Paranoid King - (Kingdom Building - LitRPG)

[T4icho12]

Chapter 1 - Death



Pain twisted around his guts, and hacked across the side of his brain, tinkering with his thoughts. Flickering light poked painful holes into his eyes as he struggled to keep them open. Everything around him smelled of rot and decay.

So this is how death feels like? Shit…

Vince mumbled, one hand clasped tightly around his scalp. He tried to slow his breaths to stop the wheezing in his chest. Felt as though he'd been snorting lead for ages from how each breath sent jolts of pain up his throat.

His feet decided they had enough strength to support his body, and carried him stumbling around the darkness. That was a good thing. He'd always reckoned it would be like this once he crossed the line. Darkness and rot. Hell, in other words. Not a fitting end for a historian though, it had to be said.

He knocked his left foot to something solid, and clamped a hand over his mouth to choke out the scream. Curious, he searched vainly for what felt like hours before his fingers brushed off something soft. He eased his ass into the cushion and blinked slowly through the blur.

His vision came to him in pieces. The first thing he saw was a long, wooden stand placed in the corner, a robe dangling from over it. There had to be at least a hundred jewels cocked into the damned thing, bright gold mixing into a kaleidoscope of colors that didn't quite fit the eerie ambience. Golden silk trailed up through its sleeves, no doubt tailored by deft hands, and rounded the collar from both sides, making it seem like a sacred rope wrapped around the neckline.

Rather cruel, Vince thought when he saw the robe, but then there did seem something different about it, an air of command, a sense of power. He couldn't help but think that if even the robe had this much authority about it, then the one who wore it on a daily basis must be some king or an emperor.

Breathing in deep, Vince cast his gaze around the room, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. The robe was good and all, but his after life episode couldn't be this peaceful. Even in dreams, he'd often had to find his way through a number of twisted beasts or ungodly horrors that for some reason wanted to suck his blood dry.

We all have our demons.

A giant four poster bed with a canopy around it faced the stand from across the room. It looked like it had enough room for a score of people to sleep over it. Perhaps this one wasn't for sleeping. It could be that there might be a group activity happening soon.

Shaking his head, Vince squinted up toward the bed, then scowled with confusion. Dozens of candles dotted the wooden face of the bedrail, lined neatly in two rows, smoke swirling vainly over them. Recently extinguished, and yet their faint odor still tickled his nose.

More candles greeted him as he turned his back to the bed. Like a wide rectangle, they surrounded the room from all sides, leaving only a sliver of opening right before the high double doors. Somebody had done themselves a ritual of sorts, it looked like.

A loud thump made him flinch as one of the windows swung wide open, slapping against the wall with a sudden gust of wind, sending the curtains flying wildly about before creaking slowly back to its place.

Moonlight spilled into the room.

Breath stuck in his throat when Vince stared down the ground. A glorious carpet covered nearly every inch of the wooden tiles, adorned with little golden triangles that seemed to have been a part of a bigger pattern some time before. There was a gaping hole right in the middle, covered in blood.

Vince wobbled toward the hole, back stooped and heavy as though he'd hauled the damn bed over his shoulders. The tiles groaned under his feet. It suddenly felt warm here in the room even though the wind whispered biting cold down his gown. His palms had gone wet with sweat.

A strange symbol had been carved into the gaping hole, its lines crooked and red paint dried off round the corners. It resembled a hexagon, the sort that Vince had seen in some horror movies before. A short dagger with blood dripping down its tip had been laid in the middle of the hexagon.

This… What the hell is this?

He sucked in a sharp breath as he leaned over and took the dagger in his hand, trailing a finger across its spotless side. The hilt felt soft, made from quality leather that didn't utter a sound of protest against his strong hold. When he touched the tip, it instantly nicked his index finger.

Uh…

Vince took a step back, heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the blood trickling down his finger for a long second, then back at the room. It started coming back to him. Pieces of old memory that slowly stitched themselves in a whole.

Shit!

They were in the Middle East for an excavation. His first ever one after all the years he'd spent as a research assistant in history, slaving away hours acting as an office boy to his older, and much too respected mentor who couldn't even move his ass to get a coffee. Vince had convinced the department to fund his trip, saying that this was no ordinary excavation. And a true historian couldn't hope to learn everything from the books. He told them he needed more than just theory.

I've gotten my field experience, that's for sure. The whole site crumbled over me.

Minutes passed while he was stuck under the soil. The sand embraced him and never let go, burying him deep into the ground. His struggles amounted to nothing. The earth claimed him.

