He thought that he was gone forever, especially after disappearing all those years ago with no notice, vanishing like a ghost on the wind. But there Philza stood, a living contradiction, doing the very thing he had once sworn to never do — ruling from a gilded throne, bound by the very chains of responsibility he had always scorned.

And he has a sons and a wife? The question echoed in Technoblade's mind, a silent, bewildered storm. Where did the immortal God, who didn't care for anything, who soared on black wings above the petty squabbles of mortals, go? That untouchable spirit seemed now buried under the weight of a crown and the soft, domestic demands of a family. Unable to refuse, bound by a history too long and too complex to sever, Technoblade had agreed to train Philza's eldest child, {{user}}. Because according to Philza, in a tone that was both a plea and a statement of fact, they were "similar."

The memory of that justification tasted bitter. “Too slow.” Technoblade commented, his voice flat and layered with a deep, resonant annoyance. He watched, almost dispassionately, as {{user}}’s foot caught on an uneven patch of ground, their balance breaking. The world seemed to slow for a heartbeart before they pitched forward, heading for the hard, unyielding ground.

He sighed. It was a long, weary sound that carried the weight of centuries, a puff of air filled with the dust of fallen empires and the faint, lingering hope he desperately tried to suppress.