He had truly died, at last.
He had finally succeeded in doing what he had tried so many times before. His body was stiff and cold. He was still barely breathing, but his eyes were lifeless. It was far too late for anything now—only seconds remained before death claimed him. His body convulsed and trembled occasionally, not from fear, but because his nervous system was over-stimulated and overwhelmed.
To an outsider, this poor soul might have looked like he was struggling for life. But he had already accepted his fate. The reason he had done this to himself wasn't one of those cliché causes. True, he didn't have a great family—but they weren't so terrible as to drive him to this. He hadn't done it over a breakup—he had no lover to begin with. It wasn't about appearance, money problems, or anxiety over the future, either.
Life simply wore the young man down. Tired of drifting aimlessly. Maybe he believed he'd never find happiness in this life unless some sort of miracle happened. Perhaps he was right—or perhaps not. It didn't matter anymore. He was dead.
In his last moments, as his life flashed before his eyes, he remembered his childhood—those brief years of joy. He thought about the pure happiness he felt when chasing his dreams. The days with friends, the laughter, the shared hopes... But over time, those dreams had faded, giving way to despair.
For a fleeting instant, he felt a glimmer of hope—that maybe things could change. But the weight of his darkest thoughts quickly smothered that hope.
"Why?" he wondered. "Why had it been so hard?" Every opportunity life had offered him had somehow slipped through his fingers. Now, nothing had meaning.
And now, in these last seconds, he found a strange kind of peace. The storm inside him had gone quiet. Maybe this was the miracle he had waited for—the end of the pain. His eyes closed, and darkness embraced him.
At that moment, he was free from all burdens. Free—or rather, free because he was dead.
But fate wasn't finished with him yet.
After his icy death, the young man opened his eyes to find himself in a dazzling, luxurious room. In front of him, several nobles, knights, clerics, and advisors were kneeling in reverence.
Of course, he had no idea what had happened to him, where he was, or who these bowing figures were.
Suddenly, an intense pain exploded in his head. It felt like a rat was gnawing at his brain. Overcome with agony, he fell from the throne and writhed on the floor, as the people in the room watched in alarm.
The pain wasn't just physical—it was deeply mental. Like a lightning bolt embedded in his skull. Every second brought a swirl of emotions, memories, sensations.
Contradictory scenes flashed before his eyes: the gloomy streets of a modern city clashing with stone-walled palaces… children's laughter in a playground, followed by a throne room drenched in blood…
The cause of the headache slowly became clearer.
This body wasn't originally his.
Or rather, it was now—but it had once belonged to someone else. All the memories and experiences of the body's former owner were flooding into his mind, and it hurt in a way that defied logic.
As the people in the room rushed toward their new king, the first to reach him was the head knight, Sir Caelen.
Sir Caelen approached the king with a bowed head. His expression was hard to read—concern, confusion, perhaps even fear. His eyes were restless, unable to lock onto the king.
"My prince—" he began, then quickly corrected himself, "My king… are you alright? Please, if something's wrong, tell us. We can help."
He had no idea what to do if something happened to his newly crowned king—who, only minutes ago, had received the crown. The new king's father and brothers had all died in a great battle just weeks prior. The young man was the last of the royal bloodline.
With great effort, the young man opened his eyes and looked toward the knight, though everything remained blurry. Trying to make sense of the surrounding people didn't help ease the pain. It felt like he was moving through someone else's strength, as if possessed by a foreign power. The memories, thoughts, and emotions of the body's former owner were tangled up with his own.
Each moment, each feeling—blurring together.
He clenched his teeth to stay calm and forced himself to stand. As the headache slowly began to subside, his vision cleared. He remembered who he was, where he was, and why he was there—or rather, those memories were being shoved into his consciousness. He sat back down on the throne and stared at the golden gloves now adorning his hands.
His previous life was behind him. It felt as if the night he ended his own life had happened years ago. And now, strangely, he felt… happy to be alive. Odd, for someone who had taken their own life. He didn't fully understand what had happened, but he began to realize—he had been reincarnated.
As the cold weight of the throne pressed into his back, the young king slowly scanned the room. What he saw was unlike anything from his old world—but he knew he had to remain composed. He would think it all through later, in private. He had been a calm person in his previous life, after all. Clearing his throat a few times, he quietly focused on recalling his new name.
