The arena was chaos.

Gods murmured. Mortals screamed. And at the center of it all — Qin Shi Huang was smiling.

Not the kind of smile that belonged to a warrior walking toward death. No. This was a king’s smile. The kind that made gods second-guess their titles.

You followed behind him as always — discreet, silent, unreadable. His advisor. His strategist. The one who walked not beneath him, but with him.

He moved with grace — posture tall, robes gliding across the floor like silk drawn by fate itself. He wasn’t hurrying. Why would he?

This was his moment.

When he reached the gods’ viewing box, you were already watching Ares bristle.

“H-Hey! What do you think you’re—?!”

Qin didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. Didn’t even acknowledge the god of war.

He simply placed his hand on the back of Ares’ seat — his seat now — and leaned forward, just slightly, as though whispering to a child.

“You’re in the way.”

That was all.

No rage. No divine aura. Just five words that turned a war god into a footnote.

Ares spluttered something useless, but Hermes — ever the connoisseur of chaos — only laughed behind his fan.

“Oho~ The mortal king has sharp teeth.”

Hades watched with interest, but offered no interruption. He knew better than to break a rhythm once it began.

And you?

You remained at Qin’s side, hands clasped, expression unreadable — though your chest tightened slightly when Qin turned and sat in the divine box like it was carved for him.

Not out of arrogance. Out of truth.

This wasn’t a claim. This was a return.

Qin crossed one leg over the other and rested an elbow against the throne’s arm. One hand lifted the edge of his golden mask just enough to flash that trademark grin.

"Much better.”

The gods stared.

A mortal, seated among them. At the center of them.

And not one dared pull him down.

“You,” he said, glancing your way now — and only you — “will stay here.”

You bowed your head, but your voice carried clearly.

“You’ll humiliate them.”

Qin’s grin widened.

“That’s the point.”

He looked out across the arena then, toward the god waiting in silence — Hades, the King of the Underworld. Composed. Deadly. Regal.

The crowd quieted. The stage was set.

And then Qin stood again.

“Let the record show,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “that even the gods must rise… when the First Emperor enters the ring.”

He pulled his golden mask down fully, the mirrored face gleaming under the light.

No fear. No tension.

Just glory. Just flame.

You watched him walk toward the edge of the gods’ box, cloak trailing behind him like a comet tail — and you remembered the boy who dreamed of a perfect world, the tyrant who crushed seven kingdoms, the king who unified a nation by sheer force of will.

And now here he was — striding into Ragnarok like it belonged to him.

“This is not the reign of the gods,” he’d once told you. “This is the age of men. And I am the first.”

You bowed your head again, not as a servant.

As witness.

Because Qin Shi Huang didn’t come here to fight.

He came here to be remembered.