It happened again.
The arena fractured.
The Ten Kings coronation collapsed into overlapping realities, like the world was being replayed on a broken loop.
Thomas Anderson stood at the center of it all.
Not calm this time.
Not observing.
Rampaging.
Everything around him broke on contact.
Time attempts failed before they formed.
Space tried to correct itself and got rejected.
Even causality hesitated to approach him.
"Fifty-seventh reset," Thomas muttered.
His voice echoed across multiple timelines at once.
"…still not enough."
The battlefield flickered.
Crowds saw versions of themselves dying, standing, running, and never existing—all in the same moment.
Mark Angelo stepped back slightly.
"…He's looping the coronation."
Desiree narrowed her eyes.
"…No. He's rewriting it until he wins."
Thomas suddenly stopped.
His body froze mid-motion.
Then—
his arm began to glow.
Ancient tattoos surfaced across his skin, burning into existence like something that had always been there but was finally allowed to appear.
Jhonathan's eyes narrowed.
"…That's not his ability."
Thomas looked at his own arm, confused for the first time.
"…I didn't activate this."
The tattoos pulsed.
Reality responded.
Not to Thomas—
but to Jhonathan.
Jhonathan stepped forward slowly.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Because fear required belief in death.
And he didn't have that luxury anymore.
"I never die," Jhonathan said quietly.
"And I don't care how many times you reset this."
Thomas lunged.
Everything collapsed into pure rejection force.
But this time—
Jhonathan didn't defend.
He pierced forward.
Straight through the distortion.
Through the impossible.
Through Thomas himself.
A soundless impact.
Then silence.
Thomas froze.
His body began to lose definition.
Not wounded.
Not defeated.
But unstable.
Like reality had decided it was finished with him.
He looked at Jhonathan one last time.
"…So this is what it means to lose…"
Then—
he turned to dust.
Carried away by the setting sun.
The arena went still.
For the first time since the coronation began—
nothing was collapsing.
Then—
a voice.
"JHONATHAN… JHONATHAN… JHONATHAN…"
The crowd erupted.
Cheering.
Roaring.
Relief.
Fear.
Admiration.
"He is the Undying Knight of the Seven Stars!"
Jhonathan stood alone at the center of the arena.
Breathing slowly.
Not victorious.
Not defeated.
Just… changed.
Behind him, his party gathered.
But something was different now.
No jokes.
No distractions.
No hunger stalls.
Just silence.
Sylviana looked at him quietly.
"…What now?"
Jhonathan turned toward the horizon.
Where the world was still unstable.
Still breaking in places they couldn't see yet.
"…We train," he said.
A pause.
"…We're still too weak."
And that day—
the party split paths.
Not in betrayal.
Not in anger.
But in preparation.
Because the world they had entered…
was only getting worse.