He could still feel the taste of sand in his mouth. He licked his lips. It was all dry and lifeless around his throat, parched like a broken patch of earth. Some sick irony that his death stayed with him even in this room.

Died, and got back again, is it? It doesn't look like I'm dreaming.

He'd all the imagination of an enthusiastic historian well-read in his field of expertise, but he was doubtful whether it could imitate taste and wind like the real ones. But now that he'd seen the bloody hexagon, a part of him wondered if he'd been summoned in this world with a purpose.

Vince shrugged. After all that struggling under the soil, it seemed a pointless deal now to try and comprehend the after effects of his death. His skin looked beautifully soft and smooth to touch. His legs carried him across the room, sure footed and full of strength. The only thing that bothered him was the pain round his back, but he was beginning to think it might have had to do with that bed.

All for show. Can't expect the softness of a true mattress in these times, eh?

Shivering, he closed the window and pulled a candle from the side. His eyes searched for a match to kindle the little thing, and found one sitting right over the wardrobe right beside the stand. That wasn't the only thing he saw.

He had to admit to being a little overwhelmed by the scene of his riches. Two golden goblets were placed behind the match box, a jug of red wine looking over them. Vince swallowed when he imagined the cool wine sloshing down through his throat. Just the thing he needed.

Another thing, which was just as important, was to find out where the hell his soul had been banished. He didn't think himself a bad man, but then, he was painfully ignorant of the ways how God or some other almighty being judged its lesser creations. It could be that it'd seen Vince's childhood, and decided to cut him some slack. The highschool era… Now he wasn't too proud of those times.

I've done what I had to do. There's no shame in that.

That was what his Father had told him before he rode off on one summer evening, and never came back. Vince had taken those words right to his heart.

Think now. This isn't my body. This isn't my room. Then who the hell am I?

Trying to peer into the web of his memories felt like poking his brain with the tip of that dagger. It hurt like a bastard. But he pushed through with his teeth clenched, and not a moment after his jaw dropped.

Can't be…

A wave of alien memories flooded into his thoughts. He saw a middle-aged man with a strict face, lined deeply, and a tanned pate shining under the sun, one hand clenched around a big bad sword. The crown resting on his forehead was forged from solid gold, adorned with multiple diamonds the size of buttons. His posture spoke of power even under that highly decorated robe of golden silk.

Vince's eyes strayed toward the stand. It took him a second to understand. It was the same robe, but his fingers were too smooth to be a part of a middle-aged body. He didn't have the time to stop and consider whose face that was before another wave crashed into him.

Valens de Kosthal. King Veilan's Second Son. Second In Line. Second In Love. Second in every damned thing. 20 years old. Considered a no-name by all the big chiefs around the crown. His older brother, the Crown Prince, now he's the one who means business. But he died in battle… alongside his father.

He had to lean over the window frame to save himself from tumbling down the ground. The world spun around him. Moonlight riddled the wall with dots, all bouncing up and down as Vince tried to make sense of the situation.

I need a drink.

He trudged off toward the wardrobe, and was about to pour himself some wine when he saw the words carved out into the wood. Blood had pooled into the carvings and dried off, peeling off of the edges, but he could still read them.

Everything is a lie!

"What the hell does that mean?" Vince stepped back after securing the wine jug, and chugged it down his throat. The warm wine eased into his stomach. That cleared his mind a bit.

He was dead, and so was this poor prince's father and big brother. And Prince Valens himself seemed none the better, with all the blood around the room and candles lining the sides. Some sick ritual. A bloody sacrifice. Or it could be that he couldn't take all the grief and cried himself to his own death.

And with that Caligi Kingdom had no one left to call the shots. This was all too much to shrug off as a coincidence.

Vince swallowed when he looked down at the wine jug, trying to shake off the feeling that he might just have drunk some nasty poison. That would be a bad joke. He'd been only granted a second chance for a couple of minutes now. It would be too cruel to waste it like this.

Minutes passed in nervous expectation as he slumped over the bed, the goblet still in his hand. Other than the slight sting when he'd thrown himself to the bed, there did seem nothing wrong with him. The wine was a touch strong and warm for his taste, but it didn't seem to be full of poison.

But how did you die? And what the hell is wrong with these candles?

Vince floundered back to his feet. There was a tall dressing mirror by the side of the bed. He'd been dreading to check his new body all this time, but he'd decided there was no going back for now. He smoothed the side of his nightgown before stepping toward the mirror. A pale face stared back at him from inside the glass.

