Akira sat on the edge of the bed, letting the silence of the room press against him. The cunning man had left hours ago, leaving behind nothing but the lingering burn of the magic in his chest and the crushing weight of helplessness.
For a long time, he simply stared at the floor, trying to make sense of the words he had heard.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
"Master… Hero?" a young maid called softly, her voice hesitant as though afraid to disturb him.
Akira raised his head. Hero?"Not… Hero," he said, voice dry. "Just call me Akira."
The maid blinked, uncertain, then dipped a small curtsy."M-Master Akira," she tried carefully.
Akira let out a quiet sigh."Very well… Master Akira," he muttered. Better than Hero, at least.
She entered with a tray of bread, fruit, and water. Setting it down, she watched him cautiously.
"Thank you," Akira murmured. He took a drink, letting the cool water soothe his throat. When he set the cup down, he looked at her again."Tell me… what is your name?"
She hesitated, then answered, "I am Lira, sir."
Akira nodded slowly, committing it to memory.
Lira swallowed, then spoke again. "The King wishes to see you."
Akira's head snapped up. The King.
He took a breath. "I… I'll be quick. What is the King's name?" he asked.
"His Majesty is King Valerius, Master Akira," she said, voice tight with nerves.
King Valerius.The man who had ordered the assassin.The man responsible for the magic now shackling his soul.
His gaze wandered the room—the subtle hum in the walls, protective wards woven into the stone. Every detail mattered now. Every clue helped him understand the world that had claimed him.
"Thank you, Lira," he said at last. "I'll be done soon."
"I'll be right outside. Please call when you are ready."She bowed and stepped out.
Akira stood, forcing movement into legs that felt heavy. One step at a time. He would learn. He would endure.
And someday… he would reclaim everything stolen from him.
He finished eating quickly and called for Lira.
She guided him down long, polished corridors. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows depicting battles of old—heroes frozen in triumph or tragedy. Akira's gaze moved from tapestries to guards, noting everything. The faint hum beneath the stone—wards—was constant, almost alive.
As they neared the throne room, Lira's eyes flickered with something close to worry before her professional calm returned. Heavy doors opened before them.
The throne room stretched vast and intimidating. King Valerius sat upon his throne, posture perfectly composed. His eyes tracked Akira with unnerving precision. The translator stood beside him, ready.
"Young Hero," the translator spoke in a smooth voice. "I trust your night was… enlightening."
Akira hesitated, then bowed slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty."His chest still faintly burned from the assassin's magic.
A small, unreadable smile touched the King's lips."Good. Awareness is the first step to survival. And survival is a privilege here."
Akira kept his gaze down. Fear or defiance—either could be dangerous. He had to show neither.
"You feel it, don't you?" the translator continued. "The bond placed upon your soul. A reminder of your… position."
Akira swallowed. The faint pulse of the curse answered for him.
"Do not be afraid, Master Akira," the King's words flowed calmly. "It is not punishment. It is guidance. And, of course… control."
A cold shiver ran through Akira's spine.
"His Majesty wishes to introduce you to the finest warriors and magic users of this kingdom," the translator continued."You will begin your training immediately."
"First, you will train under the kingdom's military commander. His skill is unmatched. You are expected to follow his instructions without hesitation."
Akira bowed again, silent. Every reaction mattered. Every word could be a blade.
The translator gestured toward the exit. "Come. The commander awaits."
They stepped out of the throne room.
"You will also need to learn this world's language," the translator added. "Communication is essential. Mastery is required for both training and survival."
As they walked, a disturbing thought struck Akira.
If even the King cannot speak my language… then how did that man—the one who cursed me—and Lira speak it so easily?
The translator glanced at him, as if reading his mind.
"You are wondering how the maid and I understand you," he said casually."To put it simply… high-level communication magic. A specialty of a select few."
He continued, tone almost bored:"Every conversation you've had so far was… controlled. Directed. Nothing left to chance."
Akira's heart sank.
"For now, I will translate the commander's words," the translator continued. "Tomorrow, your language lessons begin also you may call me Sebastian."
Hearing him a chill gripped Akira's spine as the horrifying truth settled fully into place:
Every interaction he had in this world—every word spoken to him—was orchestrated.