Thorne sat crookedly on the throne of Slamtown.

  It wasn’t a noble posture. His legs were kicked over one armrest, one hand rested under his chin, the other idly twirling his signature spear like it was a walking stick. The seat itself, gilded with decades of tradition and sweat, groaned under the weight of someone who clearly had no interest in reverence. Around him stood the city’s officials, tournament sponsors, and fanfare attendants—most of whom wore expressions somewhere between awe, confusion, and sheer existential exhaustion.

  Beneath him, piled like a dragon’s hoard, was his reward. Towers of glittering gold, gems the size of fists, and several rare enchanted artifacts gleaming on a velvet-draped table. Swords that whispered to their wielder. A pendant said to grant wisdom with a touch. A ring rumored to turn willpower into flame.

  Thorne took one glance at the entire collection and said, “Nah.”

  Gasps echoed like stage cues. One court scribe dropped his feathered pen. A nobleman audibly choked on his imported pear nectar.

  "You... you don't want any of them?" the head magistrate asked, blinking behind his spectacles.

  Thorne stretched. “Nah, I already got everything I need.” He patted the spear he had used since the day he was dropped into this world. “Wouldn’t wanna betray ol’ Sparky here.”

  At that exact moment, the outer gates to the colosseum swung open—dusty and dramatic—and in stormed the rest of the group.

  Alaric, holding his sword and looking incredibly annoyed.

  Renna, dragging a stunned lesser demon corpse behind her.

  Lys, covered in scorch marks but grinning like he’d just survived a summer fair ride.

  Cael, looking deeply paranoid, spinning in place to check if the demon army was really gone.

  Behind them followed several former contestants—Ironbelly the Unmoving, still sipping from a tankard mid-step. Anya riding atop her spectral gorilla Jello. Juno and Ravael both exchanged a silent nod.

  They arrived just in time to see Thorne lounging on the throne, gold at his feet, confetti in the air, and a group of cheerleaders finishing their “THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!” chant on the sidelines.

  Renna squinted. “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “He won already?!” Lys shouted.

  Alaric threw up his hands. “We fought an entire demon legion and missed the good part?!”

  “I knew it,” Cael muttered. “The moment we left, reality just gave up and handed him the win.”

  The head magistrate cleared his throat once more. “Ahem. By the power vested in me by the Slamtown Tournament Committee, I hereby grant you, Thorne of Nowhere, the title of 23rd Champion of Slamtown!”

  The crowd—now mostly recovered from the earlier shock—burst into wild applause.

  Thorne, finally sitting upright, raised a lazy hand to wave at his friends. "Hey, you guys made it!"

  “Don’t 'hey' us,” Alaric called out.

  And thus, the 23rd Champion of Slamtown was crowned with a lopsided grin, sore muscles, and a refusal to follow any rule that told him what a champion should be.

  The celebration was still roaring when a quiet cough interrupted the chaos.

  From the side of the throne room, still brushing dust off his long coat and adjusting his cracked hat, Gentleman Hexer approached, his cane tapping neatly against the marble floor.

  He tipped his hat toward Thorne with a smirk. “Congratulations. As Slamtown’s 23rd Champion, you are now an official dignitary of the city. With voting rights, tax exemptions, quarterly banquets, and a lovely pile of paperwork that I’m delighted to no longer deal with.”

  Thorne's smile froze.

  "...Wait. What."

  The crowd paused, sensing the sudden static in the air.

  “Yes," Gentleman Hexer continued smoothly. "You're officially a city official now. Meetings every Thursday. Policy reviews. Oh, and you’ll be required to sit on the tournament committee for the next decade. It's... quite the commitment."

  Thorne stared at him like he’d been handed a live eel.

  The magistrate was already stepping forward with a large scroll, neatly tied with a crimson ribbon. “If you could just sign here, here, and initial here—”

  "Nope." Thorne said, standing up so fast the throne wobbled behind him.

  He grabbed the stupid heavy champion's crown—golden, stupidly shiny, still warm from his own head—and shoved it squarely onto Gentleman Hexer’s confused skull.