He had a sharp jawline. There seemed to be a permanent sneer at the edge of his lips even though he was sure he'd been keeping them sealed. His nightgown was a basic cloth flung over his shoulders. Probably why he'd felt the wind more than he should. Long, blond hair spilled down his back like a waterfall, glinting under the moonlight. His eyes were emerald green.

I certainly look like a prince.

He scowled when he tried to reach for the wine jug again. Something about his back was killing him. He turned before the mirror to check it, lifting the gown just in case. His fingers touched something wet. Craning his head, he stared at the mirror, then a gasp escaped his lips.

A bloody hole had torn him through from the back, the wound squirming as flesh stitched itself back together. Right around his waist, there were lines of dried blood. The sight made him nearly vomit, but he swallowed his own spit and wobbled back, breath rasping in his chest.

You're not dead. You've been killed, Prince Valens!

….

 

[T4icho12]

Chapter 2 - Shadows



A shadowy hand jerked up out of the corner of his eye. It reached toward the window, fingers curling around the handle, writhing like a swirl of fog. Another one emerged from behind the curtains, shriveled, white bone mixed with dancing dots of darkness. More and more joined them, like a host of twisted creatures searching for an exit.

The window didn't budge, making them swirl down through the carpet, converging near the bloodied hole in the middle. They danced around it, a sick circus show with no apparent purpose, until the dried blood hissed and produced a yellowish cloud of dust.

Stirred, the hands rushed at the hole, blending into the carpet. Vince watched with wide eyes as the carpet stitched itself back together. Pain drilled through his side, making him wince as he wobbled before the mirror. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the state of his gown. The bloody hole was gone. The gown was as good as new.

What the hell is this?

A terrible pressure pooled behind his eyes, filling his head with blinding lights. He blinked around to clear the fog, and yet the stars twisted about, scores of them zipping in mad fury. He could feel a cold touch on his back. Fingers, right where the bloody hole had been a moment ago. The shadowy hands retreated back into the darkness.

Calm, Vince mumbled, his mind trying, and failing, to understand the sight before his eyes. Dark magic? Twisted hands? And what about those candles? Why did this place smell of rot and decay?

He wanted to dash out through the door and scream for help, but his memories were in pieces like a mirror shattered on the ground. Valens de Kosthal—the newly crowned prince, the last remaining member of the Kosthal House to take up the throne—had been butchered in the dead of night, seemingly with a sword through his back.

His father, the King, and his older brother, the Crown Prince, had died in the battle of Kompsmare a month prior, killed in the makeshift barracks of the army. Thousands of troops. Watchmen. Royal Guards. Mages. Not a single soul had caught a whiff of the assassination.

And now, Valens de Kosthal had been killed as well. The throne was left wide open for all to take.

So much for a second chance, Vince thought, shaking his head. The trouble was, he had no recollection of the events prior to Valens's death. He couldn't remember the night.

And beyond the window sprawled a city as glorious as the famed Baghdad, the jewel of the Abbasid Caliphate. Arched roofs dominated the landscape, curving alongside each other, facing eastward where two Moons shone between the clouds. Paved roads stretched under the hazy skies, lined with light poles with fist-sized rubies set inside them. They shone weakly, as if not to disturb the peace of the night.

Vince could see shadows lounging under these poles, clad in plated armor and carrying well-tended spears, quality metal glinting under the moonlight. Dozens of them. And yet, not one of them was aware that the newly crowned King had been killed in his chambers, with a sword through the back.

That, or somebody made it so that they wouldn't see anything.

Suspicions. Vince turned toward the door, scowling in thought. He couldn't stay in the room forever. At some point, he had to show his face, and that would mean the people would see that the King was still alive—a different King with the same face.

Would they be shocked? Or would they send the assassin once again, this time making sure he'd stay dead? But then, he didn't know whether it was an inside job or not. From the splintered memories of Valens de Kosthal, he knew that Caligi Kingdom had more than a few enemies.

Should he start screaming, calling for help? What if the bastards were still there? What if the bastards were his own men? Could he trust them?

I'll be damned if I let these things get to my head. Focus. You've been given a second chance. Make the best of it.

Vince nodded, taking a last glance at the sight beyond the windows. All of it was his—or should be his in theory if the bastards who killed his soul-mate hadn't taken hold of the throne while he was out cold in bed. Still, first he had to see the situation around the palace for himself. There should be signs, right? Not everyone could be oblivious to the assault.

