He wrote with unrestrained fervor, the fantasy he had nursed since adolescence—of becoming a king—finally blooming into reality. Word by word, he wove his ambitions onto the page, a faint smile curling his lips. Childhood dreams, once caged, now spilled without restraint; the long-buried desire to be revered surged through him like a possession.
"This… is enough." David lifted the paper, now crowded with lines. His death in the previous world barely lingered in his thoughts.
"Mom… Angeline…" He leaned back in his chair, recalling the only two faces that never judged him when he had struggled—faces that listened to his ravenous talks about business, faces that simply smiled, and sometimes whispered that David was their only hope.
David's family had been a poor one, five children under one humble roof. His father was a simple man, and David, the fourth child, had been the mischievous boy who always looked down on those without ambition. They lived in the comfort of small means, glorifying togetherness over progress—but David, even as a child, could never voice his contempt. He had long since stopped caring; he knew that being just a little younger earned him the label of a defiant brat.
He remained seated, lost in memories of youth: of the times he tried to convince his eldest brother to leave home for better-paying work. The younger David lacked the restraint of his future self; he could not hold back and snapped, "If you stay here, we'll be trapped in this misery forever… Don't be afraid, brother!"
There was nothing wrong with that, of course—merely a boy sick of watching his brother content with meager wages and backbreaking labor. Yet that brother, in the arrogance of adulthood, refused to listen.
Young David seethed in silence as he watched his siblings and father live by the mantra of "enough," forever chanting gratitude to God. To David's calculating mind, it was a hell—surrounded by fools who romanticized guaranteed paradise in exchange for surrendering every earthly opportunity. Fools who let wealth slip through their fingers out of fear of sin, even when it was perfectly legal.
They are hopeless… The phrase was a nightly lullaby in his mind. I must rely on myself… their minds are far too small to follow mine. Each morning, he woke with that bitter mantra, carrying it to school like a shield.
Now, David still held the paper and exhaled slowly. Pointless… to dwell on the past. His gaze shifted to the window. Morning is giving way to noon. I must learn the lay of my new world, he thought, a small smile tugging at his lips as he rose.
He walked toward the door, but his eyes caught the dark sheen of wine—or was it something else—still wet on the floor. The previous king is dead. He turned, crouching beside the stain. Since last night… He dipped a finger into the crimson pool. Poisoned, perhaps? He rubbed the liquid between thumb and forefinger, grinning faintly.
Damn… my memory hasn't reached last night. There is much to uncover… His grin widened.
"In this beautiful palace."
He rose, still clutching the paper, the ink not yet dry. Stepping out of his chamber, he was greeted by the opulence of the palace corridor, and he walked in the direction the servant had gone.
His eyes drifted left and right, drinking in every detail. A rush of euphoria surged through him simply by strolling there—his veins pulsing with a sharp spike of triumph. After some time wandering the hall, he noticed narrow openings that led outside. He stepped toward one, letting the wind brush his face, a smile creeping across his lips as the fresh memories settled in his mind.
"To be a king… in a world where magic is real." He gazed at the breathtaking scenery before him, smiling. "Whoever the creator is—whether the god of this world, or the one they worshipped in my previous life…"
He slowly shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this…"
A small, twisted smile formed.
"Thank God."
He descended the stairs, retracing his steps. Every servant who caught sight of him—whether from up close or across the hall—halted their work and bowed in reverence.
So this is what it feels like… to be king.
A dark satisfaction coiled in his chest. It suits me perfectly… ahahaha…
From afar, he spotted the maid who had earlier come to clean his chamber. He approached her. Without a gesture—only a silent gaze—the young woman seemed compelled to answer the call of her king. She stepped closer, a faint tremor in her stride.
"Excuse me…" David spoke, his voice smooth.
Ah, perfect… time to play the warm fool, just like that idiot Caelan I remember, he thought.
"Your Majesty," the maid dropped to her knees. "May I help you?"
"I wish to ask you something," David said evenly.
"Your Majesty, you need no permission. You are… a being most noble," the maid answered softly, head bowed. Her heart pounded, and a quiet thought bloomed in her mind: King Caelan must still be the same… he'll surely reject such flattery.
She dared to lift her gaze—
Eh? Her heart jolted.
A slow, predatory grin had already spread across the face of the man she knew as King Caelan.