The roar of the mob was a physical thing. It slammed into me like a wave, a wall of pure, undiluted hatred composed of a hundred angry voices. They flooded into the throne room through the massive stone doors, a sea of peasants and disgruntled soldiers armed with torches, pitchforks, and the kind of murderous rage you can't fake.
Their eyes, burning with firelight and fury, were all locked on one person: me.
Taria, or the rebel leader she had been, was gone, swallowed by the crowd she had unleashed. Her parting critique echoed in my mind... unacceptable. I was the Main Character, and I sucked at it. Now, I was alone on a raised dais with a useless iron throne at my back, facing down a legion of NPCs programmed to want my head on a pike.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure adrenaline. My palms were slick with sweat. In a real-life situation, I'm the guy who stays calm, who assesses and finds a logical way out. But there was nothing logical about this. This was a death trap gift-wrapped in a high-school drama lesson.
My objective was still blinking in the corner of my vision: Convince the Rebel Leader of your repentance. But the leader was gone, and now I had to convince her entire army. The difficulty had just spiked from a one-on-one boss fight to a full-on raid.
Just as the first line of NPCs reached the foot of the dais, their faces twisted in snarls, the System chimed in my head again. It seemed to have a flair for dramatic timing.
[New Scene: The People's Court]
[The Main Character must now face the judgment of those he has wronged. Each accusation is a trial. Each response is a performance.]
[Host's knowledge of the assigned role 'King Kaelen' is critically insufficient for the current scene's demands.]
[Forced Role Immersion has been detected.]
[The Host lacks the fundamental ability to act. Emergency Protocol Initiated: Granting Foundational Skill.]
A new window popped up, bright and gold-edged, a stark contrast to the ominous red warnings from before.
[Skill Unlocked: Method Acting Lv. 1]
Type: Active/Passive
Cost: Minor mental fatigue with prolonged use.
Description: Allows the user to partially synchronize with their assigned role. Grants access to surface-level memories, emotional imprints, and physical mannerisms of the character. This skill helps you become the role, not just pretend.
Warning: Prolonged activation may lead to 'Personality Bleed.' The line between you and the character can blur.
Personality Bleed? I had bigger problems, like the guy in the front row holding a rusty-looking scythe. I didn't have a choice. I had to use it.
'Activate Method Acting,' I thought, my command sharp with desperation.
The world dissolved into a dizzying, nauseating blur.
It was like having a thousand gigabytes of data downloaded directly into my brain in less than a second. A flood of memories... not mine... crashed against the shores of my consciousness.
I am Kaelen. I am standing on a battlefield at age sixteen, my father's fallen banner in my hand, rain and blood mixing on my face. The weight of a crown, cold and heavy, settles on my brow for the first time.
I am Kaelen. I am signing a decree, my hand steady, sending an entire legion to a frozen mountain pass to secure a border they will never return from. The ink is as black as the widow's robes their wives will wear.
I am Kaelen. I am laughing with a childhood friend named Marcus, long before the crown, before he betrayed me, before I had to watch him hang in the public square. The ghost of his laughter still haunts the edges of my hearing.
My head snapped back as the sensory overload hit me. My own memories... of midterms, of shitty cafeteria food, of wanting to join the basketball team... felt thin and distant, like a story I'd read about someone else. In their place were Kaelen's regrets, his paranoia, his iron-fisted pride, and a deep, gnawing loneliness that was so profound it felt like a physical ache in my chest.
This was more than just information. It was feeling. I didn't just know Kaelen was a tyrant; I felt the crushing weight of the decisions that had made him one.
And with the feelings came the physical tics. My spine straightened instinctively, my posture shifting from a teenager's slouch to a king's rigid authority. I found myself looking down at the mob not with fear, but with a cold, familiar disdain. The thought, unbidden, surfaced in my mind: Insolent dogs. How dare they?
Whoa! My own consciousness reasserted itself, wrestling for control. Easy there, Your Majesty. These are the people we're supposed to be winning over, remember? Repentance. Not regicide.
This skill was a double-edged sword. It gave me the knowledge I desperately needed, but it also tried to hijack my personality. I was in a mental tug-of-war with a dead king for control of my own body.
"There he is! The Tyrant on his throne!" a voice boomed from the crowd.
A burly man with the thick arms and soot-stained face of a blacksmith pushed his way to the front. He wasn't holding a weapon, which somehow made him even more intimidating. His fists were clenched at his sides, his body trembling with a grief so raw it was almost a visible aura. He pointed a thick, calloused finger at me.
"King Kaelen!" he roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "My son, Leo! He was the finest apprentice in my forge, with a heart as true as his steel! He joined the Royal Guard out of loyalty to you! And you sent him to the Sunken Mire to retrieve the Serpent's Eye, a bauble for your crown!"
