He didn't know how much time had passed.
When Jack came back, it wasn't like waking up.
It was more like… crawling toward consciousness on his elbows.
He floated in a warm softness—bed? cloud? coffin?—while his body refused to cooperate. Every inch of him felt sore and numb, the kind of deep ache you got after a car crash or a night you didn't remember. The front and back of his skull throbbed like somebody had used his head as a drum.
His eyes wouldn't open.
He could only hear.
Two voices, close by. Female. Whispering.
One was bright and sweet—too sweet, like a child humming while holding a knife.
"Sister Angela… you really are a big fool," the younger voice said, giggling under her breath. "If you ask me, why do you even care if he lives or dies? If he dies, you can get everything in… in Pendragon Hold. Hehe. Then you won't have to marry that well-known idiot anymore. Hehe."
Jack's brain snagged on idiot.
The second voice cut in sharply—soft, but with steel underneath.
"Shut up."
A pause. The older voice took a breath, forced calm into it.
"Mira," she said—firm, warning. "Do you hear yourself? Don't let me hear you say something like that again. No matter what… Arthur is my fiancé."
Arthur.
Jack felt his thoughts wobble.
Arthur… Pendragon… fiancé…?
He tried to swallow and found his throat was sandpaper.
At that moment, a faint fragrance drifted into his nose.
Not perfume from a mall. Not cheap body spray.
Something clean and warm and human—like a woman's skin after soap and sunlight. It hit him so sharply it made his stomach tighten.
Jack's instincts did what they always did.
They woke up before his morals.
Okay, his brain said, half-dazed. This is either heaven or a very targeted hallucination.
He managed to force his eyelids half-open.
Light stabbed in.
Shapes swam.
Then the world snapped into focus, and Jack went still.
He wasn't in his apartment.
He wasn't in a hospital.
He lay in a grand hall that looked like medieval Europe had been filtered through money and ego—high stone walls, carved pillars, banners, heavy drapes, polished wood furniture, the air faintly scented with sandalwood. Everything was warm-toned and expensive in that old-world way.
He turned his head slightly, careful, like moving too fast might make the scene fall apart.
Two figures.
One farther away: a small blonde girl in a maid's outfit. Light golden hair tied back in a ponytail. She stood with arms crossed, pouting like she'd been ordered to babysit a dying animal.
That must be Mira, Jack thought. Tiny. Cute. Psychotic.
His gaze slid closer.
A young woman sat by the bed, tense with worry.
And Jack's brain briefly stopped functioning.
Dark hair—long, thick, tied with a purple ribbon. Skin pale as snow. A noblewoman's gown in deep violet, loose and high-waisted, elegant in a way that screamed "born into better rooms than yours." When she leaned forward, the fabric shifted and Jack's eyes did what eyes do when they're attached to a teenage boy with a pulse.
He saw more than he should have.
His nostrils flared.
A heat rose in his face.
Jack forced himself to look away like a man trying to pass a sobriety test.
"A sin," he muttered under his breath, voice cracked. "A whole sin."
He coughed—once, then again, louder, on purpose.
"Cough… cough…"
The woman startled, leaning in instantly.
"You're awake?" she whispered.
Her face was close enough that Jack could see the fine detail of her features—soft lips, clear eyes, worry threaded through every line.
"Arthur," she breathed. "How do you feel? Does your head hurt? Doctor Evan said you must rest—please don't try to sit up."
Jack tried to speak normally and failed.
"I… uh… what's going on?" he rasped.
And the moment the words left his mouth, he froze.
Because she wasn't speaking English.
She wasn't speaking anything Jack recognized.
The language was ancient-sounding, melodic, strange—like Latin married a lullaby and had a knife in its pocket.
But Jack understood her perfectly.
And worse—he realized he was answering in it.
His eyes widened a fraction.
No way.
The woman—Angela—touched his forehead with the back of her fingers, cool and gentle.
"That's good," she said, relief flickering. "Your temperature is normal."
She smiled like she'd been holding her breath for an hour and finally let it out.
"Arthur, have you forgotten? You went to the wall. You led the defenders. A despicable enemy shot you with an arrow." Her voice softened. "By the War God… thank the War God you wore your helmet. The wound is minor. Doctor Evan said as long as you don't develop a fever, you will recover."
She squeezed his hand as if to anchor him.
"You were brave."
Jack's mind hiccuped.
Arthur. Wall. Arrow. War God. Fever.
He blinked slowly, as if that would clean the insanity off the world.
"Me?" he croaked. "Arthur… King?"
Angela brightened like she'd just heard her child say his first word.
"Yes," she said, too quick, too eager. "Our young king. Our brave king of Pendragon Hold. Your presence on the wall raised everyone's courage—our soldiers repelled another assault because they saw you."
Jack stared at her.
Something about her tone—sweet, careful, reassuring—hit him wrong.
It wasn't how a fiancée spoke to a man.
It was how a kindergarten teacher spoke to a kid who'd fallen and cried.
Mira, the blonde maid, couldn't hold it in anymore.
