- Some wounds never heal; they just scab over and itch forever. But sometimes, that itch is enough to remind you you're still alive.
Henry Von Roxweld wasn't dying quietly. No, the man who once ruled an empire with an iron fist refused to go gently into whatever abyss awaited him. Even now, propped up on pillows like a broken doll stitched together by regret and fading pride, he radiated authority—not because of his strength, but because of his sheer willpower. His voice might have been weak, rasping through cracked lips, but each word carried the weight of decades spent clawing his way to the top.
"Be careful, my son. Be careful," Henry whispered, his trembling hands gripping the edge of his blanket as though it were the last lifeline tethering him to this world. "You are still young and naive, and she is devilishly smart—like a vixen. I still wonder why I loved her…."
Atlas froze mid-step, his boots clicking faintly against the marble floor. The king raised one shaky hand—a gesture so frail it seemed impossible coming from the same man who'd once commanded armies—and Atlas obeyed without question. Something in Henry's tone had shifted, sharpened, cutting through the haze of unresolved guilt and simmering resentment that had lingered between them for years.
"Father! What are you doing? You shouldn't be moving!" Atlas protested, rushing forward despite himself. He reached out instinctively, ready to help his father settle back down, but Henry's glare stopped him cold. It wasn't anger in those eyes—it was command, raw and unrelenting, even in sickness.
"Son," Henry said, his voice low and deliberate, "I don't know what happened in these three days. I hear whispers—you've changed since your brush with death. An experience close to the void awakened something in you. And maybe the maids are right or maybe I misheard. One thing remains true: You are Atlas Von Roxweld, son of Henry Von Roxweld the First. Me. ME. THE KING."
Each syllable landed like a hammer strike, echoing off the walls of the dimly lit chamber. For a moment, Atlas felt small again—the forgotten prince overshadowed by Lara's brilliance, dismissed as little more than a footnote in the grand narrative of Berkimhum's legacy. But then Henry leaned forward, his gaze piercing through layers of doubt and self-loathing, and spoke words Atlas hadn't dared hope to hear.
".lets cut to thr point, the reason i wanted you here now was to say...I'm sorry. I should have said it sooner, much sooner My attention has always been on Lara and her genius. I forgot about you—you, who lived in her shadow all these years. I should have been a better father instead of a better king."
The room fell silent except for the faint crackle of the fireplace. Atlas's chest tightened, his throat constricting as if someone had wrapped iron bands around it. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring the image of his father before him. These simple words—words he'd waited thirty-two miserable years to hear—felt like daggers slicing open old wounds. Not out of pain, but relief. Catharsis. Redemption. Maybe it was redemption for his old soul who never felt any love from family or friends.
"Maybe I needed to hear such things," Atlas murmured under his breath, swiping at his cheeks roughly with the back of his hand. "Maybe this touches me deep down because my old family never treated me this way." He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Gods above, I sound pathetic admitting it. Hell, part of me wonders if these dialogues were scripted in the game too." he whispered.
But Henry didn't laugh. Instead, he smiled—a genuine smile, the kind Atlas couldn't remember seeing directed at him in… well, ever. "Don't worry, Father," Atlas said finally, his voice steadier than he expected. "All of that is in the past. Tell me, what must I do to earn your recognition?"
He didn't care whether those words were sincere or manipulative. They touched him deeply, igniting a spark within that burned brighter than anything he'd felt before. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it made him vulnerable, but Atlas admitted it freely: he wanted this. Needed it. Craved it.
Henry's smile widened, though it cost him dearly. Pain flickered across his face, but he pushed through it, clinging to the moment like a drowning man clutching driftwood. "You really have grown," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "So fast that I regret missing it. I could have taught you, guided you, filled you with my wisdom. Turned you into a king the Empire would fear. But now…"
His gaze softened, almost wistful. "Now I see fire in you. A fire extinguished once, only to burn again with audacity and confidence. That fire knows no bounds, Atlas. Only YOU truly understand its depths."
