In-game. Suchi.

As always, the sky above this arid region was a crisp, cloudless blue. However, if a happy little fluffball were by some miracle to be painted on the heavens this morning, oh, what exciting changes it might've marvelled at, the land beneath astir after The Tyrant’s delightful announcement.

Look at all the new Offworlder friends! So many fresh faces puffed up with hope!

Instantly, the Offworlder population had quintupled. Millions of fans who’d blown into Heimland for the Winter Tournament, not wanting to wait for a boat ride and being promised assistance by Mayonnaise for re-levelling, had committed hara-kloudy and respawned directly in Suchi. What’s more, adding to the swelling numbers, the publicity of The Tyrant’s exposure and public challenge had caused approximately three-quarters of the 1.6 million new Offworlders who teleported to Saana each day to choose this Starting Zone. At the current rate, almost ten million new friends were forecast to appear before the tournament’s scheduled start. That was in addition to the millions of existing fans respawning and travelling. That's a cirr-i-us number of humans!

And almost all of these nimbus newcomers, inspired by last night’s epic duel with the storms and thunder, were keen to accept The Tyrant’s all-event invitation. They would definitely be signing up for a few tournaments themselves. Veterans and amateurs alike were pumping with gust-o to test their capabilities in the arena, to get beaten up before the whole world by history’s greatest commander-turned-duellist. And who knew? Maybe they'd be the lucky individual who wiped the composure off The Tyrant’s contemptuous face by smashing his mouth with a hammer. Hahahaha!

Clouds floating over other regions might've been in downcast spirits, weeping as this sudden deluge of migrants devastated the local friends they'd made, as the growing mass of bodies clogged the roads, as the mass of mouths ate every storehouse empty. But, here, there would be no tears, this eternally-bright land adapted to host any number of newcomers. That majestic city in Suchi's centre, where the cloud-summoning priests and the shapers of wet-clay dwelled, it simply locked its gates. Well...that's a little mean, the kind of chilly reception you'd expect from one of those pompous, higher-than-thou noctilucents. But no problem! The Slums, her arms already wide open to millions of refugees, had ample room to welcome more. The savannah along which she spread provided infinite space to plonk down a shack or a tent, to settle a shanty town with friends and family. Or, if a human were extra thrifty, they could just draw a square in the blood-red dirt and call it their own; with the perpetual heat and lack of natural rainfall, one could lie in the open day or night naked if they weren’t fussed about the monster packs. Careful, humans, the hyenas are hungry for toes! Nip! Nip!

And what's this nebulous affair over here? That's different. Who are all these mysterious ants in ash-grey uniforms speeding about? Who are these Merchants buying out all the supplies in The Slums and imposing temporary rationing? Who are these Landworkers blocking access to mines and forests? Who are these Waterworkers sailing out on the harbour to monitor the coastal fisheries? Who are these Farmers sowing fields along the West Bank Autonomous Exclave and out on the savannah with what appear to be the specialised dry-soil techniques of the Sky-people?

Oh—blow me to the stratosphere—it's our militant amigos, The Company! It seems they've been spurred into action by Mayonnaise’s new command, taking control of the region to prepare for the migrants and the tournament ahead. How smart. A cloud supposed this stingy land would need to be whipped into wetter shape to nurture the millions of competitors into battle-ready condition if they were to take down Mayo's retiring best-pal in a week. As for the inevitable shortfalls, an excited flock of cirrocumuli over Chayoka have been signalling that The Company's fleet in the neighbouring island kingdom was being loaded with exports to make up for the deficit - also very smart.

Oooh, and over there, on The Slum's northern edge, next to the stadium so big it almost has its own weather-system, those appear to be The Company's civil planners plotting out a whole new city to house the migrants, who wouldn't have to worry about getting eaten on the savannah anymore. Seems they'll be keeping their toes - that is, whichever ones aren't chopped off in the arena (OUCH!)! And, happy-snap days, The Company have been joined by both The Empire, advising with the knowledge in rapid construction from their frequent community events, and The Church, presiding to ensure building regulations were adhered to. A surprising union! Maybe bloodying each other up in the arena was just what they needed to resolve the tension between them - how wonderful. Guess it's really true what they say, sometimes the best fix for stormy pals is to shed a bit of interior moisture through a friendly squall-ble.

