The atmosphere inside the Avalon estate crackled with unspoken tension. Elders murmured amongst themselves, kings leaned forward in their golden thrones, and every breath felt like it carried the weight of galaxies. Then, like the sharp cut of a blade, Han stepped forward.
His presence silenced the room instantly. A dark blue aura shimmered around him like a restless storm compressed into human form, his voice carrying the gravity of a thousand unsaid truths.
"Silence," Han said, not loudly, but with enough command to make even the oxygen in the room consider obeying. "You're squabbling over meaningless politics while a far greater threat brews in the Glacier universe… namely, Gunhee refusing to give up control of the last Galaxy."
Gunhee, already seated at the side with his arms crossed and a smug grin stretching across his face, raised an eyebrow. "I'm not refusing. I'm simply… prolonging my reign. That's what winners do."
Dokja, ever the contrarian, rolled his eyes. "Why should we bother with your Demi-god melodrama?"
Han turned, slowly. "Not Demi-god," he said, eyes narrowing with subtle sass. "Semi-Demi-god. There's a difference, Dokja. It's technical, and deeply annoying."
King Rousewell, the ruler of Planet Cluster in the Universe of Arcadia, rose from his intricately gem-carved throne. His robe shimmered like starlight and his beard seemed to be styled by gravitational waves. "Dokja, it concerns us all," he said, serious for once. "Without an active Demi—sorry, Semi-Demi-god—keeping order in Glacier, we'll have chaos spilling into every realm."
Gunhee nodded, unusually solemn. "Agreed. This isn't just about the Galaxy. It's about balance, lineage, legacy…"
"...and pride," Han added with a playful smirk.
Gunhee's smile widened as he stood and walked over to the high throne reserved for the Triumvirate of Sect Lords. He sat down between Han and Dokja with exaggerated grace, making the seat creak just enough to make the nearby guards twitch.
"Let's settle this with a duel," Gunhee said, eyes gleaming like molten gold. "Like the old days. Winner keeps the Galaxy. Loser… buys dinner."
Han cracked his knuckles, his expression lighting up with a mix of nostalgia and bloodlust. "You still owe me a meal from our last duel on Planet Scorch."
"That doesn't count. You sneak-attacked me with a meteor."
"Details."
The elders huddled briefly in murmured debate. One elder even tried to object before getting silenced by an intense glare from Iseul—Gunhee's wife, who was sipping tea with eerie calm.
Finally, they nodded.
"The duel is sanctioned."
But before the match began, Dokja's gaze landed on someone in the crowd. "Han," he said, squinting at the stands, "is that who I think it is?"
Han's smile faded slightly. "Yes. That's my son—Muhan."
There was a slight hush. Dokja's brow furrowed. "The level 9 infant the former sect tried to assassinate at birth?"
Muhan, sitting in the stands with a stick of candy in his mouth, gave an awkward wave.
Han's voice dropped low. "Your sect's predecessors feared him. He was born not just powerful, but… different."
Dokja's expression twisted in uncomfortable recollection, but before the mood could turn grim, Gunhee interjected with that usual confident nonchalance.
"Well, bygones be bygones," he said. "Let's focus on the now."
Dokja turned to Mi-cha, curious. "That girl—she yours?"
Gunhee beamed with pride. "Mi-cha. My Divine Prodigy."
"Wait," Dokja squinted. "Why is she holding hands with Muhan?"
Gunhee didn't even flinch. "They're dating."
"WHAT?!" Dokja looked between Han and Gunhee like he'd just walked in on a galactic scandal.
Han folded his arms. "It's a symbol. Jonjae and Pjeonjaeham, finally in harmony."
"But you two… hate each other."
Gunhee and Han's auras flared in tandem—gold and blue flooding the room with a thunderous pulse. The chandeliers swayed. Tea cups shattered.
"Got a problem with that?" they asked in chilling unison.
Dokja immediately sat down. "No problem! I ship it. Peace is good. Love wins."
Gunhee chuckled, then stood. "Well, Han, shall we?"
Han grinned, eyes narrowing. "Let's."
---
The Duel Begins
Outside, in the heart of the Avalon estate's sacred sparring grounds, a transparent cubic barrier shimmered into place—crafted by Dokja himself. The cube glowed with cosmic symbols along its edges, warding off dimensional bleed-through. In the stands, the kings, nobles, and elders sat up straight, their eyes wide.
Muhan leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"Last Galaxy to go," Han muttered, cracking his neck. "Let's hope I don't lose it like I lost that rare collector's sword in the Abyssal Bazaar."
With an imperceptible burst, Han vanished—reappearing in front of Gunhee with enough force to split molecules. Gunhee met him head-on, their collision echoing like war drums in a void.
"I can't see them anymore!" King Rousewell exclaimed, his eyes darting uselessly.
"I think I saw a kick… or maybe a bird?" muttered another elder.
In the stands, Mi-cha turned to Muhan. "You following this?"
Muhan, chewing on his candy stick, gave her a side glance. "Nope. Not even close."
Inside the barrier, Han activated his Ether skill—"Ether's Eyes." His pupils turned deep blue, like frozen time compressed into his gaze. Gunhee's movements slowed in his vision, allowing Han to counter every move with near godlike efficiency.
Gunhee grinned. "Clever boy."
Then his forehead shimmered—and a golden third eye opened.
"Third Eye." The System-awarded divine eye allowed Gunhee to perceive possibilities in split realities. The moment he activated it, Han's movements looked... pedestrian.
Gunhee's fist slammed into Han's gut, launching him skyward into the cubic ceiling. Han rebounded with grace, blue Ether wrapping around his arms as he summoned dual katanas—"Swift Strike"—and in a blink, he was behind Gunhee, the blunt edge of a katana slamming into his skull.
Gunhee hit the wall with a laugh. "Still love your flashiness."
Blades formed on Gunhee's hands—pure divine constructs. He slashed the air with "Cosmic Dimensional Slash," warping the fabric of reality as golden shockwaves exploded through the cubic dimension.
The cube trembled, and then—just as it seemed it might collapse—Han whispered:
"Shift."
The world twisted.
They vanished.
---
Within the Pocket Dimension
Floating in an endless sea of silver stars and swirling ether, Han and Gunhee reappeared. The void stretched endlessly, stars pulsing like the heartbeat of the multiverse.
"This place again," Gunhee said, his voice soft with memory. "You always liked the dramatic ones."
"I like pretty skies," Han replied.
Gunhee flared golden, his body radiant like a god reborn. "Show me what you've learned."
Han raised his arms. Gigantic fireballs formed overhead, each the size of moons, laced with streaks of white lightning. The cosmos vibrated with heat.
"–BREATHE–" he said, and the infernos launched.
Gunhee darted through them with elegance, each step leaving afterimages like golden ghosts. The fireballs exploded behind him, igniting fragments of stars.
Gunhee's hand drew back. Divine energy condensed into a lightning bow and arrow—shining like condensed eternity.
"–RELEASE–" he whispered.
The spear fired.
It moved faster than time. The moment it launched, the pocket dimension lost its color—everything turned grayscale, then white, as reality itself was rewritten around the bolt's path.
Han's Ether ignited, his figure glowing as he raised his katanas. A singular whisper left his lips.
"Come on, old friend."
The stage was set. The next moment would either end a legend—or forge a new one.