The morning began on the 51st floor of the building. In the corridor outside his cramped office, Resa strolled purposefully. An office worker known for her provocative confidence, she carried herself with a feline grace. Her white blouse—carefully chosen to accentuate her ample figure—was paired with a dark bra that hinted at sophistication despite its modest price. As she passed by, her deliberate, graceful stride and subtly emphasized curves caught the eye of many; yet, to some, it was merely another part of the daily urban theater.
Inside his small, cluttered office, Achem Powers sat at his desk, eyes fixed blankly on the computer screen. For nearly ten years he had toiled at this company—a place where innovation and ambition were routinely stifled by relentless office politics. In his early days, Achem had been recognized as a rising star. He had proposed cutting-edge ideas, streamlined workflows, and efficient systems that might have propelled the company forward. Yet every time he presented his concepts with enthusiasm, they were either dismissed or, even worse, stolen by those with the proper connections.
He had once believed that hard work and intelligence would eventually be rewarded. Instead, promotions were given not to those who showed merit but to those who mastered the art of backdoor deals and personal favors. His supervisor, Richard Grayson—a man possessing only half of Achem's insight but twice the ruthlessness—systematically undermined his credibility, ensuring that every success was overshadowed by errors for which Achem was unfairly held responsible.
The office itself had become a battlefield of whispered rumors and covert alliances, a daily reminder of a system steeped in nepotism. Colleagues who had once greeted him warmly now whispered behind his back. Every rejected proposal and failed project piled up into a damning record that Achem could neither challenge nor erase. He had seen his innovative ideas flourish on paper, only to be executed by others who readily claimed the credit.
Yet the corruption extended far beyond the sterile walls of the office. The entire country seemed mired in a network of deceit and greed. The government, a mere puppet for the powerful elite, masked its true nature behind promises of prosperity. The President, manipulated by secret cabals, enacted policies that favored the few, while law enforcement turned a blind eye to injustice. Achem had long since learned that justice was a lie—a tale told to keep the powerless in their place.
Personal tragedies compounded his professional disappointments. Orphaned at a young age, Achem had grown up with the heavy burden of abandonment, his dreams of making his parents proud shattered by fate. His siblings had long since severed ties, unwilling to share the weight of his misfortunes. Attempts at love and friendship ended in betrayal, leaving him isolated and embittered. All he had left were his hard-earned savings—a meager sum that had once represented hope but now served as a bitter reminder of his failures.
Today, everything reached a breaking point.
"I'm sorry, Achem. We have to downsize the team. This isn't about your performance; it's simply an unfortunate situation," his boss said in a tone of feigned sympathy. Achem knew the truth. The company's quarterly reports showed record profits; this was merely a convenient pretext to dispose of him.
"You've been an important part of the team," his boss continued, "and we appreciate all the work you've done."
Achem clenched his fists beneath the desk. "Who is taking over my position?" he demanded.
After a brief pause, the answer he dreaded came out coldly:
"Greg."
Of course—Greg, a man who had been with the company for barely two years and who spent more time socializing with the higher-ups than actually working. The betrayal stung deeply, and Achem felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat.
Leaving the office, he wandered aimlessly through rain-soaked streets. The downpour seeped into his bones, mirroring the numbness he felt inside. His life had become a ceaseless loop of failures, each one reinforcing the belief that he was nothing more than a disposable pawn in a corrupt system.
As he gazed up at the gray sky, he silently questioned, "Is this really the end?" The answer came sooner than expected—a deafening horn blared in the distance. Achem turned to see the blinding headlights of a speeding sports car. Time seemed to slow as the vehicle approached in slow motion.
In an instant, his body was hurled into the air, pain searing through every fiber, and his consciousness slipped away. His final thought, born of despair and defiance, was a solemn vow:
"If I get a second chance, I will have my revenge. I will never be a loser again."
When Achem next opened his eyes, he was not on a cold, wet street but on rocky ground. The sharp scent of blood mingled with the earth beneath him. The sky overhead was an otherworldly deep purple, and two moons hung on the horizon. Disoriented and in agony, he murmured, "Two moons?"
Surrounded by ancient trees, his body ached with every movement. He soon realized he was in the ruins of a castle. Tattered banners fluttered in the night wind, and scattered corpses bore silent witness to brutal battles. Distant shouts of soldiers and echoing footsteps warned him of impending danger.
"They're still looking for me..." The words echoed in his mind, as if preordained.
In that moment, memories surged forth—memories of a life he never imagined he would lead. No longer was he Achem Powers, the office worker crushed by corporate greed; he had become Rogar, the Fallen King—a once-mighty ruler overthrown and left for dead. Yet, against all odds, he had survived.
Blood dripped from his healing wounds, and though his body was frail, a fierce determination ignited within him. He knew he could not remain where he was; he had to escape and rebuild. Dragging himself toward a crumbling wall, he sought cover as the sound of approaching soldiers grew louder. Three soldiers in black armor, adorned with a golden lion emblem, marched near his hiding place.
"Make sure he's dead. If you find the body, cut off his head and bring it to the palace," one commanded.
Achem clenched his teeth—there was but one choice: escape. Spotting a small gap in the wall, he crawled through despite the searing pain with every movement.
Emerging into the darkness, he sensed another presence. A pair of observant eyes watched him from the shadows.
"So, you're still alive, Your Majesty."
The voice was soft yet laced with mockery. Turning, Achem saw a woman with long, black hair, clad in a tattered cloak. Her eyes burned with intelligence and a hint of deceit.
Though he did not immediately recognize her, the memories in his mind whispered her name—Lysara, once a trusted ally, now known as the betrayed sorceress.
"You look pathetic," Lysara sneered. "I never imagined the great King would become a dying fugitive."
Weak though he was, Achem's mind raced. If this woman recognized him, he might still possess some leverage in this unfamiliar world.
"You can kill me now," he rasped, "or help me and gain something far greater."
Lysara chuckled darkly. "You still know how to negotiate, it seems. But I do not work for free. What can you offer me?"
With pain and bitterness mingling in his eyes, Achem replied, "Revenge. You wish to see them fall, do you not? The ones who betrayed you?"
Her expression shifted ever so slightly, betraying a deeper emotion before she masked it once more. "Interesting," she finally said. "Very well, Your Majesty. I will help you... for now."
She extended her hand, but Achem hesitated—trust was a dangerous gamble in this new life. His memories warned him that she, too, harbored dangerous ambitions.
"I do not trust you," he admitted, his voice rough and hoarse.
Lysara smirked. "Good. Trust will only get you killed in this world. But if you wish to live, you need me."