And the original section of The Slums, they're also getting a pretty little makeover! Whoever's taken over management after Ramiro’s outing for child cannibalism seems to have big plans! Some of those nasty shacks were being cleared to create more efficient thoroughfares, and some of the funds previously pocketed by the corrupt leadership were being reallocated to infrastructure projects and police to patrol for the serial killers hoping to ac-cumuli-ate bodies during the chaos. Very nice.

What did our local friends have to say about this, emerging from their shacks to witness fortune's changing winds?

Flying low to eavesdrop on their whispers, you can hear them dismissing the news about The Saviour, rejecting the accusations as a fabricated scandal to depose their leader. However, this perceived injustice didn’t seem about to invoke any visible unrest, and the Sand-people, with sighs and shrugs of resignations, would continue their days labouring unclouded in the sun for The Empire and Central City.

A bit craven, but a cloud judging them too harshly for their lack of gumption should get their head out of the clouds. Anyone paying even the slightest amount of attention could figure out why the Sand-folk held their tongues, their loudest members 'mysteriously' getting killed in one way or another, whether by dagger, slander, or blood sacrifice. To be of the sand was to go wherever the breeze scattered you without putting up a bluster. That's why, floating on, the industrious locals were now planning for the tournament, for how to make hay while the rain didn't fall, being cautious not to over-invest in The Company’s reformations, which had a temporary quality that stuck out to them despite escaping the Offworlders' awareness. It seemed, they were saying, even The Tyrant would be unwilling to defy The Church. That made logical sense - who could contend with someone so powerful to create life itself, to summon you from thin air?

But the reaction from the Villagers...well...

Swooping around their parts of The Slums, smoke stung your sniffing cloud-strils from the charred sections, where groups of defecting members had set fires and executed anyone who didn't join them. These old-guard loyalists, indifferent for some bizarre reason to whether Ramiro ate the children or not, had accused The Empire of selling out to The Company and declared war against both. Luckily, their tempest tantrum had been brief, the rebels made to dissipate quicker than a stratus on a scorching day by a force led by the remaining Kings and Queens, along with a couple high-level assassins in unmarked uniforms. Glancing across the savannah, hundreds of kilometres distant, you could spot the flames of insurrection rising still above Sagua, Thiimina, Hanaalcheya, and many other smaller cities of Kanaru with their own slums and Empire satellites, but those criminals would no doubt be subdued in time, too.

The rest of the Villagers meanwhile, the majority of the newbies, perhaps even more bizarrely, partied. It seemed they were on cloud nine and cloud ten, just happy for The Winter Open Invitational’s relocation, as hyped as everyone else for the chance to fight The Tyrant and jealous of their members who’d already trained with him while disguised. In their revelry, the blood on the streets was soon washed away by the flow of free beer distributed from Ramiro’s personal warehouses. The Saviour’s dismissal? These buoyant babes wouldn't be affected by the ejection of one Offworlder. Rain, shine, or meteor shower, so long as they had their bread and their tournaments, they'd be perfectly content. That was...uh...balmy! Positively balmy!

Real-life. A pony farm in rural New Zealand, a remote place, quiet, peaceful.

From the window of an auto-taxi speeding up the driveway, Henry’d popped his head out, relishing the country breeze in his hair and the sun splitting through the cloudy sky to warm his pale cheeks.

"Ah, the real world!" he said into the wind.

Beautiful. The smell of livestock, grass; the sights of the horizons of hilly pasture, etc.

What'd He, The Retired Tyrant, been up to while things were going down in game?

Nothing much.

After leaving the HQ, he’d met for lunch with his family, inviting out the whole gang of extended aunts, uncles, and cousins. He'd apologised for any harassment from journalists and given a run-down of his careers for those who didn’t follow gaming. Most of his relatives weren't too surprised, already familiar with his mutant brain.

