Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 137: The Realm That Doesn’t Bow

Chapter 137: The Realm That Doesn’t Bow

There were realms shaped by blood, and realms shaped by stone.

But this one—this one was shaped by breath.

By wind cradled into architecture, cloud woven into stairways, silence braided into the very laws of motion. Lionel had stood before the gates of tyrants, walked through ash-choked cities, seen courts born of cruelty and built empires out of scar—but nothing in the mortal world prepared him for the reverent stillness of Chien’u.

It wasn’t peaceful.

Peace was too soft a word.

It was ancient.

The kind of quiet that remembered what sound used to mean, and chose not to imitate it.

The moment Lionel and his legion stepped beyond the final ridge of fractured sky-stone, the weather changed—not violently, not abruptly, but with intent. The air folded inward as if making room. Light grew denser, not brighter, thick like honey caught between histories. Even the dust beneath their boots obeyed the rhythm, never kicking up, never resisting.

Rows of monks emerged like breath recalled in perfect unison—bald heads tilted slightly, not with subservience, but with acknowledgment. Their robes were long, stitched from fabric that didn’t look woven so much as grown, gold threaded into the sleeves without shimmer, flowing as if gravity had agreed to step back. There were no swords. No threats. No chants. Just presence.

One monk stepped forward, eyes carved with time, posture unshaken by rank or weapon.

"Lionel of Ashbirth," he said calmly, voice warmer than the wind and firmer than memory. "The air has spoken your name for seven seasons. The roots have grown differently beneath your path. The fruit trees you will pass on the way to the throne have already begun to sweeten."

Lionel didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Some words aren’t replied to.

They’re absorbed.

The path toward the center was neither wide nor narrow—it was balanced.

Each stone placed perfectly—not in symmetry, but in response, like the land itself had asked permission to hold weight again. Lionel’s men walked slowly, armor humming with Unco breath, steps steady, eyes tracing every movement for signs of ambush or illusion. But no such violence lived here. If danger had a name in this realm, it whispered it only to the sky.

It took them hours to reach the heart.

Time didn’t drag. It dilated, expanding between their steps, compressing beneath their questions. Some soldiers began to doubt they were walking at all. Others felt they’d aged.

And then—

The throne.

It was carved not of gold or jewel, but wood so dark and alive it looked scorched and reborn a thousand times. It stood beneath no roof. The sky above it was carved open by scattered constellations that didn’t match any map Lionel had studied—stars that pulsed like reminders, not guidance. At its base lay scattered scrolls, broken staffs, and fruit peels discarded with playful disrespect. And seated atop it—

The Monkey King.

He leaned lazily to the left, one elbow propped against the armrest as if every guest arrived later than they should and he’d learned to forgive that. His robes were torn at the shoulder, but not from battle—from motion, like they’d been ripped chasing something or laughing too hard to notice.

His eyes flickered with every step Lionel took forward.

Not threatened.

Not curious.

Just amused.

And when the silence reached him fully—when the monks bowed to nothing and the wind stood still—

He smiled.

A wide, radiant, reckless smile.

"You finally came," he said, voice singing lightly across the distance as if he’d rehearsed it for years. "Took you long enough."

Lionel stepped forward slowly, boots brushing the soft cloudstone floor as if even gravity felt unsure of itself here. His armor didn’t clink. His voice didn’t rise. But his gaze, sharpened by memory and months of searching, landed on the throne like silence forged into blade.

"I’m here for my wife," he said, steady, low. "The sorcerer said this was the only road left."

The Monkey King leaned forward with theatrical patience, one hand curled under his chin, a playful frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Elira?" he asked. "Ah... yes. Copper hair, quiet steps, eyes like a disappointed archangel? Lovely presence. I liked her. She didn’t bow either."

Lionel’s fingers curled around the hilt strapped to his thigh, not threatening—just bracing.

"Is she alive?" he asked.

The Monkey King tilted his head, eyes bright with thought.

"I assume so," he said cheerfully. "She stepped into the war line—voluntarily, which I must say is very romantic. Very foolish. Very her."

Lionel didn’t blink.

"I need to find her."

The Monkey King laughed—not mockingly, but musically, like a joke only the sky understood.

"She’s not something to be found. Not anymore," he said. "She’s part of something bigger now. The only way she comes back is if she lives through it. And if someone wins."

Lionel’s jaw tightened.

"Then I’ll join you."

The Monkey King blinked twice, then leaned back in his throne, drumming his fingers against the armrest as if Lionel had just offered to swim across a thunderstorm and steal its name.

"You?" he asked, voice pitched with innocent disbelief. "You want to fight gods, do you? Tiny human boy with a pickaxe and a broken family tree? You do know you might die, yes?"

Lionel bowed deeply—lower than custom, longer than expectation.

"If I’m the only one willing, then I’ll be enough."

Behind him, the courtyard stirred.

Soldiers whispered. Armor shifted. And then the first voice broke through, rough and resolute:

"You’re not going alone."

Lionel turned, lips parted as his men—his family built from fire and theft and trust—stepped forward. One by one, row by row, heads lifted in unison. They weren’t crying. They weren’t shouting. They were present. Like they always had been.

"We swore to burn beside you," said Varn.

"We swore to bleed where you bled," Mael added.

Lionel stepped down from the archway.

"No," he said, voice firmer now. "You swore to build. To create what I couldn’t build alone."

He looked across all of them—not as a king, but as a man carrying two wars.

"You’ll stay. You’ll protect the kingdom we forged. You’ll protect my daughter."

The words hung longer than breath.

"She has my blood," Lionel said quietly. "But you—you have my trust. And if I die, you’ll be the only legacy left that wasn’t swallowed by gods."

The Monkey King clapped slowly, then quickly, then stopped abruptly as if the applause had become a bird and flown off.

"Well," he said, grinning wide. "I like you."

He hopped down from his throne.

"Let’s go break fate together."