Henry paced the room like a caged animal, wearing a groove into the stone floor, thoughts ricocheting in his skull like a bullet with no target, no exit. The world outside this prison spun madly on, while he was trapped here, stuck in the quicksand of this bizarre mess. His mind reached out for a plan, for escape—because that was always the answer, wasn't it?
Running.
Running fast, running far.
Just be careful not to trip, boy.
It was survival, plain and simple. When you're backed into a corner, you don't stand there and take it. You bolt. And Henry wasn't about to let some high-and-mighty Saint of Oberin reduce him to blood and pulp in front of a jeering crowd.
There had to be an out.
There was always a way out.
But tonight, all he saw were four walls and the weight of silence pressing in on him like an iron maiden.
The room was a study in poverty—a thin mattress sagged in the corner like an afterthought, a single candle sputtered on a low, crooked table, throwing flickering shadows that danced across the gray stone walls. The only window was barred, of course, like something out of a bad dream, the moonlight just a whisper that barely made it through the cracks. Not much to work with. The air was cold, dead, like the room had forgotten what warmth felt like. He stood by the table, rubbing his temples as if he could knead the confusion away like dough, and let his mind run laps through everything he knew—or thought he knew—about this world.
The rules were different here, slippery like snakes and eels.
That and he didn't really know the rules. He wasn't informed what the laws and customs were before he was sent into this world without his say.
Even so, would he really follow all that? He didn't think so.
But none of that mattered now. He'd have to improvise.
He always did—trick of the trade.
Suddenly, a knock—
Thud.
THUD!
Two hits, deliberate, the second one louder, like whoever was out there wanted to make damn sure they were heard. His muscles tensed.
Before he could say a word, the door creaked open, slow and steady, like it had all the time in the world. A servant slipped in, gliding more than walking, carrying a silver tray with the kind of grace you only see in someone who's spent their whole life balancing fragile things. On the tray sat a bottle and a single glass, the kind of glass that said this wasn't casual, this was ceremonial. Embroidered with gold and emerald.
The servant bowed, low and exaggerated, setting the tray on the table like an offering to a god.
"A gift from His Highness," he said, the words heavy with irony, like they both knew what kind of game this was. "He sends his regards."
Henry stood there, one eyebrow raised. The prince, huh? What kind of play was this? Was it some twisted mind game? Get him all cozy and loose before tomorrow's bloodbath? Or maybe the prince had another angle—maybe he'd taken a shine to Henry.
It wouldn't be the first time he'd attracted interest from the same sex.
It was all power, all politics in the end, and he'd been in enough games to recognize the pieces on the board. But there was something else too. He'd seen the way the prince smiled at him, that sly, snake-oil grin that never reached the eyes. The kind of smile that promised betrayal as soon as you turned your back.
He knew that look too well—saw it sometimes in the mirror when he was feeling honest.
The servant vanished as quietly as he'd come, leaving the bottle and the glass. Henry stared at the bottle with suspicion, the label worn and peeling, like it had been dragged through a hundred years of dust and doom. He wasn't born yesterday—this was no friendly gesture. It was bait, a trap wrapped in a silver and yellow bow. He reached out, fingers brushing the cool glass, half-expecting it to bite. He took it and let the aroma swirl on his nose.
Dry Chardonnay?
Sweet Port?
No—
Grape juice.
GRAPE-FUCKING-JUICE!
He expected it to be wine, but juice? The night before his public execution masked by a custom? Henry knew the kind of person the prince was, and he had seen that kind of person. No matter how much of a jester and plotting bastards they were, they wouldn't be so much of a cunt to send a man to die with a belly full of grape juice rather than wine.
More so if he was considered the Chosen One or whatever.
And so, he just came to an understanding. A quiver of jest shook on his lungs before reaching his neck as a chuckle to the absurd. Then he laughed bitterly, a laugh that had more teeth than joy.
"Really?" he muttered, shaking his head. "This world doesn't have wine, either? Jesus Christ."
But as his fingers lingered on the bottle, something shifted. A warmth started to pulse from the glass into his hand, a slow burn that spread through his veins, awakening something deep inside. He could feel it, his power stirring like an introduction of a rare, new friend.
King of Rot, it was called.
The skill that let him twist life into death.
In other words, it's the simple act of rapid fermentation.