Fire and confidence. Two qualities Atlas recognized immediately. Qualities that had kept him alive in both his original life and this borrowed existence. Yet here, in this gilded cage of royalty and ruin, they took on new meaning. What did Henry see in him now? Desperation? Trauma? Or something else entirely?
And then it hit him—a memory surfacing like shards of glass breaking through murky water. Once, in the game, Henry had spoken to Lara about a quality she lacked. A single trait that set apart rulers from mere leaders.
"Is it…?" Atlas began hesitantly, his thoughts tumbling out faster than he could contain them. "The only good thing about me is how I keep getting back up. I fall, I break, I bleed—but I stand again. Always. Is that it?"
"Yes!" Henry exclaimed, his voice rising with excitement despite his frailty. "My blood runs through you, my son. Never change. NEVER CHANGE. I chose you for the throne not because of brilliance or charm, but because of your relentless ego. At the end of the day, ruling a kingdom demands nothing less."
The words reverberated in Atlas's mind long after Henry slumped back onto his pillows, exhausted but triumphant. Relentless ego. It sounded absurd, almost cruel, yet it resonated deeply. In a world built on power dynamics and fragile alliances, humility got you killed. Compassion left you exploited. Love… love was a double-edged sword that cut both ways.
As Atlas turned to leave, his father's voice stopped him once more. Weak, barely audible, yet carrying the gravity of finality.
"One more thing, Atlas," Henry croaked, his eyes half-closed but still sharp. "Remember what I told you earlier. About your mother. She may wear the crown, but she doesn't deserve it. Watch her closely. Trust no one—not even yourself."
Atlas nodded, swallowing hard. Trust no one. Easy advice from a man whose trust had crumbled beneath betrayal and ambition. Still, the warning lingered, prickling at the edges of his consciousness like needles scraping bone.
Outside the royal chambers, the hallway stretched endlessly, lined with guards whose gazes followed Atlas like hawks tracking prey. Their expressions betrayed nothing, yet Atlas felt their judgment weighing on him. Whispers likely spread already—rumors of the prodigal prince returning to claim his birthright, rumors fueled by fear and uncertainty.
Sansa stood nearby, clutching a tray laden with untouched tea. Her blue eyes widened slightly as Atlas approached, her body stiffening like a rabbit caught in headlights. She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to ask how Henry fared, but Atlas beat her to it.
"Not now, Sansa," he muttered, brushing past her without slowing. "I need air."
Her soft footsteps faded behind him as he strode toward the balcony overlooking Rexos. The city sprawled below, bathed in golden sunlight that mocked the turmoil brewing inside him. Citizens bustled about their lives, oblivious to the storm gathering in the castle above. Oblivious to the fact that the prince they'd written off as useless might soon sit upon the throne.
Henry coughed violently, each spasm shaking his frail body like autumn leaves caught in a storm. Blood flecked his lips, dark against pale skin, as he struggled to sit upright once more. The effort alone seemed enough to kill him, but still, he reached for something tucked beneath his blankets—a ring that gleamed faintly despite the dim light of the room.
"Atlas…" Henry rasped, holding the sigil ring aloft between trembling fingers. His voice cracked under the weight of both authority and regret. "…here… take this."
Atlas blinked, staring at the object being offered to him. It wasn't just jewelry—it was power incarnate. A symbol of kingship, authority, and legacy wrapped into one small band of metal etched with runes older than memory itself. This was the tool used to sign royal decrees, seal alliances, condemn traitors, and declare wars. Without it, no king could rule. With it, Atlas would inherit not only the throne but also the burden of protecting an entire kingdom from collapse.
"...but Father," Atlas began hesitantly, his throat tightening around words too heavy to speak. He wanted to argue, to insist that such a thing didn't belong to him—not yet, maybe never. Yet, deep down, he knew better. The game had taught him well enough: without this ring, he was nothing more than a pawn waiting to be sacrificed on someone else's chessboard.
