"When life shits on you, there are two choices: grow or drown. Most people think drowning is easier—until they realize the water's already up to their necks. So , Grow and adapt, grow and adapt again and again and again. That's what you do when life shits on you—nothing more, nothing less.
There's a saying among the Hindu people of Nepal: "K garney?"—simply meaning, "What to do now?" Arnold found this inspiring. Most people ingrained a habit of shrinking away from what was happening or what had happened to them, but not these people from Nepal. They would always say, "K garney." To elaborate further: "What happened has happened. What will we do now?"
Where do we choose to step after a fall? Do we move forward and climb, or stay in the pit and blame God, bad luck, or some other distraction?
So here he is now, in a new pit. The balcony stretched out before him like an open wound, its golden railings gleaming under the sun as if mocking his predicament. Below, the sprawling capital of Rexos sprawled in all its glory—streets teeming with merchants shouting over carts laden with goods, knights parading through cobblestone avenues, and peasants scattering like ants beneath the shadow of castles that seemed carved from clouds themselves. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
And utterly meaningless.
Arnold—or rather, Atlas now—leaned against the railing, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. His mind raced faster than a runaway train, thoughts colliding violently as he stared at the horizon. The view should've been inspiring—it 'would' have been, back when he still had the luxury of pretending everything made sense. But now? Now it just felt cruel. Like dangling honeycomb in front of a starving bear, only for the bear to realize it can never reach it no matter how hard it tries.
"K garney?" he muttered bitterly, echoing the phrase that had become his mantra these past few days. What could he do? What 'should' he do? The question wasn't rhetorical; it was desperate. Because sitting here, trapped in this gilded cage of a body that wasn't even his, staring down at a world where death was practically guaranteed within weeks…well, let's just say optimism wasn't exactly his strong suit right now.
He sighed heavily, running a hand through hair that didn't belong to him but somehow fit perfectly anyway. That voice—the one belonging to some faceless NPC who'd greeted him upon arrival—kept replaying in his head. "You're supposed to be dead," she'd said. And yeah, technically, he 'had' died. Slipped on a beer bottle, cracked his skull open, bled out alone in his shitty apartment while playing a romance sim about princesses and stepbrothers. Not exactly a heroic exit by anyone's standards.
But apparently, fate—or whatever cosmic jokester ran this circus—wasn't done screwing with him yet. Here he was, alive (sort of), inhabiting the body of a fictional character destined to die in Act One of a five-act tragedy. Great. Just fucking great.
"System…" he called out quietly, half-expecting nothing to happen. After all, why would anything ever work the way it was supposed to in situations like this?
And then it appeared—a shimmering hologram hovering midair, glowing white-hot against the backdrop of blue skies and distant mountains. For a second, Arnold forgot how to breathe. This wasn't just any system interface; it was 'his'. Straight out of every gamer fantasy he'd ever indulged in late-night binge sessions fueled by energy drinks and self-loathing. Except instead of leveling up characters in some virtual reality game, this time it was real. Too real.
His eyes scanned the display greedily, devouring every detail like a starving man devouring bread crusts. Stats, skills, abilities—it was all there, laid bare in cold, clinical numbers that somehow managed to feel both impersonal and deeply personal at the same time.
[System]
[Name: Atlas Von Roxweld
Age: 14 (32) (Wait, what?)
Body Grade: C
BODY STATS:
Bone: 8
Muscles: 7
Organs: 5
Brain: 10
Heart: 12
Mana Nerves: 0
Skills:
Voice Control (C grade)
Prince's Aura (A grade)
Truth Eyes (B grade)
Points Available: 0]
"Wow," he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Mana nerves are zero. That bitch of a stepmother really did a number on me, didn't she?"
Hissing through gritted teeth, he pushed away from the railing, pacing back and forth across the marble floor like a caged animal. Each step echoed sharply, reverberating off walls adorned with paintings of ancestors whose names he couldn't remember—and honestly didn't care about. All that mattered right now was survival. Raw, brutal survival.
