it.”

Praetorius let out a low hum of approval. “You’re sharper than you look, my dear.”

“Of course I am,” Hanni shot back, sticking out her tongue. “I watch more than just the showy moves. Like how Momotaro wasn’t the only one who cracked. Did you notice Wonyoung and Gaeul in the crowd?”

Praetorius raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“They were so caught up in the fight, they dropped their usual composure. They weren’t just watching—they were cheering, yelling, feeling. And Chowon noticed, too. She might play it cool, but I saw her smirk. Tibby’s chaos doesn’t just disrupt fighters—it pulls everyone into his orbit. Even the spectators.”

Praetorius leaned forward, his fingers steepled as he processed her insights. “So what you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is that Tibby isn’t just a fighter. He’s a force of nature. A disruptor.”

Hanni grinned, pleased that he was catching on. “No worse. He is a spectacle. And spectacles are dangerous, because you can’t predict what they’ll do next. That’s why Momotaro’s win doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like Tibby just laid the groundwork for something bigger. Another showstopper as it were.”

Praetorius’s smirk returned, his mind already spinning with possibilities. “A very astute analysis, my dear. Perhaps I should take you into my confidence more often.”

“You should,” Hanni replied breezily. “I’m smarter than half the people you surround yourself with. And cuter.”

“Undeniably true,” Praetorius said, lifting his wineglass in a mock toast. “To your insights—and to the chaos yet to come.”

Hanni clinked her imaginary glass with his, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Here’s to that. Let’s see how much more trouble Tibby stirs up.”

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and herbs, the sharp tang softened by the dim lighting and the quiet hum of activity. Chowon pushed the door open, her steps hesitant as she glanced around. Her heart had been tight in her chest since the match, her mind racing with what she might say when she saw Tibby. She hadn’t expected him to take the beating so well—or to see him sitting on the bed, entirely healed, casually tossing a small orb of light from one hand to the other.

“Tibby?” she called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, his grin as bright as ever, though his eyes carried the weight of someone who had been through far more than his expression let on. “Chowon! Fancy seeing you here. Thought you’d be off celebrating Momotaro’s big win.”

Her brow furrowed as she approached him. “Don’t start with that. I came to see you.”

“Me?” He tossed the orb one last time and caught it, letting the light fade from his hand. “I’m fine. See? Not a scratch on me.”

“That’s not the point.” Chowon crossed her arms, standing just a few feet from him now. Her gaze softened as she took him in—whole, unharmed, and still as infuriatingly carefree as ever. “Tibby, you scared me out there. I thought…” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Tibby tilted his head, his grin fading as he noticed the worry etched into her features. “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more sincere. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Chowon bit her lip, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You didn’t just worry me. You… you made it impossible to look away. The way you fought, the way you moved—it was like you were trying to carry the whole arena on your shoulders. Why do you push yourself like that?”

Tibby sighed, leaning back on his hands. “It’s not about pushing myself. It’s about showing everyone what I can do. People see me as some loudmouth clown with a flashy weapon, but I’ve got more than jokes and tricks. That match was my way of proving it.”

“And nearly getting yourself killed was part of that plan?” she shot back, her voice trembling.

He looked at her for a long moment, the usual spark in his eyes dimmed. “I knew the risks,” he said finally. “But I’m not here to play it safe, Chowon. I’m here to win. And sometimes that means taking hits, making people believe I’m down before I show them I’m not.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, and she took another step closer. “But at what cost, Tibby? What if next time, you don’t get up?”

Tibby’s grin returned, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ll have to make sure there isn’t a next time, huh?”

Chowon huffed, her frustration mingling with relief. Without thinking, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm, the warmth of his skin grounding her. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dipping lower, more intimate. “But you’re still here.”

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, the world outside the infirmary seemed to fade away. Tibby turned his arm slightly, letting his hand rest over hers.

“I’ll be careful,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “For you.”

Chowon’s lips curved into a small, reluctant smile. “You better be.”

They stayed like that for a moment, their fingers lightly brushing as a quiet understanding passed between them. Tibby might be reckless, but here, in this moment, he was grounded—by her, and maybe for her.

“Alright,” he said, breaking the silence but not moving away. “Since I’m all healed up, what do you say we get out of here? I could use some fresh air, and I’m guessing you could use some company that doesn’t have a death wish.”

Chowon laughed softly, shaking her head. “Fine. But only if you promise not to do anything stupid for at least one day.”

Tibby smirked as he stood, their hands lingering together for a beat longer before he let go. “Deal. One day of no stupid.”

As they left the infirmary together, the weight of the earlier fight began to lift, replaced by the quiet comfort of knowing they didn’t have to face what came next alone.

The smell of melted cheese and garlic wafted through the air as Tibby and Chowon sat across from each other in a small, cozy pizzeria just outside the tournament grounds. The place was lively but not overwhelming, a perfect retreat from the chaos of the arena. A half-eaten pepperoni and mushroom pizza sat between them, the grease glistening under the warm light.

Tibby leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the table as he polished off his slice. “You know,” he said between bites, “there’s nothing quite like a good pizza after almost dying in front of thousands of people.”

Chowon gave him a pointed look, though a smile tugged at her lips. “If you’re trying to make me lose my appetite, you’re doing a great job.”

He grinned, grabbing another slice. “C’mon, you’ve gotta admit, it makes the pizza taste better. Like a victory meal, even though I technically lost.”

“Technically?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, definitely lost,” Tibby conceded with a shrug. “But I made my point. And now, I’ve got Lucion to worry about.”

Chowon set her slice down, her expression turning thoughtful. “Lucion’s no joke, Tibby. He’s precise, calculating. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

Tibby nodded, his demeanor shifting slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. He’s the kind of guy who waits for you to slip up, then takes you apart piece by piece. But that’s the thing—he’s all about reacting. If I don’t give him the chance to counter, I might be able to throw him off his game.”

Chowon tilted her head, watching him closely. “So, what’s the plan?”

Tibby leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Speed. Lucion likes to control the pace, but if I keep things fast—keep him guessing—I might be able to catch him off guard. And I’ve been working on a couple of new tricks. The key is making him think he’s in control when he’s not.”

Chowon’s lips curved into a small smile. “You’re really taking this seriously.”

“Of course I am,” Tibby said, his voice softening. “Lucion’s not just another opponent. He’s a test. If I can beat him, it proves I belong here.”

Chowon reached out, her hand brushing against his on the table. “You already proved that today. Whether you beat Lucion or not, you’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

Tibby looked at her, the usual playfulness in his eyes replaced by something more genuine. “Thanks, Chowon. That means a lot, coming from you.”

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling back. “Just promise me you’ll stick to your plan and not do anything reckless. You don’t have to win every fight by being the flashiest guy in the room.”

Tibby chuckled, grabbing another slice. “No promises. But I’ll try to keep the stupid to a minimum. For you.”

Chowon rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. As they continued eating, the tension from the day’s events slowly melted away, replaced by the easy camaraderie and quiet understanding they shared. Whatever challenges lay ahead, Tibby knew he had someone in his corner—and that made all the difference.

#marvel fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #ive smut #wonyoung smut #gaeul smut #choerry smut #loona smut #artms smut

248 notes · View notes