Tyler first left the restroom.

When Tansy and Rose stepped out of the restroom, both looked outwardly unchanged at first glance, but Tyler immediately noticed the difference.

Each now wore an additional necklace.

They were simple enough not to attract immediate attention— thin metallic chains resting lightly against their necks, blending naturally with the clothing the Capital had assigned them earlier. To anyone else, they looked like ordinary decorative accessories, perhaps something taken from the Lounge or given by attendants.

Only Tyler knew the necklaces were not decoration at all.

"They learned to control nanabots easily." He smiled.

The hidden nanobot reserve inside them gave both sisters one more layer of protection. Not enough to openly fight the Capital, but enough to create a weapon, shield, or emergency tool if the next game turned worse than expected.

As the two returned toward Sector 11’s section of the Lounge, Tyler’s attention shifted elsewhere.

He had already begun quietly observing the remaining participants one by one, matching faces to numbers and numbers to sectors.

One group near the opposite side stood out immediately.

Their posture was different.

Even after surviving the first game, they did not carry the same visible relief as most others. Their clothing remained cleaner, their expressions sharper, and even the way they looked at the room felt less like survivors and more like people measuring inferiors.

Tyler focused on their badges.

1. 2. 4. 5.

One number missing.

That meant only one of their original five had died.

Given the numbering system, Tyler understood immediately.

Sector 1.

Kennedy noticed where he was looking.

"They’re from Sector 1," he said while wiping blood near the treated side of his head. "You’ve heard of Sector 1 people, right?"

Tyler shook his head once.

Kennedy stared at him.

"Seriously... which sector are you actually from?" he muttered.

Before Tyler answered, Tansy spoke instead.

"Sector 1 is rumored to be where people closest to the Capital live. Long ago, they were originally Capital citizens who got thrown out."

Her tone remained quiet, but serious.

"They still believe they belong here more than anyone else. That’s why they look down on every other sector."

Rose folded her arms and looked toward them openly.

"Sector 1 always stares at everyone like they’re deciding who to eat first."

Victor, still holding what remained of his strawberry cake, added timidly:

"Miss Aruna said Sector 1 usually has the highest survival rate in the Games. But this time... somehow all five of us survived."

He glanced toward the other side nervously.

"So maybe they’re angry because Sector 11 got attention first."

That possibility made sense.

Sector 11 had become noticeable precisely because no one had died yet.

And inside a place like this, attention itself could become hostility.

Tyler continued observing the Sector 1 group.

Their faces revealed little, but their eyes had already noticed Sector 11 more than once.

Then suddenly the Lounge changed.

A low mechanical vibration moved through the floor.

Several participants immediately turned toward the walls.

"What now?"

"Did the next game start already?"

"It’s too early..."

Murmurs spread quickly through the room.

The walls at the far side of the Lounge slowly separated, splitting apart with smooth mechanical precision.

Something massive began approaching from beyond.

A giant flying platform emerged slowly into view.

The entire structure shone gold.

Its lower engines burned with controlled golden fire, even the thrusters designed to produce flame that looked ceremonial rather than practical. The platform floated inward with deliberate grandeur, large enough that every survivor in the Lounge instinctively stepped back or straightened posture without being told.

The Capital clearly understood spectacle.

But what stood upon the platform drew attention even faster.

Several naked young women stood across it in fixed decorative positions, their bodies painted entirely gold so thoroughly that from a distance they almost resembled living sculptures rather than people. Some stood motionless beside pillars like ornamental statues. Some held trays like decorative servants. Others bent into stylized poses supporting golden dishes placed carefully across their backs as though they themselves were furniture in a moving palace.

If Tansy and Rose didn’t get selected, they might have also turned into decorative items.

Nothing on the platform existed without design.

And at the center, seated with complete ease, was the one person everyone immediately recognized.

A man whose skin itself gleamed gold under the lights.

Not merely painted.

His body carried the metallic shine naturally enough to look unnatural even within the Capital.

He wore little beyond a golden fur-lined coat draped loosely over broad shoulders, a crown resting above neatly styled hair, and minimal lower clothing that still matched the same blinding theme of excess. His body was sculpted visibly, every muscle displayed without modesty, as though strength itself had become part of official presentation.

He lifted a golden glass, took a slow sip, and then rested one leg casually upon the back of one of the painted women near him as though using a chair extension.

His expression remained bored.

As if all of this existed beneath his attention.

Then a voice thundered through the Lounge.

Amplified, ceremonial, absolute.

"By the grace of our First Citizen, the Apex, the President, and the one and only King of Libria—the nation of one Capital and fifteen sectors—John Pmurt Dlanod—"

The reaction was immediate.

Every participant bowed.

Even those who hesitated half a second quickly lowered themselves when they saw others doing the same.