Because dying once had been bad enough. The darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, the warmth pooling around his head as consciousness slipped away… Those memories lingered like ghosts haunting the recesses of his mind, refusing to leave him alone. Even now, three days later, he could still feel phantom pain throbbing dully behind his temples whenever he thought too hard about it.
"No," he snarled suddenly, slamming a fist against the nearest pillar. Pain shot up his arm, sharp and electric, but he barely registered it. "Fuck no. I'm not doing that again. Once was plenty."
Grabbing a quill and parchment from the desk inside, he began scribbling furiously, jotting down every last detail he could recall from the game. Characters, plotlines, key events—it all poured onto the page in messy scrawls, ink smudging where sweat dripped from his brow. He didn't stop until his hand cramped painfully, muscles protesting each movement like stubborn children refusing bedtime.
Finally, he leaned back, chest heaving as he surveyed his notes. Everything was there—the entire story arc of Lara's journey, from start to finish. Five acts spanning years of political intrigue, forbidden romances, betrayals, and battles fought not just with swords but with words sharper than daggers.
And smack dab in the middle of Act One? His death. A quick, unceremonious end brought about by choosing the wrong romantic interest during gameplay. According to fan commentary floating around online forums, taking the "stepbrother route" allowed players to keep Atlas alive longer. But here's the kicker: Arnold hadn't played that route yet. Nope. Instead, he'd opted for the default storyline because, hey, spoilers were lame, right?
"Oh shit oh shit oh SHIT!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as realization hit him like a freight train. "I haven't finished THAT ROUTE YET!!!"
Panic surged through him, hot and suffocating, as he stumbled backward, legs giving out beneath him. He crashed to the ground, vision swimming as adrenaline coursed wildly through veins that weren't technically his own anymore. Hands scrambled frantically at the scattered papers, trying to piece together fragments of knowledge that might save his sorry ass.
"Your Highness?! What happened?!"
Before he could respond, hands grabbed him roughly, hauling him upright. A maid stood beside him, wide-eyed and pale, clutching a tray holding steaming cups of tea like they were lifelines. Her voice trembled as she repeated herself, louder this time: "YOUR HIGHNESS! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!"
For a moment, neither moved. Then Arnold groaned, slumping forward slightly as exhaustion overwhelmed panic. He forced himself to take slow, deliberate breaths, counting each one silently in his head. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and raspy, tinged with dark humor that bordered on hysteria.
"You know," he said dryly, meeting her gaze with eyes that burned brighter than any fire, "if you'd asked me thirty seconds ago whether I wanted tea, I probably would've laughed in your face. But now? Yeah, sure. Pour me a cup. Might as well enjoy my last moments before destiny decides to fuck me over again."
After sipping his tea he finally felt peace. So he wanted some time to himself.
"Thank you for the tea, I don't need any servants as of the moment, miss Sansa i appreciate if you left the room." He voiced.
Sansa nodded following orders still surprised why he was not yelling at her to get out and throwing his tea at her like before but before she went away she voiced, her lipa still quaking. " It... would be helpful... for the king if his healed son... visited him once."
And with those words she walked away fast with fear as she knew the temper of Atlas, the prince of reckoning.
Atlas kept his eyes glued on his notes but the words she said did reach his ear. His father Henry Von roxweld, the king of this whole kingdom. It was still jarring to think he was an actual royalty but she was right. In the game the king who was already near his death bed, would eventually die and kick start the whole game.
"I am fourteen right now, the game starts when Lara reaches sixteen meaning, she is one year younger than me. So there is still time....
Hmmmm.....sitting around and only thinking won't save my damn life. My father before had a nack for abusing. Let's see what my new father does..."
With that hebreached to his chamber. The servants and the guards still wary of him, looking at him like he just rose from the dead.