With the skill active, the name 'Leo' wasn't just a sound. It was a memory. A face. A young, eager knight with a clumsy smile and unwavering loyalty. I remembered pinning a medal on his chest myself. Kaelen's mind supplied the cold, political reasoning: the Serpent's Eye was a required tribute to the Dragon Emperor of the East, a diplomatic necessity to prevent a war we couldn't win. Leo's mission, while dangerous, was for the good of the kingdom.
The king's pride surged within me, an arrogant wave of indignation. The words formed on my tongue: Your son was a soldier who died for a cause greater than your understanding. His sacrifice bought this kingdom another year of peace. You should be proud.
It was the logical, kingly thing to say. It was also the absolute worst possible line I could deliver right now. It would get me a scythe to the face.
I fought it. I wrestled the king's arrogance down, suppressing it with my own primal need to not die. My objective was repentance. I had to act.
I focused on a different memory of Leo, one that Kaelen had buried deep. The boy had reminded the king of his own lost friend, Marcus. That same bright-eyed, unconditional loyalty. A loyalty Kaelen had taken for granted. A loyalty he had sent to its death.
That was the emotional hook I needed.
I rose slowly from the throne, not with the fluid grace of a king, but with a deliberate, heavy stiffness. I made my body feel old, weighed down not by the crown but by the sins I... Kaelen... had committed. I met the blacksmith's gaze.
My own mind was a frantic mess, screaming, 'This is so stupid! You can't act! You're going to die!' But Kaelen's instincts gave me the posture. The skill gave me the memories. I just had to supply the words.
"The Serpent's Eye..." I began, my voice a low, rough baritone that felt unnatural in my own throat. I let the king's weariness seep into my tone. "I was told it was the price of peace. A necessary sacrifice to protect the kingdom."
A murmur of anger rippled through the crowd. The blacksmith's face darkened. "My son was not a price to be paid!"
"No," I said, cutting him off, my voice gaining a sudden, sharp clarity. I took a step forward, to the very edge of the dais, looking down at him. "He was not. He was a hero."
I let a moment of silence hang in the air, a trick I didn't know I knew.
"I see now," I continued, forcing a crack into my voice. "That in my fear of our enemies abroad, I became a tyrant to my own people at home. I thought a kingdom was its borders, its treasures, its political alliances." I swept my gaze across the angry faces in the crowd, trying to make eye contact with as many as I could. "But I see now... a kingdom is not its treasures. It is its people. It is its sons. Sons like Leo."
I brought my focus back to the blacksmith, and for the first time, I let a raw emotion... my own genuine, heart-pounding fear... color my words.
"I failed him. And in failing him... I failed you all."
I finished, my chest heaving, the performance taking more out of me than a full-court sprint. My internal monologue was cringing so hard I thought I might turn inside out. It sounded so cheesy, so melodramatic. It was the kind of dialogue that would get a movie a 12% on Rotten Tomatoes.
But here, in this insane dungeon, it had a different effect.
The roaring mob fell silent.
Every single NPC, from the scythe-wielding farmer to the disgruntled soldier, was staring at me. The blacksmith's face was a canvas of shock, his righteous anger momentarily forgotten. He looked... confused. As if he'd come expecting a monster and found a man.
Did they buy it? Was it enough? My eyes darted around, searching for a sign, any sign at all.
And then I heard it. The soft, beautiful chime of the System.
A new window materialized before me, its text a calming, beautiful shade of blue.
[Performance Review: Active!]
[Scene: The People's Court - Accusation 1]
[Character: Blacksmith Gaelan]
[Emotional State: Righteous Grief -> Shocked Confusion]
[Dialogue Choice: In-Character (Repentant King Persona)]
[Emotional Resonance: 11/100 (+10)]
[Presence: 8/100 (+6)]
[Audience Approval has significantly increased!]
[+15 Acting EXP]
[Result: CRITICAL SUCCESS!]
I didn't just pass. I got a critical success. A wave of light-headed relief washed over me so powerfully my knees almost buckled. The numbers were still pathetically low, but they had gone up. I was leveling up my ability to lie convincingly.
The crisis wasn't over, though. Before I could even savor the victory, another figure stepped out from the crowd. She was an old woman, her back bent with age, her face a web of wrinkles. She pointed a frail, trembling finger at me.
"My king," she rasped, her voice thin but carrying an immense weight of sorrow. "You raised the grain tithe to fund your new castle wall. My grandchildren... they cry from hunger at night. What wall can protect a kingdom that has already starved from within?"
The next trial had begun. And this time, I had a feeling just saying 'I'm sorry' wasn't going to cut it.
***