Across the Capital, across the sectors, across every home and public screen where the broadcast continued, people watching also bowed by instinct or fear.

Inside Sector squares, workers lowered heads.

Inside Capital homes, children copied their parents.

Because whether willingly or not, everyone understood the same truth—

The man now floating before them was not merely ruler.

He was the center around which the entire nation had been forced to revolve.

---

King John Pmurt Dlanod did not even bother standing.

He remained seated on the floating golden platform as though the act of rising for anyone beneath him would already be an unnecessary generosity. One leg still rested across the back of the gold-painted woman serving as part of his seat arrangement, while the golden glass remained loosely held between two fingers. Even his posture carried the kind of arrogance that no longer needed performance because everyone around him had already been trained to accept it as natural.

After a moment, he lifted one hand lazily and made a small waving gesture.

It was enough.

The voice system stopped repeating titles.

The room remained bowed.

Only then did some participants slowly dare to lift their heads again.

Tyler did the same, but his attention moved immediately to the giant broadcast screens mounted across the Lounge walls. The King’s face appeared there in close detail, every line of his unnatural body magnified clearly enough that Tyler could study what interested him most, King’s skin.

Tyler narrowed his eyes slightly.

Golden Genes...

He had heard of such things before.

In Libria, advanced biological modifications existed beyond medicine. Healing injections like bronze and silver med were only one part of what the Capital controlled. There were also gene-grade enhancements— rare substances that altered the human body permanently. Some improved healing. Some slowed aging. Some corrected defects.

And above them all were what people called Supreme Genes.

They were not merely treatments.

They rebuilt the body itself.

Perfect skin.

Perfect muscle density.

Extended lifespan.

Disease resistance.

Enhanced regeneration.

And in the entire country, only one person officially possessed the highest known grade.

Golden Gene.

The symbol the Capital reserved entirely for the throne.

Meanwhile, the King slowly moved his gaze across the gathered participants below, his expression carrying obvious boredom even before he spoke.

His voice spread through the Lounge with smooth amplified authority.

"People beneath me..."

The words alone made several participants lower their heads further.

Then he continued.

"Time moves in cycles. Sunrise arrives, then sunset follows. Seasons change. Trees flourish, then trees wither."

His tone remained calm, almost philosophical, though every word carried the weight of someone convinced that speaking itself was an act of generosity.

"Life also has its regular patterns. There is birth."

He lifted the glass again.

"And naturally... there is death."

A pause followed.

The King looked down over them without warmth.

"Birth and death are normal occurrences in this world."

He tilted his head slightly.

"So what exactly is there to worry about?"

Tyler’s expression remained still, but inwardly his thoughts sharpened.

What exactly is this man trying to say?

The words sounded like philosophy forced through arrogance without care for whether anyone below understood or not.

The King drank again.

Then gave the answer himself.

"The fact that you can eat delicious food, drink properly, and experience the Capital at all is already a great gift granted by me."

His voice sharpened slightly there.

"So be grateful."

Tyler’s eyelids twitched once.

For one brief second, he genuinely felt that this man belonged to the cultivation worlds he had once known. He talks like those arrogant young masters.

The King continued.

"Try to entertain me."

His gaze drifted lazily across them.

"Try to excite me."

Then with complete indifference:

"Try to make me feel... not bored."

The final word stretched slightly.

And then, without warning, he simply closed his eyes.

Silence fell instantly.

The platform remained floating.

The women painted gold did not move.

The attendants remained frozen.

For several long seconds, no one understood whether he had finished speaking.

Then the sound came.

A soft snore.

Then another.

The King had fallen asleep.

Directly in front of them.

Still seated on the throne-like arrangement, still leaning slightly to one side, still holding his glass while breathing with quiet sleeping rhythm.

No one in the Lounge moved.

No one dared react.

Because even absurdity under power remained dangerous.

The silence deepened until it became uncomfortable.

Then someone broke it.

A young participant near the middle of the room let out a laugh.

It was probably nervousness more than mockery, but because the entire Lounge had gone completely still, that single laugh sounded far louder than intended.

Every head turned instantly. Even Tyler looked. The participant realized too late what he had done.

The King’s eyes opened. His gaze shifted toward the source of the sound.

Cold. Uninterested. No anger visible.

That somehow made it worse. Then several drones descended without warning, their weapons were already active.

The participant barely raised both hands before the shots fired.

The impact struck instantly.

Several bursts hit chest and neck with surgical precision. The body collapsed before the scream fully formed. Blood spread across the polished floor. The drones withdrew just as quickly as they had appeared.

Silence returned even harder than before. No one moved toward the body. No one spoke.

Because now everyone understood again what the Capital never allowed them to forget—

Even outside the game, elimination could happen at any second.