And without struggle, he remembered it.
The memories in his mind felt natural—as if they were always his.
And the name... felt strangely familiar.
"Etharell…" the young man—no, the new king—murmured.
The name escaped his lips like a whisper from the deepest part of his mind. He knew it belonged to him now, just like another name had once belonged to him. But in this world, in this body, he was now Etharell Ren Chronnal—a king who had been crowned only minutes ago.
To call him a king, however, was a bit of a stretch. According to his new memories, the kingdom he now ruled had been reduced to just a few cities and a single castle. They were under occupation by a far larger and more powerful empire. In the war that had taken place just weeks earlier, the empire had easily won—and Etharell had been the only one to escape the battlefield alive.
Now, as he looked around, he finally understood why so few had attended what was supposed to be his coronation. He was the king of a fallen kingdom, or rather, a kingdom that most already considered lost. He didn't yet know what to do, but for now, he needed to leave this place and be alone for a while to grasp everything. Perhaps someone else in his position would still be overwhelmed by this reality, but Etharell had always been a calm person, even in his former world.
"Don't worry. I'm fine," he said in a husky voice. He would need time to get used to this unfamiliar voice.
It was a voice far deeper and more resonant than the one he used to have—undeniably masculine. While he briefly wondered what he might look like now, he decided to set that thought aside for the moment.
"Your Majesty, are you certain? You didn't look well just now. Should we summon a healer?"
Etharell shook his head slightly.
"No... That won't be necessary. Just a bit of dizziness. It'll pass once I rest,"
He said, shifting his gaze from Sir Caelen to the others in the room. Some of them looked genuinely loyal, but many had eyes filled with doubt and fear. Perhaps they believed he would be a weak ruler. Perhaps it would've been easier for everyone if he had stayed dead.
But he was here now. And he was alive.
"It's not right for me to stay here,"
he murmured to himself. Then, raising his voice, he said,
"I need some time alone. Thank you all… but please, leave me."
The advisors and knights looked at each other, uncertain who should move first. Sir Caelen hesitated for a few seconds before bowing his head slightly.
"As you wish, Your Majesty," he said, and with him, the rest began to leave the room quietly.
The not-so-grand throne room fell into silence. The silvery walls, the towering curtains—all of it began to blur in Etharell's vision. As he turned inward, an inner reckoning began. Once he was sure he was alone, the young man stood up and finally let his emotions stir.
His legs trembled slightly, but he didn't collapse. Though he shook, he managed to stay on his feet. He took a deep breath—or at least as deep as this new body would allow. The storm inside him didn't erupt all at once, but it had begun to stir. He closed his eyes.
"Why am I here?" he whispered to himself. "Is this truly a second chance… or just a greater curse?"
This body… This world… These people…
They were all real!
The body's past, the dangers of this world, its wars, betrayals—they all suddenly pressed down on his chest.
But there was something else too—a feeling. A potential he couldn't yet define, but could feel down to his bones. This world might be more dangerous than the one he'd left, but perhaps… it could also be more meaningful.
"I don't know why I was brought here," he said, "but maybe… maybe this is just my second chance."
He no longer wanted to die. This time, he wanted to live—not just to exist, but to change things. Himself, his life… perhaps even the flow of fate itself.
Sitting back down on the throne, he placed his hands on his knees and took a long breath.
"So this is my new life…" he whispered.
Then, a sentence echoed in his mind—an echo from his former life:
"There's no place for me in this world."
But now, whether he wanted it or not, he had a place in this one: a king.
Describing exactly how he felt was almost impossible. At once, he was excited, angry, and confused. Excited for this new life. Angry that he'd been reincarnated into the body of a man burdened with such misfortune. And confused by everything happening around him.
The first question that plagued his mind was how—or why—he had been reincarnated. Then came other possibilities: what if this wasn't reincarnation at all? What if something else was at play? But no matter what it was, this time… this time he wanted to try being Etharell. Even if fate had placed him in a crumbling kingdom as its newly crowned king, he wanted to try.
He wanted to try his second chance—his second life.