The morning began on the 51st floor of the building, a modern skyscraper nestled in the heart of the city. The faint hum of the air conditioning system mingled with the rhythmic tap-tap of heels on polished floors. In the corridor outside his cramped office, Achem Powers was a silent observer, lost in thought. The fluorescent lights above flickered occasionally, adding a sense of sterile detachment to the environment. The air was thick with the usual tension of corporate life, a place where ambition went to die, smothered by layers of office politics.

Resa, a striking woman with a purpose in her step, moved down the hallway. She was known in the office as a confident, often provocative presence, someone who commanded attention the moment she entered the room. Her movements were fluid, feline, almost predatory as she walked. She wore a crisp white blouse that hugged her curves in all the right places, its fabric stretching slightly across her chest. Beneath, a dark bra peeked through, subtle yet refined, a choice that reflected an understated sophistication. Her skirt, just short enough to draw the eye without seeming overt, swayed with every step.

As she passed by, Achem caught a glimpse of her smile—a fleeting, almost imperceptible curve of the lips. It was the kind of smile that said more than words ever could: calculated, charming, and entirely unbothered by the world around her. Resa’s gaze met his for a brief moment, and she smiled again, this time more knowingly. He watched her walk towards a small, private room at the end of the hallway, her hips swaying as if in rhythm with some invisible beat.

Achem hesitated for a moment before following her. He could feel the tension rise in his chest, a strange mixture of desire and indifference. His mind was clouded, his heart heavy with the weight of the years spent in this place. He pushed open the door and entered the room, a small, dimly lit space, the faint scent of perfume mingling with the stale air. There, they were alone. For a few moments, there was nothing but silence between them, broken only by the occasional shuffle of clothing and the distant sound of muffled conversation from the office outside.

It wasn’t long before the silence was shattered by the sound of movement—shifting bodies, soft moans, the unmistakable sound of two people engaging in the primal dance of lust. Achem’s mind drifted as his body took over, acting on instinct rather than thought. He wasn’t here for love, for companionship. No, this was just another mindless connection, another fleeting distraction from the crushing reality of his existence. As they reached the peak of their brief encounter, a faint tremor rippled through the room—a momentary lapse in the world outside.

Minutes later, Resa emerged, her blouse slightly askew, hair tousled. She adjusted her skirt with practiced nonchalance as she glanced at Achem, offering him one last smile—a smile that was both sincere and hollow. She walked out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor, leaving Achem to sit there, staring at the door, his thoughts swirling like a whirlpool.

Another day, another fleeting encounter. At first, Achem had hoped for something more—perhaps a spark of connection, something that might ignite a change in his life. But as he had come to realize, relationships like these were nothing but distractions, momentary lapses in an otherwise monotonous existence. Resa wasn’t someone to build a future with; she was just a temporary reprieve from the crushing weight of his reality. He didn’t know why it was so hard to find someone who could be more than just a passing fancy. The search for quality partners felt like a never-ending struggle, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever find someone who was truly worth his time.

Sighing, Achem returned to his cluttered office. The desk before him was a mess of papers—proposals, reports, and half-hearted attempts at innovation. His computer screen flickered as if struggling to stay on, a reflection of his own tired, worn-out soul. He stared at the screen, his fingers hovering above the keyboard, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He absently checked his phone, even though he knew it was unlikely anyone would message him. Old habits, it seemed, were hard to break.

For nearly ten years, Achem had been toiling away at this company—a place that had promised so much but delivered little. The walls of the office had witnessed the slow death of his dreams, suffocated by the corporate machine that ground down anyone with the audacity to believe in merit and hard work. In the early days, Achem had been full of ideas—innovative solutions, cutting-edge proposals, strategies that could have propelled the company into the future. But each time he presented his concepts, they were met with indifference, or worse, outright dismissal. His ideas were stolen, repackaged, and presented by others who knew the right people, who played the game better than he ever could.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that this world wasn’t built on merit. It was a place where favors were traded in dark corners, where backdoor deals and whispered alliances ruled the day. Those who had the right connections were rewarded, while those with talent were cast aside. Achem had once believed that hard work would eventually be recognized and rewarded. He had been wrong.

His supervisor, Richard Gremson, was a man who embodied everything Achem despised about the corporate world. Richard, with his polished smile and empty promises, had never once demonstrated an ounce of the intelligence or insight that Achem possessed. Yet, time and time again, Richard had been promoted, his career ascending on the backs of those he stepped on. Meanwhile, Achem’s reputation was systematically undermined, his successes overshadowed by errors that were conveniently pinned on him.

The office had become a battlefield—a place where alliances shifted with the tides, and loyalty was a currency as fleeting as the next promotion. Colleagues who once smiled and greeted him now whispered behind his back, spreading rumors and casting doubt on his abilities. The weight of the years had taken its toll on Achem. The man who had once believed in his potential had been worn down, piece by piece, by the very system that promised success but delivered only betrayal.

And then there was the world outside—an even darker, more corrupt place. The government, a puppet for the powerful elite, played its part in a grand charade, promising prosperity while enriching only the few. Achem had long stopped believing in justice, in fairness. It was a story told to keep the powerless in their place, a lie that had been drilled into him since childhood. He had seen his country sink deeper into decay, its leaders more interested in their own power than in the welfare of the people.

But perhaps the most painful of all was the personal toll. Achem had lost so much in his life—his parents, who had died before he could ever truly make them proud; his siblings, who had long since severed ties, uninterested in sharing the burden of his failures. Love had been a fleeting dream, a series of broken promises and betrayals. Every relationship, every attempt at connection, had ended in disappointment. All that was left was the bitter sting of loneliness and the small fortune he had managed to save—a sum that once held hope but now felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.

And so, on this particular day, everything came to a head.