"It matters not," Henry interrupted sharply, though his tone softened almost immediately afterward. "For now, I can only give you this as a weapon and a shield to protect yourself from 'her'." His eyes hardened briefly before succumbing once more to exhaustion. "She will try to put you in your grave again, my son. So promise me—you won't let this kingdom fall under her greed."
The finality in those words hit Atlas like a battering ram slamming into castle gates. For years—decades—he'd seen Henry as nothing more than a distant figurehead, a tyrant whose ambition eclipsed compassion. But here, lying broken and dying, was simply a man. A father. A king who had made mistakes, yes, but one who understood the cost of failure far better than anyone else ever could.
'I wish I could heal you somehow," Atlas thought bitterly, clenching his fists until nails dug crescents into his palms. "But I know nothing will work. Not even Lara managed to save you in the end.'
Instead, he forced himself to nod, meeting his father's gaze head-on. There was no point pretending otherwise; they both knew time was running out faster than sand through an hourglass. And so, Atlas swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat back down where it belonged.
"Thank you, Father," he said quietly, slipping the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly, snug as though it had been forged specifically for him. Which, in some ways, it probably had. "And don't worry—I swear on my life, until I stand, the kingdom will stand in your name and in your strength. Just… don't die until then."
Henry chuckled weakly, the sound rough and uneven like gravel grinding beneath boots. "Heh… I'll try, son. I'll try."
---
[Notification Alert]
[Henry's Ring of Authority Detected]
[System Perk 'What's Yours Should Be Mine' Detected]
[You Have Taken What Should Be Of The MC]
[Congratulations! You Have Gained 100 Points]
---
Atlas froze mid-step, halfway out the door of his father's chambers. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, matching the erratic rhythm of notifications flashing across his mental interface.
"....huh?" he muttered aloud, glancing between the glowing text hovering before his eyes and the ring now resting heavily on his hand. The absurdity of it all struck him like lightning splitting open a stormy sky.
Points? Notifications? System perks? None of these existed in the original game—or at least, none that players were privy to. Lara certainly hadn't mentioned anything about earning rewards by stealing plotlines or items meant for other characters. Hell, she probably wouldn't have needed to; everything always seemed to fall neatly into place for her anyway.
But now, standing there with 100 shiny new points burning a hole through his virtual pocket, Atlas couldn't help but laugh. It started low, almost hesitant, before erupting into full-blown hysteria. Here he was—a gamer-turned-prince stuck in a medieval fantasy world—earning achievement bonuses for taking what rightfully belonged to the main character. Talk about irony.
Back inside his own chambers, Atlas plopped down onto the edge of his bed, staring intently at the holographic display floating inches above his lap. Numbers scrolled past like ticker tape during wartime broadcasts, accompanied by brief descriptions detailing potential upgrades available for purchase using his newly acquired points. Skills, stats, abilities—the list went on endlessly, tempting him with promises of power beyond imagination.
But first things first: priorities.
He remembered wanting what Lara had—her loving family, her prestige, her seemingly perfect life filled with adoration and admiration from everyone around her. Had his desire manifested somehow within the confines of this strange new reality? Was that why the system rewarded him whenever he claimed something originally destined for her?
It didn't matter. Not really. What mattered was that he had points. Insane amounts of them. Enough to tip scales tipped precariously against him since birth. Enough to rewrite destinies carved long before he even entered the picture.
"For now," he murmured thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his chin, "let's just keep at it. What else can I take from Lara…?"
His mind raced through memories of gameplay sessions spent meticulously mapping out story arcs and character interactions. If knowledge truly was power, then Atlas held the keys to unlocking doors others didn't even realize existed. Plot twists became tools, foreshadowing turned into weapons, and NPCs morphed into pawns dancing to his tune rather than fate's whimsical melody.
"But first," he grinned wickedly, pulling up menus detailing various stat boosts and skill enhancements, "let's use my 100 points. Hahahahaha. Such luxury."
Forget climbing the social ladder," he snickered, shaking his head as he continued walking toward his quarters. "I'm hacking the damn system instead."