From his obsidian throne, the Archmage King watched the heavens bleed. Armies clashed on a field of glass below, their war cries lost to the shriek of dying gods. It was the final battle, just as the fate-script had ordained.
A lone woman with hair like spun flame carved a path through his legions. Seris Dawnveil. The Heroine. Her furious emerald eyes were fixed on him, her blades a dance of terrifying grace. He watched her approach, a bored god observing a predictable play. He could unmake this moment, rewind time, and fix it all with a single, forbidden word.
He opened his mouth to speak the world-breaking syllable.
But the word that came out was, "Ow."
Kaen Vale's head throbbed with the ghost of a pointless bar brawl. One moment, cheap ale and a poorly aimed bottle; the next, this.
His eyes fluttered open, not to a sticky tavern floor, but to the cavernous ceiling of a throne room. He was slumping on a chair carved from what looked like solidified night. It was unnervingly comfortable. The regal robes he wore felt too big, smelling faintly of ozone and old secrets.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He glanced at a polished shield nearby and his heart stopped. The face staring back was not his. It was a man with pale silver hair, sharp features, and the chilling emptiness of a starless sky in his eyes. For a terrifying, split-second, the reflection's lips curled into a smirk that wasn't his own—a cold, knowing ghost in the machine—before settling back into his own bewildered expression.
Oh, good, Kaen thought, a wave of nausea washing over him. I died and woke up as a villain from a bad fantasy novel.
"My king?" a voice rumbled, deep and laced with concern.
Kaen flinched. A towering man in black steel armor stood nearby, a mountain of scars and discipline. One of his arms was made of gleaming steel. Commander Drevan Holt.
How do I know that name? The knowledge was just… there, an echo in the hollow space of his new skull.
"Are you unwell, Your Majesty?" Drevan asked, his brow furrowed. "You… fainted. Mid-decree."
Kaen's mind raced, sifting through a library of memories that weren't his. Echoes of power, whispers of forbidden spells, and the cold, calculating thoughts of the throne's true owner: Rael Ithos. The Final Boss. The guy who was supposed to die today. And the real Rael? Gone. Vanished. Leaving Kaen to fill his very, very large and homicidal shoes.
"I was merely…" Kaen started, his voice a strained imitation of a regal tone he didn't possess. He needed a lie. Something a genius tyrant would say. "Testing the acoustic resonance of the chamber. For… morale."
Drevan blinked. Then, a slow, reverent nod. "Of course, my king. A brilliant tactic. The men were… inspired."
Kaen resisted the urge to sob with relief. He'd survived the first exchange. But as a silken weight stirred on his shoulders, he realized he wasn't alone.
"Darling, that was the worst lie I've ever heard," a voice, dripping with theatrical flair, whispered in his ear. "And I once told a dragon I was its long-lost mother. Do you want flair, fashion, or fear? With me, you get all three".
Kaen froze, slowly turning his head. The high collar of his cloak rippled, a mouth-like embroidery twisting into a smirk as two glowing eyes winked at him.
"My cloak just talked," Kaen whispered, his composure crumbling.
"And I have opinions," the cloak, Mimic, retorted. "First opinion: we're about to be attacked. Try to look bored and all-powerful, not like you're about to wet your very expensive pants."
Right on cue, a flicker of movement in the rafters. A glint of steel. An assassin dropped from above, a poisoned dagger aimed at Kaen's heart.
Kaen did the only thing a powerless, terrified man could do.
He screamed. A high-pitched, undignified shriek of pure panic.
The fatal blow never landed. He peeked an eye open to see Commander Drevan standing over the assassin's twitching body, his steel arm dripping blood. But Drevan… Drevan was looking at him with an expression of utter awe.
"To think," the Commander breathed. "His Majesty's war cry is a sonic spell of such power it can paralyze a foe. My god, he's a genius".
Kaen stared, his mouth agape. He had faked his way through another crisis. But as the throne room doors burst open to reveal the fiery-haired Heroine, Seris Dawnveil, her sword drawn and face a mask of fury, he knew his luck was running out.
Oh god, I'm going to get holy-stabbed by someone with abs carved by divine intent.
"Tyrant!" she yelled, her voice ringing with conviction. "Your reign of terror ends now!"
Kaen's mind went blank. Every instinct screamed at him to run or hide or explain that this was all a terrible mistake. But he was the Archmage King. So he did the only thing he could think of. He pointed a trembling finger at the only other major power in the room.
Himself.
"I agree!" he declared, his voice cracking with panicked authority. "This tyranny is unacceptable! I… I hereby declare war! On myself!".
Utter, bewildered silence fell over the throne room.
Seris Dawnveil stopped, her jaw slack, her sword arm wavering. Commander Drevan nodded sagely, as if this were the most profound strategic move he had ever witnessed. Mimic the cloak simply sighed, a sound like rustling silk and disappointment.
Kaen Vale, the unremarkable young man, the accidental body double, had just survived his first day as the Final Boss.
Oops.