My Charity System made me too OP

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The Realm of Thrones was not a floor.

It was a shift in existence.

As Leon and his team ascended beyond Rank 81, they didn't walk through a gate—they rose. A staircase of light formed beneath their feet, one step at a time, responding only when they moved forward. The world below dimmed and blurred, vanishing behind layers of mist and memory.

By the tenth step, even the Tower's walls could no longer be seen.

By the fiftieth, the air had become still. Timeless.

And at the hundredth step, they arrived.

The new realm wasn't bound by shape. It stretched outward into a colossal floating expanse—an endless ocean of sky beneath, and an archipelago of thrones set atop isolated platforms, each suspended in space.

There were no enemies waiting.

Only presences.

Seventeen Thrones. Seventeen Occupants.

Each one different.

Some cloaked in silence, others flaring with ambient power so dense that even Naval's sigils dimmed just from being near them. One was a beast of shadow barely restrained by golden runes. Another was an old man hunched over a chessboard that never moved. One throne sat empty—smoking, as if its previous occupant had only just left.

Leon stepped onto the edge of the Realm with Roselia and the others close behind. A faint breeze passed—if it could be called that. Not air. Intent. Recognition.

The Tower didn't announce anything here.

Because here, nothing needed to be said.

A woman sitting on the third throne leaned forward. She wore a crown made of folded paper and skin that looked like painted porcelain.

"You climbed fast," she said. Her voice was clear, polite, but completely devoid of interest. "Too fast, maybe."

Leon didn't rise to the bait. "I climbed because I had to."

A heavy laugh echoed from the tenth throne. Its occupant was a massive man wrapped in chains forged from glowing runes. He chuckled without rising. "They always say that, boy. The ones who rush into this place with fire in their eyes."

"But fire fades," said another. This time, a whisper from a hooded figure whose face couldn't be seen.

Leon didn't answer.

He wasn't here to impress.

And they knew that.

The air shifted again—this time more sharply.

The one seated on the highest throne—a throne not carved from stone or crystal, but woven out of laws, stood.

He was not large. He wore no armor. No crown. Just simple robes, and eyes that glowed with layered dimensions.

But the moment he moved, every other Sovereign on the Thrones turned to look at him.

Because he was the current bearer of the Tower's Highest Mantle.

Thronelord Aurian.

"You've reached the Realm of Thrones, Leon Aetheren," Aurian said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried—cutting clean through space, weightless but absolute.

"Do you come seeking a throne?"

Leon didn't hesitate.

"No," he replied. "I come seeking those who sit on them."

That earned a ripple—some scoffs, some thoughtful nods.

Aurian studied him.

"You do not challenge us."

"I will," Leon said calmly. "But not to take what you have. To understand why you have it."

Aurian nodded once.

"Then you may remain. For now."

The Thrones dimmed, shifting back into stillness.

The pressure receded—but it didn't vanish.

Here, in the Realm of Thrones, every moment carried weight. Every glance, every word, every pause was a test.

Leon exhaled.

Roselia stepped beside him. "So… we're not fighting yet?"

"No," Leon said. "Not yet."

Kael scanned the thrones. "But we will, right?"

Leon nodded once.

"Eventually. Not all of them. But some."

Milim smirked. "Good. I was starting to get bored."

Naval tilted his head. "Where do we start?"

Leon looked toward the empty throne—the one still smoking.

Someone had left it.

Which meant someone had created a gap in the power structure.

"Right there," Leon said. "Because that seat used to belong to someone who couldn't hold it."

And behind them, the Tower began to shift once more.

Because even here—even among rulers—

Leon didn't rush.

The Realm of Thrones was not a place where speed mattered. Here, power was not measured in how quickly one advanced, but in how long one could endure without falling. Every step forward wasn't just watched—it was weighed. Judged. Recorded.

The air remained dense with old power. It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. The Sovereigns on their thrones had no intention of welcoming newcomers. They were content in their rule, seated high on mantles that had endured for decades, even centuries.

And yet…

They watched.

Because Leon was different.

He hadn't clawed his way to this place by stealing power from others or following in another's footsteps. He had shaped his own path—through lava, through time, through truth. He had endured trials designed to break identity, resisted the temptation to overwhelm with brute force, and walked away from fights where others would have drawn blood.

That made him dangerous.

Roselia stayed close to him as they walked beneath the Thrones. "That seat up there," she said quietly, nodding toward the still-smoldering empty throne. "You think it was vacated by force or choice?"