Although no one else mentioned it, their primary interest was, of course, in the monetary aspect. Henry brought one of his financial managers to transfer to his grandma the title for the apartment complex he’d let them live in subsidised. He also gave out some lump sums for them to do whatever they wanted with, plus he revealed trusts they could apply to for home purchases, investments, education, etc. He warned that he'd cut off anyone who petitioned him personally since the prospect horrified him of being awkwardly sucked up to for the rest of his life by them and an infinite regression of friends’ friends. One uncle, having a bit too much to drink, rejected the charity and cussed him out for the 'charity' - Henry, shrugging, switched the handling of that family branch to a cousin.

Overall, it'd been a pleasant meeting. Nice to be able to help out the relatives in the open after using middlemen.

His dad, hearing about his travel plans, was disappointed to learn he still wouldn’t be coming home. His father mistakenly believed that Henry’d left due to resentment for having to drop out to take over the family restaurant because his dad had turned into a depressed wreck when his mother’d gotten sick. Henry did his best to assure the old man this wasn’t the case – and it genuinely wasn’t. He’d observed countless people break down at much more critical moments than that, mothers fleeing burning homes with their infants inside, fathers bargaining to have their eldest sons poisoned in their stead. No one could anticipate how their heart would hold up when death arrived. It was pointless judging. No, Henry's actual reason for staying away, he would never explain to his dad because it'd only create pointless worries. These days, the nightmares made it somewhat unsafe for him to sleep around others. They could get quite intense at times, and he'd rather not accidentally snap his little sister’s neck in a moment of hallucinatory panic.

Speaking of the neglected lil sis, she'd wanted him to get her a VR unit. Henry continued to forbid it, and she called him a hypocrite, a real tyrant - but he was one, so deal with it lol.

"Hah." Henry laughed, thinking of family, of real people and their absurdities.

His family informed, promising he’d visit again before flying abroad, he was now returning to Caramel’s pony farm, where he’d spent a relatively restful night.

Despite the exposure of his gamer tag, despite the rejection, he hadn't felt significantly different after logging off yesterday. Sad about retiring. Other than that, nothing. None of these changes matched the significance of even one mortality, and casualty-wise it hadn’t been a remarkable evening.

Outside of the conference, the time since logging off had been super boring on his end. A few hours in bed, then he’d risen at dawn, waking to the sun rising over hills of pasture speckled with early-summer flowers. Caramel’s farm made for a lovely hideout. Just him in a brick homestead, and an old farmhand who drove in early to tend the livestock, neither the worker nor the ponies intrigued about epithets or drama in a videogame. While swimming in a creek, he’d replied to a couple of messages, ignored many others, talked with his grandmother, Hannes, and Alex, with whom he’d organised the press conference.

Press conference. Packing up his apartment. Lunch with family. And, now, here. That'd been The Tyrant's snoozer of a morning in full - by this hour of the same day last week, he'd already completed his year-and-a-half time-bending Monster King tutorial gauntlet.

All the media reporting, after Spears’ expose, after his public challenge, all the chaos in Suchi, Henry hadn’t bothered to check any of it out in depth. He didn’t care. They would come. He would beat them up.

After that, whatever. He might go skiing in the Swiss Alps. Check out how the Technocommies were faring. Do a bit of real-life mountaineering.

When the taxi dropped him off at the house, he strolled around the property for a while, brushed a pony, went inside, called a shrink to arrange a visit for another small step towards fixing his wonky noggin, made a turkey sandwich, ate it—it was ok—and then logged on, ready to practice for the 15+ tournaments he’d signed up for.

During his brief absence, the bloodbath inside The Trading Post had been cleaned already, and a full army battalion had been stationed on premise to protect his return point. None of The Church members remained to apprehend him for his rudeness to The Pope, the holy-men having some fear of offending him.

But before practice, slipping off to a private chamber, he pretended to investigate the latest in-game drama surrounding him while actually taking a quick 19-year nap, his Overdream charge having refreshed.