I found a weapon made for me. Like how racism finds any excuse to be racist.

Finally.

At the end of the whole goddamn pile like the universe was playing "Where's Waldo: Depression Edition."

It was hidden under other weapons, probably because Stronges didn't trust me with sharp things. Fair. Even I wouldn't trust me with sharp things. Especially around feminists.

Anyway, I was hunting for one that said "Racis." But nope. Stronges decided to commit character development on me. The tag said "The Hero King."

Yeah. The Hero King.

My jaw dropped so hard it probably registered on a seismograph.

Stronges had never called me that. To her, I was a walking insult to evolution—a lazy, unwashed, disappointing biped. She used to look at me like she was reconsidering all her life choices, including the invention of language and pregnancy. I swear, if eye-rolling was a superpower, Stronges would be an Avenger-level threat, capable of destroying planets with a single, disappointed glance.

But after five years of training under her boot of hellfire—five years of verbal abuse that could curdle milk—she finally said it.

"The Hero King."

Bro, that hit harder than parental validation. You know that feeling when your dad finally says "I'm proud of you" after years of calling you useless? Yeah. That, but on steroids and emotional damage. I was floating on cloud nine plus sixty, ready to marry that damn title.

I picked up the weapon, wrapped in a black cloth like it was a cursed artifact from a tentacle hentai series.

Sexis and Erect were smiling like proud sidekicks in a budget superhero movie about animals.

I turned to Sexis. "Your mom called me the Hero King."

His eyes widened so much it looked like he just discovered Wi-Fi in a forest. I asked what was wrong, and the man flashed his own weapon tag.

"Yours too?" I said.

Sexis nodded with that smug my-mom-loves-me-more face. "Yes. I didn't tell you earlier. Thought you'd feel bad."

Bad? Bro, I was too high on validation to feel anything except delusion and a boner.

Turns out, Stronges had labeled him The Alien King.

So now we had The Hero King and The Alien King.

Two kings, one kingdom, zero girlfriends.

Before I could say anything, Erect raised his weapon tag like nerds raise their hands in class.

"Not so fast, peasants," he declared like a man with unpaid loans and too much confidence.

We looked. His tag said: "Right Hand of the Hero King."

All three of us looked at each other—then broke into the kind of laughter that sounds like trauma escaping through your lungs.

After that, we marched out to meet Stronges again, our weapons still covered. She stood there like a final boss mixed with a disappointed mother. I hated taking orders, but from her? Yeah, she earned that respect. She insulted me daily, but at least she did it with passion.

"Remove your covers," she ordered. "Be honest if you don't like what you got."

Translation: "I dare you to complain after I handcrafted these weapons while training you existential dreads."

Sexis went first. He ripped off the cloth like a stripper in a rage—and revealed a scythe.

Now, I love the guy, but… bro already has scythe hands. Giving him another scythe is like giving a fish a snorkel.

He looked at Stronges like, Woman, are you okay?

Stronges, sensing his mental lag, said:

"You waste time switching between scythe hands and fists. You're one of the best punchers. So stop shapeshifting and use this weapon when you need scythes."

Oh damn.

That actually made sense. Not what I accepted from the genre of this world.

Sexis smiled—well, his alien version of a smile, which looked like a possessed emoji—and bowed. No words. Just respectful silence.

Then came Erect's turn. He yanked the cover, and what emerged was a hammer.

Not a cute one. Not a carpenter's tool.

This thing looked like it was used to baptize demons and compete with Thor.

A black, steel sledgehammer straight out of WWE. It screamed, "I kill gods for breakfast."

Erect blinked at it. Probably thinking, "Why do I feel violence in my bones?"

Stronges explained, "You broke a Nano Bite with your punch once. You have explosive strength. This hammer will turn skulls into modern art. Use it."

Beautiful. Brutal. Poetry with concussions. You could practically hear the symphony of future headaches and shattered dental plans in that sentence.

Erect swung the hammer experimentally, and the air itself flinched. His smile said, 'Someone's getting deleted tonight.'

Then, one by one, others revealed their weapons too. Stronges explained each one like a proud teacher who also casually bench-presses her students.

Her memory, her detail, her sheer care—it made me stare. She wasn't just a trainer. She was the GOAT. Beauty, brains, biceps, and borderline emotional unavailability. Sexis's dad definitely hit the alien jackpot.

And me?

I forgot I still hadn't opened mine. Because I was too busy simping in silence.

But then everyone turned toward me like it was Judgment Day and I was the judge.

I exhaled, grabbed the cloth, and pulled.

As I did that, my eyes sparkled like vomit excreted by anime girls.

In my hands was the thing I hoped to get. Even back on earth.

It was beautiful.

My weapon gleamed like a sin forgiven. Like a bald man's head. The black blade reflected my grin, sharp enough to slice through reality itself. I didn't need to be a genius to know what it was.

A katana.

Stronges smiled. "It's a katana, Racis. I made it for you."

A chill ran down my spine.

The blade was obsidian-dark, the hilt had a skull etched in silver, and at the bottom, three words were engraved:

H. K.

I looked at my trainer for the answer and with a smile, she answered:

"The Hero King. This is your weapon, Racis."

My hand trembled around the handle.

Finally.

A weapon worthy of my delusions.

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