He made his way toward the door, reaching for the handle. It clicked open a slit before he could turn it, making him flinch a step back. His heart pounded in his chest, eyes searching for something, anything to use against the intruder. Who dared to open the door to the King's Chambers without asking for permission? They should've at least announced their presence!

Before he could grab a goblet, the door creaked open wide, revealing a man clad in robes the color of the night. His bald head shone in the moonlight, his black eyes distant and lost. He carried a gold-trimmed tray on which stood a single, filled wine jug just like the one Vince had downed a moment before.

"Impudent!" Vince roared, taking another step back, puffing his chest out to present a more dignified appearance befitting a King. "At least have the decency to knock before you barge into the King's Chambers, fool! You are to draw back this instant, I command it!"

I guess it's not very kingly of me to call a man a fool, but yeah, fuck it.

What kind of a king had Valens de Kosthal been? Was he a brutal bastard with a thing for blood? A tyrant who liked to look down on people from his high throne? Or a wuss, the sort that hadn't expected to get the throne but got it anyway, and now must face hundreds of hardened men eyeing his throne like a pack of wolves before fresh meat?

None of it made any sense, so Vince did what he thought was appropriate. He scolded the bald-headed man and waited with a finger pointed straight at his face.

The bald-headed man strolled into the room, placed the tray gently on the cabinet, took the emptied jug from beside the bed, and trudged out of the room without even glancing at the King.

"Who the fuck are—"

The door closed with a creak, leaving Vince hanging there like a fool. He glanced at his own finger, now trembling with a mix of horror and fury, then pulled it down and sucked in a deep breath.

Still alive. So he wasn't the assassin.

That would've been a terrible way to ensure the King stayed dead after the initial assault. Whoever had done the job seemed confident. And why wouldn't they be? None of his guards had noticed while the poor Valens de Kosthal was being butchered all alone in his room.

Vince stared back at his chambers. It suddenly felt like the room was separated from the rest of the world, a little pocket where the assassin or assassins could move about as slippery as eels.

So he did what any sensible man should do. He trudged out of his room with clenched teeth.

The hallway was dimly lit by those same crystal-like rubies he'd seen in the light poles. Hidden inside the nooks of the stone walls, they cast a dim glow over the ground, just enough to see his own steps. And just like his appearance, his new set of feet certainly looked like they belonged to a King.

He strolled toward the eastern corridor, bare feet sliding across the cold stone. Where were the guards? He'd expected at least a pair of them to stand guard before his door. But then, Philip II of Macedon had been assassinated by his own bodyguard. And the poor guy had seven of them!

But it was odd. Too strange that this corridor had been left unguarded.

Vince took the steps with one hand on the wall, anticipation bubbling inside, acid slowly filling his throat as if he was about to belch. Every shadow looked like a good enough place to stab the King through the guts, and there were a lot of them.

He walked for what felt like hours before the dimly lit hall opened up into a grand chamber filled with books. He passed the mighty double doors, sparkling with dots of gold, and into the hall proper, where he paused.

A pair of figures clad in the same black robes as that servant stood there in silence, staring out into the night from the stained windows. Their backs facing Vince, they didn't seem aware that the High King of the Caligi Kingdom had blessed them with His royal presence—or so Vince thought it would be.

But no. No reaction. They might as well have been a pair of wooden dummies erected here to serve as scarecrows for unruly children.

"Attend me," Vince said, this time with a little more confidence as he sank into a cushioned couch placed between the high shelves full of books. For authenticity's sake, he took a thick tome in his hands, leafing through the pages.

One of the black-robed servants seemed to have heard him, as he came creeping around the shelves and stood in front of him. Vince had to blink; the man looked strangely similar to the one who had brought him wine. A shining pate, paired with laced boots and a simple robe flung over his shoulders, barely a piece of cloth. They both looked clean, though, and the man's eyes had that same vacant look in them, as if he was looking but wasn't sure what to see.

"At ease," Vince said to test the man, and the bald-headed servant obliged, taking a more relaxed stance before him. Vince continued, "Tell me, what's your name? And have you felt anything… out of the ordinary tonight?"

The man stared at him, pale lips remaining shut. His eyes never left Vince's face.

It's getting creepy here. Who are these people? And why on earth don't they speak? Just looking at me with those dead eyes…

"Bring me wine," Vince said with a dismissive shake of his hand before focusing back on the tome. He saw out of the corner of his eye the bald-headed man making for a different door inside the library.

Something's not right here. And why can't I remember?