Achem sat slumped in front of his boss, Richard Gremson. The man, with his polished suit and condescending smile, looked at him with a feigned sense of empathy. Richie sipped his coffee slowly, his fingers interlocked as if savoring the moment. Achem had seen this play before. He knew exactly what was coming.

"I'm sorry, Achem," Richie began, his tone rehearsed and devoid of sincerity. "As you know, the industry has been tough lately." He leaned back in his chair, his expensive suit creaking under the weight of his arrogance. "We have to downsize the team. This isn't about your performance; it's just a business decision."

Achem’s stomach churned. He had seen the quarterly reports—record profits. This was just another excuse to get rid of him, another way for the company to dispose of someone who had outlived his usefulness. His blood boiled, but he kept his expression neutral.

Richie continued, oblivious to the storm brewing in Achem’s chest. "You've been an important part of the team, and we appreciate all the work you've done." He said it with such ease, as if it were a line he had delivered a thousand times before.

Achem clenched his fists beneath the desk, his knuckles white. "Who’s taking over my position?" he asked, his voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath.

Richie paused for a moment, as if considering how best to deliver the news. Then, with a casual shrug, he replied, "Greg."

Greg. The man who had been with the company for barely two years, a man who was more interested in socializing with the higher-ups than in doing any actual work. The name sent a cold shiver down Achem’s spine. He had always known that Greg was angling for his position, but to hear it confirmed like this was a slap in the face. Achem’s heart sank, but he refused to show any weakness.

Later that day, Achem left the office, his mind numb. The streets were slick with rain, the city a blur of gray and steel. He wandered aimlessly, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his failure. The downpour soaked through his clothes, as if the heavens themselves were mocking him. He grasped his cup of coffee tightly, the warmth of the liquid a fleeting comfort in the cold, unforgiving world around him.

As he walked, his thoughts spiraled into darkness. "Is this really the end?" he wondered, his heart heavy with despair. The answer came quickly, in the form of blinding headlights. Achem barely had time to react before the screech of tires filled the air. The impact was sudden, brutal—his body was hurled into the air, pain exploding through him as the world around him went black.

And then, there was nothing.

When Achem awoke, it wasn’t in the familiar streets of the city. Instead, he found himself lying on rocky ground, surrounded by the remnants of a long-forgotten battle. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay, the sky overhead a strange shade of purple, with two moons hanging low on the horizon. Confused and disoriented, Achem groaned as he tried to sit up. His body ached, his wounds still fresh, but there was something else—something alien in the very air around him.

"Two moons?" he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse.

His eyes scanned his surroundings, and it didn’t take long to realize that he was not in the world he knew. The ruins of an ancient castle lay scattered before him, its crumbling walls and tattered banners a testament to the battles fought here long ago. The ground was littered with the remains of fallen soldiers, their lifeless bodies evidence of a brutal war. Distant shouts and the sound of marching feet reminded him that this was not a place for the faint of heart.

"They’re still looking for me…" Achem muttered under his breath, as a strange sense of recognition stirred within him. It was then that the memories hit him—memories of a life he had never imagined, memories of a fallen king. He was no longer Achem Powers, the office worker crushed under the weight of his failures. In this world, he was Rogar, the Fallen King. A once-mighty ruler, betrayed and cast aside. Yet, somehow, he had survived.

Blood dripped from his body, but it was not enough to quell the fire that burned within him. He knew that he could not remain here, not in this place. He needed to escape, to rebuild. He had no idea how, but survival came first. Clutching a broken sword that lay nearby, he dragged himself toward a crumbling wall for shelter.

The sound of approaching soldiers grew louder. Achem knew they were looking for him—he could hear their heavy boots, the jingle of their armor. He had no time to waste.

Three soldiers in black armor appeared, the emblem of a golden lion emblazoned on their chest plates. One of them spoke, his voice cold and calculating. "Make sure he’s dead. If you find the body, cut off his head and bring it to the palace."

Achem’s heart thundered in his chest as he realized that they were talking about him. The fury that had simmered beneath the surface for years now erupted. He was no longer the powerless office worker. The instincts of the king, the warrior, the survivor, surged within him. He could feel the power—foreign but familiar—coursing through his veins.

With a swift motion, he sprang from his hiding place, slashing his sword with deadly precision. One soldier’s head flew from his shoulders, the blood spraying across the ground. The others recoiled in surprise, but they were too slow. Achem moved with a speed and ferocity that astonished even him, cutting down the second soldier with a horizontal strike.

The third soldier attempted to retaliate, but Achem was faster. He spun, his sword cutting through the air with a grace he had never known. The soldier fell, his head severed from his body before he could even raise his weapon in defense.

Breathing heavily, Achem stood amidst the carnage, the foreign strength within him still pulsing. He sank back against the shattered wall, his mind racing. What the hell was happening to him? Who was he now?

He didn’t have time to dwell on the question. The soldiers were dead, but more would come. He had to move.

Emerging from his hiding place, he crawled through a narrow gap in the wall, ignoring the searing pain that shot through his body with every movement. As he crawled, the sounds of shouting soldiers echoed in the distance. He could hear the clashing of weapons, the unmistakable sounds of battle drawing near. His instincts screamed at him to move faster.

And then, as if sensing something, he stopped. There was someone else in the shadows.

A pair of eyes watched him from the darkened corner of the ruins. Their gaze was sharp, intelligent—familiar, yet distant.

"So, you’re still alive, Your Majesty," the voice purred, soft yet laced with mockery.

Achem turned sharply, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. The figure in the shadows stepped forward, revealing a woman clad in a tattered cloak. Her long, black hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her eyes burned with a strange intensity.

Though he did not immediately recognize her, a name whispered in his mind—Lysara. Once a trusted ally. Now, the betrayed sorceress.