The first thing he noticed was the pain.

A searing, unbearable agony rippled through his body, like molten metal running through his veins. His head throbbed as if it had been split open, and his lungs burned with every breath. He gasped, his body instinctively reacting, but something was wrong—this wasn't his body.

His fingers twitched, brushing against something soft. Fabric. Silk? His senses returned in waves, revealing the heavy weight of blankets over him, the scent of burnt incense, and the distant murmur of voices. He forced his eyes open, and the blurred world before him sharpened.

A grand chamber loomed above him. Dark stone walls, lined with ancient symbols, stretched toward a ceiling of shimmering blue crystal. Massive iron chandeliers floated in the air, held aloft by invisible forces. Flickering torches burned with unnatural blue flames. He was lying on an ornate bed, draped in golden sheets embroidered with sigils he didn't recognize.

This… wasn't his apartment. This wasn't even his world.

The memories hit him like a collapsing tower.

He was Ethan Cross, a historian, a scholar of ancient civilizations. He had spent years researching lost empires and forgotten kings. His last memory was of crossing the street—head down, too lost in thought to notice the truck—then nothing.

Yet, at the same time, another set of memories flooded his mind. Memories that didn't belong to him.

He was also King Malagar the Black Sun, ruler of the Arkanis Empire. A tyrant feared across the continent. A master of magic, war, and cruelty. The man who had crushed rebellions with a single word, whose enemies trembled at his name.

And, most importantly… a man who had just been assassinated.

Ethan's breath hitched. His heart pounded as flashes of Malagar's final moments surfaced—poison slipping into his wine, a dagger in the dark, the feeling of magic slipping from his grasp. He should have died. Malagar had died. But somehow, his soul had been replaced by Ethan's.

Or had they merged?

A cold shiver ran down his spine. He wasn't just in Malagar's body; he could feel the echoes of his emotions, his power, his hunger. His hands, now strong and calloused, trembled as he clenched them into fists.

A rustle of movement caught his attention. He turned sharply, muscles tensing on instinct. A man knelt beside the bed, head bowed low. He was dressed in flowing black robes embroidered with golden runes, his silver hair tied back in a warrior's knot. His face was lined with age, but his eyes burned with devotion.

"Your Majesty," the man said, voice thick with reverence. "The traitors have been executed. The kingdom awaits your command."

Ethan swallowed hard. His kingdom? His command?

The weight of reality settled onto his shoulders like a mantle of iron. Whether he liked it or not, he was Malagar now. The Mage-King.

And the game of power had just begun.