Trying to single out the memories was like picking glass pieces from his brain with a fork. It was a twisted mess of mixing timelines and crooked faces that, even with his eyes closed, filled him with a nightmarish sense of vertigo that made his whole world spin.

All right. Now, let's start from the top. I'm a newly crowned and recently murdered King, who has lost his whole family to a war against… I want to say a kingdom, but I seem to remember a bunch of monsters as well. Shadows looming on the horizon, shrouding the sun and the clouds.

And there is this sense of powerlessness inside my body. Was it because of lack of sleep? Or fatigue from trying to rule a kingdom? But why on earth do you not have anybody protecting you, Prince Valens? Oh, were you suspicious of them? Perhaps you didn't trust them to do a good job, or you thought they might use that job to get to you.

But then, they did get to you, didn't they? You're surrounded by all these mute and simple folk who don't seem to serve any purpose other than bringing you wine and food. Or was it that? Did you indulge yourself in alcohol to fight off the depression?

Vince took a swing from the wine jug. It was a tad harder than he'd like, but the way it trickled down his throat made him feel alive more than the questions surrounding him. So he liked it. He was alive, even though he might not be for long in this world.

Strong steps echoed around the library, like metal pounding against stone. They came with a spring in their step. Vince snapped his head to the sound, and a gasp escaped from his lips when he saw the human-shaped armor bounding toward him.

The plate had a silvery sheen, coupled with a horned helm painted in glossy black. From the two slits in the visor, Vince could see a pair of hawkish eyes peering down at him. A nasty sword was strapped to his back, nearly as tall as this hulking man who seemed to be a heap of muscles shoved into that glorious and menacing armor.

"Your Majesty," came his voice, rough and demanding.

Breath caught in Vince's throat as he tried to get his ass up from the couch and make a run for the bald-headed servants. But that sword… that weapon kept him nailed in his spot, sending a tingle around his back as if he could still feel the sting from the closed wound just by looking at that thing.

The plated man lingered in the same pose for a long second, towering over him. Then he bent the knee and pulled his helmet off. Bright, blonde hair spilled freely down his shoulders. Two emerald eyes drilled into him. But what made Vince fear for his own life was that crooked nose and face lined with multiple scars. It was a wonder how this man could still breathe through that nose.

And with that, a name popped into Vince's head.

"Hook," he said, acknowledging the man with a healthy dose of authority. He couldn't let him see the hoax of a King he was. He was from his own Royal Guard, a full-plated Tier-5 Knight!

Hook waved a hand around the room, eyebrows arched as if he was surprised. "I can tell the walls have missed you dearly. I should fetch Leila here to record their song. It's been too long since they've seen anything but shadows and these soulless Drained."

Vince frowned deeply at his words. Drained? Was he talking about the bald-headed servants? Soulless… Indeed they seemed to lack what makes a human, but they could still function like one — at least in part that they could fetch wine whenever asked. But what of this song, though? The walls were singing? How?

I can't seem to remember much about him other than the fact that he's been one of the Royal Guards.

"We have to appreciate the shadows," Vince said, trying to keep his face straight. "For they are the silent keepers of our words, don't you think? Eternal companions of our miseries."

Vince held his breath as he waited for Hook's reaction. He tried to imitate what he could barely remember from Valens De Kosthal's memories, which were clouded by a thick fog, an emptiness gnawing at his heart. He'd been depressed. There was no doubt about that.

"Still this?" Hook scowled as if he'd taken an arrow to the knee. His back stooped as he raised a hand over his face. "Still, you're peering into the shadows, still you're trusting them rather than your own men who are willing to give their lives for you? You keep us away from your chambers, you won't let us into your pain. Alone and broken, is this the King you wanted to be, Valens? A paranoid fool who sees his own death in the faces of his subjects?"

Vince almost gasped, but he managed to keep it under control, instead letting out a deep breath. He kept his silence, as it seemed Hook was not yet finished with his words.

"The people are starving," Hook continued. "The kingdom is broken. Those Melton bastards have been trying to bribe our Mages, and Duke Beltham has raised the flag of rebellion in the far south. They say he's planning an open coup. They say he's already rallied ten thousand men against your rule. Your Father's trusted friend is now eyeing your throne like an insidious Darkwolf. And yet you stay here, inside your little room, waiting for death to silence your worries."

Hook leaned in and took him by the arms.

"I've had enough of your bullshit, you little bastard! We might have lost the war, but we still have the Kingdom! Now get up and sit your fucking ass on that throne, or I'll have Wasset fling you out from Kourn's Edge like a sack of potatoes!"

……..