"Do you swear upon your honor and sacred title to defend the kingdom and its entirety from all threats of any shape or form, permit and encourage a flourishing economy, establish and maintain peaceful relationships with any potential allies, decimate all those that stand before you—that threaten your name and the prosperity of the kingdom as a whole..."

The Champion kept his gaze elsewhere, toward the distant horizon that indicated a midday presence. All around him, eager citizens stood. Before him, a formally-dressed man with an ancient tome in hand spoke, his words lost in a vacuum unbeknownst to him—and everybody else. Celebratory lanterns and strings were strewn across the top of the wooden podium, going from pole to pole.

"Milord?"

The Champion snapped awake, then cast his gaze forward. Dumbfounded, he examined his surroundings. People met his quick gaze in confused bouts. He was uneasy at how crazy he seemed to his audience, so he made quick amends.

"Continue," he told the man in front of him, who narrowed his eyes.

"I've just finished and await your decision, milord."

The Champion stared at the man absentmindedly, unsure of what he was talking about. Then, after another scan around him, he finally remembered what was unraveling: a coronation ceremony. He was becoming king. He just had to accept his duties, then have some grand show with a crown being put on his head. Him already falling asleep made it clear it was a very boring process.

"I accept everything that is and will be tasked for me to do," he decided. An uproar of praise erupted from the crowd. It was a good answer—expected maybe—but enough to win the audience's heart regardless.

"Then don the crown of a new era, one with your name printed right on it!" the man—who appeared to be a religious leader of some sort—exclaimed. Moments later, a guard in shiny armor handed over a crown of similar material to him after kneeling in respect. With a nod, the man with the large white and gold hat proceeded forward until stopping right before the Champion.

"I request that you take off your helmet, as that is tradition—"

"Upon my helmet will do," the Champion interrupted. He wouldn't kneel, anything that would put him at a disadvantage. He would always stand in full armor. It wasn't like he had a choice, anyway.

"You aren't on a battlefield, milord," the man argued. "Please kneel and accept this generous gift—"

"Out there in the wilderness, or here in civility, I am always on a battlefield." The Champion grabbed the crown out of the man's grasp, which sent a ripple of surprise through the crowd. "There shall always be enemies lurking in every corner. Enemies that wish to take my head and title alike. They may be fools asking for a merciless death, but they do it anyway for the sake of greed and ambition."

The Champion put the crown over his helmet, which barely managed to wrap around the top half. Any attempt to push it down further was impossible. It seemed stuck for whatever reason. He hoped he didn't look bad with a crown on. It wasn't the best hero look.

"You ruin the ceremony and all its traditions, take the crown like it's worth nothing." The man shook his head in disgust. "Bah! What else will come of you? Misery? Death? Misfortune to befall the kingdom into just rubble and chaos?" He spun around and left the podium with a pair of guards surrounding him for protection.

"Speak my name rightfully, or you will be executed under treason."

The man abruptly came to a halt, his guards exchanging puzzled glances. The audience was surely doing the same. This was not a typical ceremony. Then again, that's exactly what the Champion wanted: uniqueness. Power. His era would be completely different than those before him. It wouldn't even be in the same light, nor hiding in one big shadow the rest had fallen under.

He would have his own light. His new shadow. His new era.

"Milord, what is this rightful name you wish to be called?" the man asked, as he turned around and held his hands together respectfully.

It was a tough question. The Champion would not like a king's name. No, he liked his current name. Bland, generic, overused; hell, it was even the name he used before this moment. But it was truly his name. He was a champion—the Champion. He would never forget such truth, no matter how far he may stray from the path. It would always be there to bring him back to the light.

"I wish to be called the Champion," he declared, as murmurs rose from the crowd. The man raised an eyebrow and looked at his guards, like the new king had gone insane.

"Milord, kings are usually referred to as—"

"I decide what a king means or not. I decide my name and appearance. It's my decision!" the Champion snapped, raising a finger into the air. "Speak my name correctly. It only has to be once, and you may be forgiven."

Still with tensions between the two—the Champion wouldn't drop his accusing finger—the man scoffed. He didn't seem bothered by the threats.

"I will speak your true name once it has been revealed in proper fashion, milord."