"He's not brave," she said flatly, rolling her eyes so hard Jack almost heard it. "If Lord Basil hadn't insisted, His Majesty would never have gone up there. I saw him when they tried to put armor on him—he was shaking so badly he almost wet his pants."
She smiled, mean and satisfied.
"And yes, he did boost morale. Because watching the king get shot off the wall in the first second he stepped up there was so stupid it made everyone angry enough to fight."
Jack turned his eyes toward Mira.
The girl's face was small and pretty, but her eyes had that sharp little hostility people saved for the weak and embarrassing. The kind of look you gave a person you'd been forced to serve.
Jack didn't even have energy to clap back.
His mind was sprinting.
Pendragon Hold… King Arthur… fiancé… War God… siege…
Meow. His brain actually supplied the sound, like it was trying to be funny. Didn't I just get shot in my own apartment? How did I end up in some fantasy castle?
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it—pain flared in his skull and ribs.
He slumped back, breathing hard.
This wasn't a prank.
No one on Earth could prank this hard.
Angela was too real. Mira was too real. The scent of sandalwood, the feel of velvet beneath his head, the weight of the blanket, the language in his mouth—
And that was the real killer:
He had never heard this language before.
Yet he understood it.
He spoke it.
Jack stared at the ceiling, pulse pounding.
Okay, he thought, the panic rising. Either I'm insane… or I just got isekai'd into the body of a mentally challenged teenage king named Arthur Pendragon, in a mountain fortress under siege.
He swallowed.
Slowly, carefully, like speaking might summon lightning.
"…Is this a movie?" he whispered.
Angela's brow creased, worried again. "Arthur…?"
Jack exhaled, and the breath came out shaking.
Yeah, his brain answered for him. No.
This is real.
Angela sat rigid at the bedside, fingers white around the edge of the blanket as if she could physically hold the world together by gripping it hard enough.
Jack could see the thought behind her eyes—clear, worried, almost… grieving.
Poor Arthur, her face seemed to say. Did the fall finally finish him? He was… slow before. But not like this. Not blank. Not wrong.
Jack wanted to tell her he wasn't Arthur.
He also wanted to not be stabbed, poisoned, or burned alive for saying it.
So he lay there, playing weak, letting his breathing sound shallow, letting his eyelids droop like the world was too heavy.
And then—
A voice drifted in from outside the hall, loud and oily and smiling in a way that meant it wasn't smiling at all.
"Arthur! I heard you got hurt—haha. I've come to see you."
The door didn't creak politely. It swung like it belonged to whoever was entering.
Angela's expression hardened instantly.
Mira's chin lifted like a cat spotting a dog it hated.
Jack turned his head, and a round lump of human rolled into the hall.
He was short, wide, and shiny with sweat, dressed in fabrics that tried very hard to look expensive. His face was red and puffy, his lips thick, his hair chestnut and greasy near the scalp. Everything about him screamed comfort and entitlement—like he'd never walked anywhere if he could make someone carry him.
Gergel.
He smiled like he expected applause.
"Gergel," Angela said, voice going cold, "what are you doing here?"
"Oh? That's how you greet me?" Gergel spread his hands theatrically. "Beautiful Angela, what do you mean? I heard my good friend Arthur was injured, so I rushed over to visit him. What's wrong with that?"
He didn't wait for permission.
He squeezed past the foot of the bed and plopped down right onto the king's mattress, like it was a tavern bench.
Mira snapped, "Presumptuous! How dare you sit on His Majesty's bed!"
Gergel didn't even look at her properly—just flicked his eyes over her like she was a stain on the floor.
His gaze was vicious and wet.
He licked his lower lip slowly, then smiled.
"Get out, slave," he murmured, almost lovingly. "You'll have your time to cry."
Mira went pale with rage.
Jack stared at Gergel and felt something old and familiar rise in him—same feeling as being swatted, same feeling as chat spamming LOL while someone stepped on his face.
A bully's energy.
Gergel leaned closer, looking Jack up and down like a butcher inspecting meat.
There was no concern in his eyes.
Only contempt.
Jack thought, How does this blob talk to a king like this?
Then the answer came.
Gergel reached out.
With his greasy hand.
And he pinched Jack's cheek between thick fingers like Jack was a toddler. Like Jack was a toy.
Jack's body tensed, but he forced himself to stay still for half a second, to read the room.
No guards.
No attendants rushing in.
No consequence.
So this wasn't boldness.
This was habit.
"Arthur," Gergel chuckled, squeezing harder, "you're not seriously hurt, are you? Haha. This afternoon I've arranged to meet some distinguished guests."
He patted Jack's cheek twice, slow and humiliating.
"How about you come with us for… some relaxation?"
Jack felt his blood boil.
Not because he was brave.
Because he was Jack.
Because nobody touched his face without paying for it.
His hand moved before his brain finished its sentence.
SLAP.
The sound cracked across the room like a whip.
Gergel froze, eyes wide, one hand rising slowly to his cheek as if he didn't understand the physics of what had just happened. A bright red handprint bloomed on his greasy face.
Angela went still.
Mira's mouth opened.
Both of them looked at Jack the way you look at a dog that just spoke perfect English.
