Niklas didn't sleep that night.
His body did—at intervals, twitching, collapsing from sheer exhaustion—but his mind didn't. It churned like a machine, cycling through fractured memories of Earth and the chilling new reality around him.
He was in a prison, in a queendom ruled by women. They didn't just hold the power—they were the power. Soldiers, nobles, torturers. He'd already seen enough to understand the tone of the world: men didn't matter.
He had no mirror, no datapad, no virtual assistant. All he had was his mind.
And that, thank whatever dimensional laws governed this universe, had come with him intact.
He laid still in the cell, listening.
Voices echoed in the corridor outside. Two women—guards, maybe—chatting idly.
He tilted his head toward the crack in the door.
"Did you hear?" one said, bored. "Marshal Alrenia is moving her banner west. Some baroness pissed her off."
"What else is new?" the other replied. "She gets bored if she's not slaughtering someone every two weeks. That, or bedding some poor stableboy into a coma."
Laughter. "You think she'll keep the rebel?"
"Doubt it. If he's lucky, she'll geld him and send him to the mines. If he's pretty, maybe the pits. Or her bed."
Niklas's stomach turned.
He pressed his cheek against the cold stone floor, straining to hear.
"Still," the first voice added, "he knocked out two guards and bloodied Lady Trisha's nose. That took balls."
"Didn't help him in the end, did it?"
Boots echoed and faded away.
Niklas exhaled.
Alerik, he thought. The original owner of this body. A rebel, maybe even a dangerous one. No wonder they were so eager to chain him.
He sat up slowly, shaking off the stiffness. The chains clanked against the wall.
If they thought he was dangerous… maybe that was leverage.
But right now, he was just a piece of meat in a cage.
A few hours later, the door creaked again. This time, no torch, no drama—just a low-ranking guard, a short, wiry woman with seafoam green hair and an ugly scar across her nose.
She carried a tin bowl and tossed it through the bars. Gruel splattered on the floor.
Niklas sat cross-legged, eyes steady.
"Excuse me," he said. "Can I speak with someone in command? There's been a mistake—"
"Oh, shut your hole," the woman barked. "You think you're the first cock-brain to say that?"
"I'm not who you think I am."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of Valinthor," she snorted. "Eat your food. Or starve. I don't care."
Niklas didn't blink. "You don't wonder why a man accused of rebellion is suddenly acting like a scribe instead of a berserker?"
She paused.
Then she smiled—a cruel, amused thing.
"Oh, I get it. You've gone soft from the punishment. Or maybe you're hoping I'll take pity on you and pull you into my bunk like some simpering bedboy." She stepped closer, staring him down. "Men don't reason, darling. They follow orders."
Niklas stayed calm. "Is that what you think of all men?"
"I know what you are. Fragile little creatures who need collars to remind them they aren't wolves."
He stared at her in silence.
She chuckled. "There it is. That look. Like you think you're different." She tapped the bars with her baton. "You'll break just like the others. Maybe slower, maybe louder. But you'll break."
She turned to leave.
"Tell me something," Niklas called after her. "If I'm just a man—why are you so angry?"
The baton slammed against the bars, inches from his face.
"Next time I'll break your teeth," she hissed, and was gone.
Niklas exhaled.
Weakness enrages them. Any deviation from the "proper" behavior of men in this world—obedient, silent, useful—provoked disdain or aggression.
But she gave him something even more valuable than a punch: information.
He now knew a few key things:
Marshal Alrenia was a military leader of some stature and had discretion over his fate.
The Queendom was aggressive, expansionist. Violence wasn't an exception—it was routine.
Men were commodities. Pit fighters. Bed-slaves. Miners. Disposables.
Fear wasn't what kept him caged—expectation did. They expected him to submit.
So don't.
Niklas leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He wasn't Alerik. He wasn't going to survive this world through brute force. He wasn't going to beg or break. He had to do what he always did best.
Think.
Later that day, another pair of guards arrived—higher ranking this time, judging by their clean uniforms and polished swords. They dragged him into a side chamber, chained to a metal chair under a flickering torch.
A tall woman with braided navy-blue hair stepped in. She wore a padded jerkin and carried a writing slate.
She eyed him like a hawk. "Name."
"Niklas," he replied.
She slapped the slate on the table. "Your name is Alerik of Varnhold, property of Lady Trisha of Oakhearth. Accused of assault, rebellion, and theft."
"I'm not—"
Crack!
A slap across the face.
She didn't even look annoyed. "Don't speak unless you're asked. Do you understand?"
Niklas held her gaze. "Yes."
She nodded approvingly. "Good. See? You're learning."
Then she turned to her assistant. "Let the Marshal know he's responsive. The handlers may want to recondition him for the games."
Niklas froze.
Games?
She gave him a mock-smile. "Rest up, boy. You'll be fighting again soon. The crowd loves a defiant male."
Back in his cell, Niklas curled up in the corner, deep in thought.
This world wants obedience. It's built around it. But what if I play their game? What if I give them what they expect… until I don't?
He glanced at the bowl of gruel. Cold now. He picked it up, tasted it. Barely edible—but calories were calories.
He'd need strength.
He'd need information.
He'd need to learn how this world worked—its language, its power, its hierarchy. And most importantly: its weaknesses.
"I may be in chains now," he whispered, staring at the ceiling.
"But give me time… and I'll own this world."