  “YOU'RE the champion again!” Thorne barked. “Congratulations, buddy!”

  Before anyone could process what just happened, Thorne leapt off the dais.

  "WAIT, THAT’S NOT—" the head magistrate tried to object, papers flying from his arms.

  Too late. Thorne had already grabbed Alaric, Renna, Lys, and Cael by their sleeves and dragged them toward the exit.

  “GO GO GO!” Thorne shouted.

  “WHAT’S HAPPENING?!” Lys cried, nearly tripping over the hem of his coat.

  “I knew it,” Cael muttered, yanking up his hood as he sprinted. “I knew he’d break something official.”

  Alaric, jogging alongside, glanced back at the throne. Gentleman Hexer was still standing there, the crown slightly tilted on his head, a long-suffering expression on his face.

  “Is he gonna be okay?” Alaric asked.

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  “HE’S FINE!” Thorne hollered.

  Behind them, the officials were shouting, townspeople were shrieking, and the confetti cannons—still programmed for the champion—were going off randomly, shooting gold streamers into the chaos.

  As they raced out of the palace, Renna laughed breathlessly. "This is the most Thorne thing that could’ve happened."

  The five of them were still sprinting down the grand marble steps of the palace when Cael, between gulps of breath, muttered, “Okay but like—why does every colosseum in fantasy stories run on slave labor?”

  Lys, wheezing slightly, chimed in. “Yeah! Like, there’s always some tragic gladiator subplot. You know—'We have to free the warriors!' or 'This place is built on blood!'"

  Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, I was half-expecting Thorne to punch a wall and discover a secret prison full of chained fighters by now.”

  Thorne, still leading the charge, scoffed. “What? No way. If this place had that, I would’ve smelled the angst. You can always smell tragic backstories.”

  “I thought that was just you smelling yourself,” Renna said.

  Then—tap tap tap—a familiar cane clicked onto the cobblestones behind them.

  “Speaking of tragic backstories...” Cael muttered, turning his head.

  Gentleman Hexer appeared out of nowhere, somehow jogging elegantly alongside them, coat fluttering, top hat perfectly steady, monocle glinting in the sun. He looked like a man in a tea commercial, not someone mid-sprint.

  He joined their formation as if he’d been there the whole time. “Ah yes, the old 'liberate the colosseum slaves' narrative. A classic. Dare I say... overdone?”

  Everyone blinked at him.

  “Wait—why are you here?” Thorne asked.

  “You made me champion again,” Gentleman Hexer said with a shrug. “Figured I might as well commit. Besides, I enjoy light cardio.”

  “…You were champion before?” Lys asked.

  “For ten years,” Hexer replied with a polite nod. “And before you ask, no—there were no slaves under my watch. I rather despised the tradition. Took me half a decade and a regrettable duel with the Slamtown Tax Minister, but I turned this place into a free-fighter zone.”

  Alaric blinked. “So... all the combatants chose to fight?”

  “Indeed,” Hexer said, looking quite proud. “Benefits, housing, dental.”

  Cael raised an eyebrow. “...Dental?”

  “Well, magical teeth don’t fix themselves,” Hexer said. “One of the previous champions bit an elemental once. Not pretty.”

  Thorne grinned. “So you were just waiting for a bunch of heroes to barge in and do the ‘liberation’ thing?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Hexer said, laughing. “Would’ve been hilarious watching you all dramatically tear down the walls only to find everyone inside playing poker.”

  Renna said. “That would have been awkward.”

  As their chaotic parade barreled toward the city gates, Gentleman Hexer gradually slowed his steps—just enough to keep a dignified pace while the others kept charging ahead like a pack of unhinged adventurers fresh off a side quest.

  “Wait,” he called out lightly, his voice somehow carrying even through the wind and clatter of boots. “One last thing, before you all gallop off into destiny or doom or whatever your afternoon plans are.”

  The group skidded to a semi-halt in an uncoordinated mess of limbs, dust, and overlapping voices.