Gergel whispered, stunned: "You… you hit me?"
Jack's voice came out harsh and low, a hiss under his breath.
"You disgusting fat pig," he said, eyes sharp now. "Touch my face again and I'll make sure you never sit down comfortably for the rest of your life."
It wasn't noble.
It wasn't kingly.
It was exactly the kind of threat a barely-adult streamer would say after three drinks and too much ego.
But it landed.
Gergel's face started to tremble—anger building like steam under a lid.
His flabby body shook.
His eyes bulged.
"How dare you!" he roared, louder and louder, like volume could change reality. "You damn wimp—how dare you hit me?!"
Jack didn't answer.
He watched.
Still no guards.
Still no punishment.
Jack's suspicion sharpened.
Either this guy is protected… or this kingdom is so weak that even the king's room isn't sacred.
Angela stepped in, voice like ice.
"Presumptuous. Gergel, you are the son of a mere secretary. How dare you be so disrespectful to the king?"
That sentence was a dagger.
It reminded Jack of something important.
This wasn't a duke. Not a prince. Not even real nobility.
Just… a connected nobody.
Gergel heard it too.
His face twisted.
He rolled up his sleeves like a man preparing for war, waddling forward with murder in his eyes.
Angela and Mira moved instinctively—two women trying to protect the body on the bed.
They grabbed at Gergel's arm, his shoulder—
It did nothing.
He backhanded Mira without even turning his head.
SLAP.
The little maid flew sideways. She hit the floor hard, blonde ponytail coming loose. Her cheek swelled instantly, tears springing up in her eyes from shock and pain.
"Mira!" Angela gasped.
Gergel grabbed Angela's wrist and yanked her toward him, grinning. He leaned in, sniffing her neck like an animal.
And then he looked at Jack.
Provocative. Cruel.
"Beautiful Angela," he purred, "why waste yourself on that imbecile? Look at him—does he look like a king? How long has he sat on the throne? And now the Hold is under siege."
He squeezed her wrist harder.
"You might as well marry someone who can rule. Someone with power."
His mouth opened.
He leaned in.
Angela's face went pale, disgust and fear mixing—
Jack moved.
Not elegantly.
Not heroically.
But violently.
He grabbed the nearest thing with weight.
The dented metal helmet by the bed.
And swung it like a brick.
BANG.
The helmet smashed into Gergel's forehead with a sick, satisfying thunk. Blood popped out instantly, dark red against pale skin. Gergel yelped and stumbled back, releasing Angela as his legs went uncertain.
Angela turned, frozen, staring at Jack like she'd just watched a miracle crawl out of a corpse.
Jack stood on the bed, breathing hard, helmet in his hand, looking down at Gergel with pure, vicious satisfaction.
"How dare you touch my woman?" he snapped. "How dare you talk to me like I'm a dog?"
He pointed the helmet at him like a judge's gavel.
"You're the son of a secretary and you act like you own the world. You disrespect the king in his own hall? I'll beat you until you can't even take care of yourself, you fat piece of—"
He stopped just long enough for a thought to flash through his head:
Damn. He's not actually important. I almost got bluffed.
Another thought followed, smaller and weirdly practical:
Wait… do kings here say "I"? Or do I have to say "We"?
The room fell dead silent.
Angela stared.
Mira lay on the floor, clutching her swollen face, staring like she'd just seen the sun speak.
Gergel lay half-sitting, half-sprawled, blinking through pain and humiliation, looking at Jack like he didn't recognize him anymore.
Because he didn't.
The Arthur he'd bullied for years was gone.
And something else was wearing the crown now.
Gergel's expression changed.
Fear flickered…
Then spite.
He remembered why he'd come.
He decided to stop playing.
He raised his fat hand.
And began to chant.
The words were thick and strange—ancient syllables scraping the air like flint. Heat gathered above his palm. A red glow formed, swelling, pulsing, growing into a fist-sized orb of fire.
The temperature in the hall climbed fast. The scent of hot metal and dry wood filled Jack's nose.
Gergel smiled, teeth showing.
"King?" he sneered. "Besides you, who in Pendragon Hold still considers you king?"
He lifted the fire higher, delighting in the way Angela flinched.
"You dared to hit me. Now you will witness the wrath of a noble mage."
Jack's pupils tightened.
Mage?
His brain—still wired for modern logic—scrambled.
Holy shit. The fat bastard is actually a wizard.
He looked around, rapid, searching for anything sharp, anything heavy, anything useful.
The helmet in his hand suddenly felt… inadequate.
"Even if it's a duel," Jack muttered, voice thin, "at least give me a sword—"
Then he remembered: he was supposed to be a king.
Kings had people.
Kings had guards.
Kings had authority.
Jack threw his head back and bellowed, loud enough to shake the tapestries:
"GUARDS! GUARDS! Assassin! Someone's trying to assassinate the king!"
Gergel laughed.
"It's no use," he said, almost kindly. "No one will come."
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he launched the fireball.
It screamed through the air like a fired cannon shot—bright red, roaring, hungry—straight toward Jack's face.