Leon glanced at it for a moment. "Choice. But forced by pressure."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"He gave it up before someone stronger could take it," Leon explained. "Probably sensed the shift. Knew he couldn't hold it when the next wave came."

Roman folded his arms. "So we're the wave."

Leon didn't answer.

They all knew the truth.

From the edge of the platform, a thin pathway stretched outward. It didn't lead to another throne—it veered away from them entirely. This path led toward a separate floating landmass. One with no seats. No observers. Just a single monolith at the center, and a name engraved on it:

Vireus – The Mirror Duelist

A challenger.

Not a Sovereign.

But one who had nearly become one.

Milim grinned. "He's challenging for the empty throne."

"And we're the obstacle," Naval muttered, scanning the platform.

Leon stepped forward, and the monolith flared. A figure appeared—lean, armored in a mirrored sheen, face hidden beneath a mask that reflected everything and revealed nothing. He drew two blades, both curved, both pulsing with echoing pulses that reminded Leon of his own Shell Reverb.

The moment their eyes met, the system responded.

[Duel Initiated – Claimant Challenge Interference Triggered]

Combatant: Vireus, Mirror Duelist of the Glass Paths

Objective: Prevent Vireus from reaching the empty throne

Conditions: Victory required through identity clash – abilities mirrored and used against you

Leon inhaled once and drew his weapon.

Not because he feared the fight.

But because this one… would be different.

When Vireus moved, he didn't charge.

He simply appeared.

A blur of mirrored momentum, and Leon had barely enough time to bring up his blade to parry. Sparks flew as mirrored Shell Reverb clashed with the original. The battlefield rippled under the pressure. The glass-like ground beneath them cracked—not from impact, but from resonance.

Vireus moved like water.

Like someone who had studied Leon's fights… and evolved from them.

Roselia's eyes widened. "He's copying Leon's combat rhythm."

"No," Kael said tightly. "He's not just copying. He's improving on it."

Leon staggered back as a pulse tore through his defense, a mimic of his Tripart Echo sent back at him but layered with something new—delayed divergence. Each strike fragmented, becoming three after the block, one aimed for each weak angle in his stance.

Leon had no time to think.

He responded instinctively, drawing from Karmic Loop, flipping momentum back, only to be met by Fracture Requiem—his technique, twisted into a mirror of pain.

It was like fighting himself.

But worse.

This Vireus wasn't just mimicking his style.

He was what Leon could have become had he focused solely on perfection of form—had he stripped away emotion, loyalty, trust. Vireus fought like a ghost with a sword.

Flawless.

Empty.

The realization hit Leon mid-fight: this was more than a throne match.

It was a question from the Tower itself.

Thank you for reading. This was brought to you by M|V|L*EMPYR.

Which version of you deserves the throne?

The perfect one?

Or the one who made it here as himself?

Leon activated Echo of Origin—not to overpower, but to resonate.

He let his team's echoes rise in his memory.

Roselia's stubborn defense. Roman's wild bladework. Naval's layered tactics. Milim's raw chaos. Kael's cold calculation.

He layered them into himself.

And for the first time…

Vireus hesitated.

Leon struck—not with mirrored precision, but intention.

His blade roared with every step he had walked, every scar he had earned. His pulse layered not just Reverb, but purpose. Vireus parried, but staggered.

Because this wasn't just about skill.

It was about who refused to break.

Leon slid past his guard, drove his palm into the mirrored chestplate, and shattered it.

Vireus collapsed to one knee, gasping.

His faceplate cracked, revealing a face… identical to Leon's, but hollow-eyed. Perfect. Empty.

Leon didn't gloat. He simply said, "That throne isn't for perfection. It's for power that remembers why it climbs."

The system confirmed it:

[Victory Confirmed – Vireus Disqualified from Throne Ascension]

Reputation +15: Realm of Thrones Recognition Increased

The throne above them pulsed once, smoke fading.

Awaiting a new claimant.

Leon turned away from it.

He wasn't ready to take it.

Not yet.

But he had defended it.

And that meant something.

Roselia walked beside him. "You could've sat there."

Leon nodded. "I could've."

Kael asked, "Why didn't you?"

Leon looked up toward the highest Thrones—where Aurian still watched silently.

"Because I'm not here to sit," he said. "I'm here to rise."

And from the far end of the Realm, another gate shimmered into view.

The next Sovereign had stirred.

And it was waiting.