The Champion's finger drifted to his side. He couldn't help but feel... mocked. Taunted. Disrespected. Not even as a mere commander—it was all toward a king. The King. King Oderian... no, no. That wasn't his name any longer, nor would it be now. He had to accept that as reality, especially with everything becoming so strange all around him.

Days after the disappearance of the former King Jarunx, chaos settled in. Fingers were pointed. Targets were victimized into having bloody faces and broken noses. It was exactly like the situation before the civil war the kingdom had only months ago—which felt like years; however, that situation was bound to cause yet another similar anarchy. More countless lives lost. Numerous cities in flames. And it would all be pointless.

The saving grace was the discovery of Jarunx's will. In it lay his final words. He had no children. Not even a wife to bear a son. His name would be forgotten, his bloodline was finished.

Yet in the midst of it all, he had named the Champion his heir. To become the next king after him. The sudden trust was not an act of appreciation or faith—it was desperation. The Champion was chosen for reasons he still didn't understand, but he could assume he was the best candidate for such a high and mighty position. Maybe he was the only one capable of keeping the kingdom unified.

"My name is the Champion," he announced boldly, slamming a fist against his thrusting chestplate. "A commander, champion, hero, king—they're all the same. They all mean one thing: order. Stability." He lowered his fist and pointed a finger ahead at his challenger. "There will be no room for a traitor like yourself. No, they will all be eradicated. This kingdom—"

"You live and are about to lead this kingdom!" the man cried in a panicking state. "It's called Might! At least get that—"

"No, I'm afraid Might is no more."

The man gazed at the Champion with confused eyes, not bothering to wipe the sweat drizzling down his face.

"How could... it be no more? You... can't be serious?"

"Might is a mistake of the past," the Champion replied, then clenched his fist in front of his dipped visor. "An era of failures and regrets. True cowards were put in charge with no idea of what to do, say, even think!" He snapped his focus onto the man, who startled into dropping the tome onto the ground. "Might has no purpose any longer. Its name is forbidden for any tongue to even contain. For any mind to even recall. It will be forgotten."

"Then... what's... the new name?" the man sputtered, unsure of how to respond. Everything was going against tradition. It was exactly what the Champion wanted from the start.

"The new name of this flourishing kingdom is quite simple," he remarked, then turned around to face the crowd. "Would anybody care to guess it? Do so and you get this sorry man's position. Just like that—"

In an instant, names were shouted:

"Strength!"

"Cunning!"

"Charming!"

"Might!"

The Champion sighed as the names kept coming. He had lost hope after hearing the first one. Might, strength, cunning, charming—these were all characteristics of a human. At least what they dreamt of possessing.

"You're all wrong, it seems," the Champion decided, and faced the man behind him with a smile on his face. "Would you like to take a guess?"

"Uh... uh..."

"If it meant your career? Life, even?" The Champion's smile turned venomous. He was prepared for a show. It would be the first traitor given proper treatment. And there would be plenty more to come.

"The... the..."

"Speak up," the Champion interjected, as he watched a man in his most sorry state: pure, utmost panic. Desperation. With their career and life on the line, humans didn't know what to do. Anything to save their sorry hides would suffice. Bribery, sacrifice of another... anything that didn't involve them losing much, if not a single thing.

"The Realm?" the man guessed. He shut his eyes, embracing for impact. A death blow there and then. He was that confident in himself. Sad.

"Under this new name, the Realm will rise and rise to the very top. Nothing will stop us," the Champion announced, after turning toward the silent, listening crowd. They were absorbed in the performance. "We will win every battle there is to win. All in the name of Good, whose existence is ours truly. We must cherish it and ensure its survival."

As silence became clapping, with the man behind him fleeing out of sight, out of mind, the Champion once again smiled daggers. His clenched fists remained at his side, one hungrier than the other. There would never be a time when his right gauntlet didn't want blood. But now, even his left yearned for such a taste. It was practically irresistible at this point.

"For that, all traitors will be vanquished in the blink of an eye."

The crowd went dead silent at the last statement, many of whom looked at each other out of pure fright. Or rather, paranoia.

They would soon realize they were all traitors. It would just take time for them to adapt to such a reality.

Or at least before it was too late.