Qim Shi Huang

Ragnarök had begun.
The coliseum of the gods, forged from primordial stone and ancient fire, resonated with the clamor of deities from every pantheon. The battles would decide the fate of humanity, and the human representatives awaited their turn, seated, watched, measured like pieces on a divine chessboard.
Qin Shi Huang was bored. The emperor who unified China, the man who proclaimed himself eternal even in the face of death, did not tolerate waiting, nor spaces that did not belong to him.
He got up. Nobody noticed at first. By the time they did, it was too late.
He strode through the coliseum's corridors, frowning, disoriented, smashing through walls of divine marble as if they were mere screens. Each wall that fell made the lesser gods tremble.
"Where is the place worthy of an emperor…?" he muttered, annoyed.
Without maps. Without guides. Without permission. Until he saw it.
An ancient, elevated seat, covered in symbols that belonged to no pantheon known to humankind. There sat Tamagastad, the supreme creator god of indigenous mythology, a serene and vast presence like the very origin of the world. His gaze held the time before time.
Qin Shi Huang did not bow. He did not hesitate. He did not even slow his pace.
He simply sat down. On the god's lap, the coliseum fell into absolute silence.
A human. An emperor. Seated in the place reserved for gods.
Some rose up in fury. Others were petrified. The divine weapons trembled, restless.
Tamagastad blinked once. And then he laughed. Not a mocking laugh. A surprised, genuine laugh.
Qin Shi Huang settled in with complete ease, crossing his legs slightly, resting his weight as if the seat had been made for him from the start. His face displayed tranquility, confidence, and a proud, haughty smile, impossible to ignore. Finally, he spoke, his voice firm, without raising it:
The emperor's seat is wherever I want it to be.