As the heat flowed into him, he watched in awe as the liquid inside the bottle and glass began to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the pale purple of the juice darkened, bubbled, churned. It deepened into a thick, rich red, swirling like blood in the flickering candlelight, transforming right before his eyes. From something innocent, harmless, to something potent, something strong.
Wine.
The lifeblood of old and new civilizations.
"Now we're talkin'," Henry grinned, a wicked gleam lighting up his eyes.
He lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the cool touch of the rim before taking a deep, deliberate swig. The wine slid down his throat like silk, smooth and sharp all at once, spreading warmth through his chest. But there was more to it, something primal, electric—a surge of energy, booming, sonic-like, through his veins, setting him ablaze from the inside out.
And then came the flood.
A torrent of information, ripping through his mind like a sparkle or lighting on a smokestack:
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[Passive Skill Unlocked]
Master of Liquors (Lvl. 1)
Effect: Consuming any alcoholic beverage grants Henry Savoy immense temporary boosts to strength, agility, speed, and perception. The more potent the complexly made liquor, the stronger the boost and effects.
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Henry blinked, the words searing themselves into his brain. His whole body hummed with a new kind of power. The wine was transforming him.
Suddenly, everything sharpened.
He could hear the faint rustle of wind outside, threading through the trees, the barely perceptible creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and even the soft rise and fall of his own breath. The air itself felt viscous, each second stretching out, slow and heavy. No caffeine, but the world had shifted, moving at half-speed while he buzzed along, alive, awake, every nerve on fire.
He stretched his arms, his muscles coiling like they'd been newly tuned, ready to spring. Strength surged in him, raw and limitless, his body lighter, quicker, almost weightless like a feather strand. His senses were razor-sharp now.
The room, which had been suffocating him not minutes before, now a playground.
"Fucking hell," he whispered, looking at the glass in his hand, then at the bottle. "I feel like a hundred bucks."
He didn't hesitate.
He tipped the glass again, downing the rest of the wine in one long pull. Then, the bottle after, though he was inclined on keeping just a bit at the bottom for morning.
Agility spiked, perception stretched to the edges of the room, and his speed—God, his speed—shot through the roof. He moved like liquid now, every step fluid, effortless. His thoughts raced ahead, connecting, strategizing, imagining all the ways this new power could tip the balance in his favor.
The fight tomorrow?
That wasn't something to fear anymore.
Hell no.
Henry Savoy was done with running.
The night blurred as he paced, energy crackling in his limbs, plans forming faster than he could keep up with. Every scenario, every possible move and counter, played out in his mind. He wasn't just alive—he was more than alive.
Aliver?—
Yeah, no, it was something.
And whatever that something, it was something beyond, something untouchable. That's triple Somethings.
The world had slowed down just for him, as if it had bowed in acknowledgment of what he was about to become.
By the time the first light of dawn crept through the barred window, the bottle was empty, and Henry stood poised, a cooking grenade ready to explode. He had drained the last drop, letting the final rush of power settle into his bones. Every inch of him thrummed with excitement. The morning air felt charged, vibrating with the promise of victory.
And then it came again—two knocks, the same pattern as the night before, precise, deliberate.
Thud.
THUD!
The door creaked open, and a guardsman stepped into the room, his armor clinking in the quiet.
"It is time," the man said, his voice steady, mechanical, like this was just another day.
Maybe it was.
This thing is a custom, after all.
Henry squinted against the bits of intruding early light, feeling the stampede beneath his skin. He didn't bother with words, just nodded, a small smirk playing on his lips. He followed them out, moving with a new kind of grace, each step a silent ripple through the air. The long stone corridors stretched out ahead, but for the first time, they didn't feel confining. It was a runway.
The guards flanked him, armor rustling, their footsteps heavy and dull compared to the lightness in Henry's bones. He could hear everything now—the faint drip of water from a crack in the ceiling, the gentle rustle of morning wind slipping through the cracks of the old fortress. Even the heartbeat of the guards beside him, steady and slow, was crystal clear.
His senses were so heightened, it felt almost unnatural, like he had transcended the physical.
The smell of morning dew hung in the air, and every sound, every motion, was amplified tenfold. Henry could barely contain himself, the anticipation swirling inside him, the hunger for the fight growing with every passing second. This wasn't going to be an execution. This wasn't going to be his downfall.
It's his ascension. Apotheosis in his own way.
God, he might really be the Chosen One.
If so, this world is utterly fucked.
Unequivocally fucked.
Fucked beyond—
Yeah, yeah.
You get it.