Ethan felt like he was gliding through life ever since he humiliated Brad in the cafeteria. The jock's face, twisted with shock as he hit the floor, was a satisfying memory that replayed in his head more often than he cared to admit.
But Ethan had forgotten one crucial thing—a humiliated enemy is far more dangerous than a defeated one.
---
One Week Later
Ethan was walking home, earbuds in, casually listening to podcasts about medieval warfare (it was comforting to him, like listening to old friends). The sun was setting, and the streets were nearly empty.
As he turned a corner near the park, he felt it.
That creeping sensation—the one he used to feel on the battlefield when assassins lurked in the shadows. His instincts, honed by years of war, screamed at him.
He yanked his earbuds out. Footsteps. Multiple.
He glanced over his shoulder. Three guys, leather jackets, tattoos, and not the friendly kind. Local thugs.
Ethan stopped.
"Hey," one of them called out, smirking. "You Ethan?"
He didn't answer. A quick glance at their hands revealed brass knuckles and a chain.
Brad.
Ethan sighed. "Really? Paying thugs to fight your battles?"
The leader of the group cracked his knuckles. "He paid well. Said something about you tossing him like a sack of potatoes. I don't know, kid. Doesn't matter."
Ethan scanned the area—no one around. His heart pounded.
This is just like back then…
He remembered standing on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies, injured and tired. He died that day.
"I can handle three." Ethan rolled his shoulders, stepping forward.
Then the first punch hit.
And reality hit harder.
His nerd body was not his king's body. The punch sent him stumbling back like he'd been hit by a horse.
"By the gods," Ethan muttered, clutching his side.
He was weak. Slow. Fragile.
The thugs advanced, smirking.
Ethan dodged the next hit, barely. Another grazed his cheek. He threw a punch of his own, but it was laughable. His arm felt like a noodle.
"Pathetic," the leader scoffed.
Ethan knew it—this wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
He bolted.
---
Running was not very kingly.
But Ethan wasn't a king anymore. He was a skinny nerd with knees that threatened to buckle if he ran for too long.
He cut through the park, vaulting over benches (badly), sprinting toward home. The thugs followed, shouting behind him.
"I am NOT dying in this weakling's body!" Ethan panted.
He turned a corner, nearly slipping, and dove into a narrow alley. The thugs ran past, not seeing him crouched behind a dumpster.
His chest heaved. His pride burned.
That was humiliating.
---
Later that night…
Ethan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"This… this body is useless." He flexed his arm, barely seeing any muscle. Brad will keep coming. If it wasn't thugs, it would be more bullies, more humiliation.
"I need strength," he whispered. "I need to train."
The battlefield flashed in his memory. His sword, his armor, his soldiers.
"Before, I was a king, not because I was born strong. I became strong."
His eyes narrowed.
"I will not die again. Not here. Not like this."
---
The next morning
Ethan dragged himself to the nearest gym. It smelled like sweat, and the people there looked like they could snap him in half.
He approached the front desk. The man working there glanced up—a huge guy, biceps thicker than Ethan's thighs.
"You lost, kid?"
Ethan shook his head. "I need to get stronger."
The guy raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You sure about that?"
Ethan's eyes glinted. "I've led armies. Fought wars. I'll do whatever it takes."
The gym worker stared at him, then laughed. "Sure, buddy. Let's start with ten push-ups."
---
Day 1 of Training: Ethan completed two and a half push-ups.
Day 3: His arms stopped shaking after five push-ups.
Day 7: He could lift more than just the bar.
---
Ethan's body wasn't the same as before. But day by day, his determination burned brighter.
"King or not," he said, staring at his reflection in the gym mirror, "I refuse to be weak."
Brad and his thugs would regret ever crossing him.