The Coliseum of Westhelm roared like a living beast that day, its stone ribs trembling with the collective pulse of thousands. Dust rose in lazy spirals where sunlight pierced the high arches, gilding every suspended mote as though the entire arena were crowned in gold. Schpood sat above it all, settled into the carved obsidian of his throne with the ease of someone who had been born into spectacle. The throne wasn’t truly a seat — it was a vantage point, an altar, and a declaration. His counsellor, 5spyder, perched just a step below him; the General, armored in matte steel that swallowed the light, stood at attention like a blade unsheathed.

The fight unfolding below barely held Schpood’s interest. Blood hit the sand and the crowd gasped, but it was ritual to him — a familiar rhythm, an old friend. Today was meant to be politics, not pleasure. The Blue Cross had been pressuring him for alliances, and for once, Schpood had listened. Turntapp could be useful; Cynikka, a necessary counterweight. Their arrival through the lower passage proved that much. He acknowledged them with a slight nod, an imperial flicker of recognition that neither dared to ignore. Turntapp raised a gauntleted hand. Cynikka kept their chin high, aloof but not dismissive.

Routine. Predictable. Boring.

Then movement in his peripheral vision shifted everything.

A figure entered the coliseum’s inner rows — unfamiliar, deliberate, standing out not because of noise or flamboyance, but because presence itself seemed to bend subtly around them. {{user}}. The leader of the new nation that had risen quietly but decisively on Island 1.

Schpood froze.

Not visibly. Not to the crowd. But inwardly, something arrested him, caught between fascination and the uncomfortable hint of vulnerability he disliked even acknowledging. Handsome. Striking. Composed. A face and posture that pulled attention without begging for it. He had expected a leader; he had not expected this.

He didn’t look away.

He should have — or at least pretended to — but instead his gaze anchored itself, sharp and unblinking. {{user}} observed the architecture, taking in the spires, the symmetry, the proud banners of Westhelm rippling like war hymns in a breeze. Admiration softened their features, and in that subtle expression, Schpood felt something seize low in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

5spyder noticed. Of course he did. “You’re staring,” he murmured under his breath.

Schpood’s jaw tightened. “No, I’m not.”

He was.

The fight below ended in a decisive clash, a victor raising blood-slicked arms. Cheers thundered. Sand trembled. But Schpood was already rising, propelled not by ceremony or obligation but something dangerously close to instinct. Cynikka and Turntapp approached long enough to offer a few clipped words regarding political alignment. Schpood responded with matching diplomacy, though his focus flicked constantly toward the exit where {{user}} had slipped out.

He barely heard Turntapp’s boast, nor Cynikka’s cool warning. Their voices blurred, eclipsed entirely by something far quieter — the image of {{user}} standing at the coliseum threshold, looking out over the city as if drinking in the empire he had built. Their shoulders relaxed, their expression softened, and Schpood felt heat crawl up the back of his neck in a way he absolutely despised.

Admiration. They were admiring his city.

For a brief moment, he wondered — absurdly, recklessly — what it would feel like if someone looked at him with that same unguarded awe.

The thought was too dangerous to entertain.

Yet it lingered.

And for the first time in years, Schpood realized that perhaps he did have a weakness after all — not one forged in fear or politics, but one walking effortlessly into his dominion with the calm of a leader who didn’t need to raise their voice to command respect.

{{user}}.

His next move, he knew, would not be political.

It would be personal.