  “Are we about to get a cryptic riddle?” Lys asked.

  “Another title?” Cael groaned.

  “A badge?” Renna guessed.

  “A cheese wheel,” Alaric said with a little too much hope.

  Hexer simply pulled something from inside his coattails with a flourish. A thin, rectangular object wrapped in an aged velvet cloth, bound with a deep red ribbon.

  He held it out to Thorne.

  “For you,” he said, eyes twinkling behind his monocle. “A parting gift. Use it well.”

  Thorne blinked, clearly bracing for a magical artifact, a cursed heirloom, or possibly something that exploded.

  He unwrapped it.

  It was... a deck of cards. Ornate, old-fashioned, but very much a regular poker deck.

  Thorne squinted. “Is this... a joke?”

  “Absolutely not,” Gentleman Hexer said, genuinely. “A proper deck. The perfect thing for unwinding with friends, or bluffing your way out of a dungeon tax audit.”

  Lys leaned in. “...Are these cards enchanted?”

  “No. Just well balanced,” Hexer replied with mock offense.

  Thorne stared at it, then smirked and tucked the deck into his coat. “I’ll win every round.”

  “You won’t,” Cael muttered.

  “We’ll see,” Thorne said, already imagining himself tossing lightning-charged cards across a battlefield.

  With that, Gentleman Hexer gave them all a small bow. “Safe travels, champions. And remember—some rules are just waiting for the right scoundrel to rewrite them.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Thorne said with a grin. “Catch you at the next absurd tournament.”

  And with that, they bolted through the city gates—past bewildered guards, wagons, pigeons, and one oddly placed taco stand—leaving behind the towers of Slamtown and whatever titles it tried to hand them.

  The gang didn’t slow down. They never slowed down.

  Down the cobbled road they ran, boots pounding like war drums, until Lys shouted, “Wagon at six o’clock!”—even though it was very clearly in front of them.

  A rickety wooden horse-drawn wagon was just starting to roll out of the city gates. The old driver, a scrawny man with a massive straw hat and the startled eyes of someone who’d never expected to be part of an adventure, had barely begun to whistle when—

  THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

  One by one, they vaulted aboard the wagon like over-caffeinated gymnasts.

  Renna flipped in and nearly kicked over a crate labeled “Extremely Fragile Turnips.”

  Cael missed the edge and rolled in like a sack of potatoes.

  Alaric landed gracefully, immediately found a snack.

  Lys did a mid-air twirl and stuck the landing, raising both hands like a champion figure skater.

  Thorne, last, made a running leap, and with one fluid motion, tossed a heavy bag of gold straight onto the driver’s lap. It landed with a thud that rattled the driver’s bones.

  The man blinked. “W-Where in the bright crust of the Nine-Horned Hills do y’all think you’re going!?”

  Thorne grinned, hands on hips, cloak flapping in the wind. “Konue. Full speed. We’re not picky on how many wheels we lose on the way.”

  The driver opened the bag.

  Gold.

  So. Much. Gold.

  His hands trembled. His eyes watered. His back pain temporarily disappeared. A single coin had already paid off his mortgage. The rest? He wasn’t even sure if it was legal to possess that much currency without declaring yourself a minor noble.

  He cleared his throat. “...Konue it is.”

  He cracked the reins like a man possessed, the horses immediately panicking at the newfound pressure to meet the expectations of gold-level service. The wagon lurched forward at a speed that strongly suggested the wheels had never gone this fast in their entire existence.

  “THAT’S THE SPIRIT!” Thorne shouted, climbing to the roof of the wagon like a wind-borne demigod. “TO KONUE, CITY OF—wait, what is Konue known for again?”

  “High taxes and pickled goose!” Alaric yelled from the turnip crate.

  “Well then!” Thorne roared. “TO HIGH TAXES AND GOOSE!”

  And off they went.

  A rogue wagon barreling toward a new chapter, driven by a man who had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, carrying heroes who’d just saved a city, denied a throne, and were now, somehow, fighting for legroom on sacks of pickled produce.