It was called the Trial of Presence.

Forty-one years running the ceremony, and the Third Registrar had choreographed eleven of them himself. Pick the weakest-looking delegate. Let the champion break them in front of their own ambassador. Watch a civilization walk in as equals and walk out as supplicants.

The humans were rated non-priority. Biologically unremarkable. Socially fragmented. Nobody bothered reading past page three of the file.

So the ambassador's bodyguard walked onto the dueling floor. Ordinary build. Sheathed blade at his hip. He didn't draw it. He didn't step back. He didn't even breathe hard.

Two point six one seconds later, the empire's undefeated champion was on the floor, and six hundred years of ceremonial law had just been broken by a man who decided he simply didn't need his sword.

The throne room had never gone that silent before.

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