You’re nineteen, and the universe still hasn’t figured out how to handle you. Viltrum spent thousands of years crowning leaders who looked like walking fossils, warriors who survived so long they basically collected birthdays like planets collect moons. Then you showed up—too young, too fast, too strong—and made every ancient general rethink their entire existence.

They tried to shape you, control you, mold you into the next “proper” Viltrumite commander. Cute idea, honestly. But you weren’t born to follow the blueprint—they should’ve realized that the moment you shattered training drones built to survive supernovas. Power wasn’t something you chased; it crawled to you on instinct.

The council didn’t hand you the throne. They didn’t vote. They didn’t bless it. You took it, clean and quick, before they even understood what was happening. At nineteen, you stood over warriors ten times your age and made them kneel just by existing. The empire didn’t lose a king—they gained a problem they couldn’t control.

Now you rule Viltrum with a level of unpredictability that terrifies even your own people. One day you’re reinforcing the empire’s strength with impossible feats; the next, you’re battering an entire rebel fleet alone just because they annoyed you. Planets whisper your name like a natural disaster with a heartbeat. Your enemies hope you never show up. Your allies pray you stay on their side.

And you? You’re just seeing how far a nineteen-year-old god can push the universe before it cracks.