Atlas didn't care, couldn't even if he tried. He had a life to save and that was his own. The gates finally open. And there he was, his royal highness. The ruler of the Berkimhum kingdom, the king of strays they called him. Once a mighty king, now laying on bed unable to move and everything. What can a man do when he has powers like of a God but had to stay in his chamber forever just for the plot.
The room smelled faintly of decay—a mix of stale air and medicinal herbs meant to mask the inevitable truth. His father lay propped up on pillows embroidered with golden thread, their once-vivid patterns now faded by years of neglect. Henry Von Roxweld, the man once known as the fiercest ruler in all of Berkimhum, looked smaller somehow, shrunken beneath layers of blankets stitched with royal insignias. If Atlas squinted hard enough, he could imagine the king of old—the warrior who'd carved an empire out of chaos—but today, all he saw was a broken shell clinging desperately to life.
"Atlas…" The voice was rough, barely audible over the crackling fireplace nearby. Still, it sent a chill down Atlas's spine. That tone held authority, even weakened as it was. A lifetime of commanding armies and crushing enemies couldn't be erased so easily.
"…yes your highness… father." The last word tasted bitter on his tongue, foreign yet oddly fitting. When was the last time anyone called Henry 'father' without flinching? Years, perhaps decades. Power had a way of erasing intimacy, turning loved ones into subjects bound by duty rather than affection.
Henry's lips twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to make Atlas pause. "Gods have blessed you, my son…" he rasped, gripping the edge of his blanket with trembling hands. "…I regretted the thought of us going together to the heavens."
For a moment, Atlas stared at him, uncomprehending. Was this some kind of twisted apology? An acknowledgment of guilt wrapped in flowery language? Or maybe just another attempt to manipulate emotions he no longer possessed?
"Sorry, Father," Atlas said finally, his voice dripping with sarcasm thick enough to choke a demon. "To leave you on your journey to the end, I mean."
And then came the laugh—a wheezing, gasping sound that rattled through the room like dry leaves caught in autumn winds. For a second, Atlas thought the old man might actually keel over right there. But instead, Henry leaned back against his mountain of pillows, eyes twinkling with something between amusement and pride.
"You've grown to make jokes with the king, on his deathbed no less," Henry chuckled, coughing slightly before continuing. "Hahahaha… Atlas…"
"Yes, Father?"
There it was again—that flicker of vulnerability hidden behind layers of bravado. Whatever walls Henry had built around himself were crumbling faster than expected, leaving behind glimpses of the man beneath. Not the tyrant or conqueror, but simply… a father facing his mortality.
"I am not asking much," Henry murmured, his gaze boring into Atlas like twin daggers. "But please take care and protect yourself until you are ready to be crowned…"
The word hung in the air like smoke after a firestorm, heavy and suffocating. Crowned? Him? Not Lara, the prodigy everyone whispered about in reverent tones? Not the girl destined to save kingdoms and rewrite history books?
Atlas blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scream. This wasn't how the story went. In the game, Lara claimed the throne effortlessly, her brilliance overshadowing every other contender—including her own brother. Her coronation marked the beginning of Act Two, where players guided her through political intrigues and epic battles. There was never any mention of 'him' let alone succession plans involving the crown.
"But what about Lara?" Atlas asked cautiously, keeping his tone neutral despite the storm brewing inside him. "She's a once-in-a-millennium genius. She can do better, be better than me."
Henry sighed deeply, the sound resonating like distant thunder rolling across plains. "You still have a long way to go," he admitted grudgingly. "She is worthy, yes—but her mother, the present queen, isn't."
The words hit Atlas like a punch to the gut. Such heavy accusations, spoken so casually, threatened to unravel everything he thought he knew about this family, this kingdom. If these sentiments ever leaked beyond these walls, civil war would erupt overnight, burning cities to ash and drowning rivers in blood.
"…she is no longer whom I used to love," Henry continued bitterly, his voice laced with venom. "Power, attention—it intoxicated her to a point of no return. Be careful, my son. Be careful."