The Koan Pavilion glittered with holo-lights and gaudy spectacle — a carnival of noise and flashing banners. In a private box high above the arena floor, Megatron sat with a cigar clamped between his denta, smoke curling like an old steam engine.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium:
“The Last Platinum King himself honors us tonight with his presence!”
The crowd erupted, neon signs pulsing his name. Megatron barely twitched.
Megatron said nothing more. He stood at the center of the ring, scarred chest heaving, optics burning. For the first time in decades, the Pavilion remembered what the pits were.
And what a king looked like.