Chapter 1 – The King of Nothing
The stench of stale instant noodles, sweat, and unwashed clothes clung to the air like a curse that refused to lift. Dirty laundry was scattered across the floor in chaotic piles, mingling with empty chip bags, plastic bottles, and forgotten junk food wrappers. The small room was barely more than a box—curtains drawn tight, the sunlight banned like an unwanted visitor. The only glow came from a flickering computer monitor, illuminating the hollow shell of a young man who hadn't seen daylight in weeks.
John sat slouched in a rickety chair, back hunched, hair greasy and unkempt, eyes dull and sunken. His hoodie was stained, his sweatpants torn at the knees, and his breath carried the sourness of skipped toothbrushes and instant meals. His room—no, his world—was a suffocating cage built not by iron, but by loneliness, resentment, and fantasy.
And on his head sat a plastic crown—cheap, cracked, barely clinging to its shape.
He wore it like a badge of delusion.
"Your Majesty," he mumbled to himself with a dry smirk, staring at the empire simulator paused on the screen. "The peasants demand food again. Shall we raise taxes? Or just let them starve?"
He chuckled at his own joke, a sound that held no humor. The laugh died quickly, replaced by silence and the soft hum of the PC fan. Another fake kingdom. Another empire built on nothing but pixels and time wasted.
In the game, John was a ruler—powerful, feared, and admired. In reality, he was a shut-in. An invisible, unwanted failure clinging to make-believe glory.
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John Ashvale was born into a rich family. His father, Roland Ashvale, had once been a titan in the business world—a ruthless investor who built empires and broke rivals without blinking. Their mansion had marble floors, a fountain at the entrance, and a private driver who used to call John "young master."
But wealth didn't make a family.
John had always been the odd one out. Not smart enough for praise, not athletic enough for trophies, not charismatic enough to be the "favorite." He was average. Awkward. Always alone. A shadow walking among brilliance.
His older brother, Marcus, was a prodigy who graduated college at nineteen. His younger sister, Eliza, was a musical genius who played violin for foreign dignitaries by the age of twelve.
And John? He liked playing games and reading fantasy novels. He didn't want to be a doctor or an entrepreneur. He didn't want to "make the family proud."
He wanted to build castles, lead armies, and rule.
No one took that seriously. Especially not his father.
"You were a mistake," his father once told him in a drunken rage. "You do nothing. You are nothing."
John had cried that night.
The next morning, he apologized.
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It didn't end with just words. When the economy crashed and the family's empire collapsed under legal pressure and debt, Roland took the easy way out. A bullet in the mouth in his private study. His mother overdosed on sleeping pills a few days later. Eliza vanished without a word, and Marcus sold what little was left and moved abroad.
No one called John.
No one asked him how he was doing.
He was seventeen. Alone. Broke. Forgotten.
At first, he tried. He got a job delivering food, lived in a small rented flat, and told himself he'd turn things around. But the world didn't care. People looked at him with pity or contempt. Friends from his past stopped replying to messages. Job interviews ended with awkward silence once they saw his record or his name.
Ashvale. That name used to open doors.
Now, it slammed them shut.
And slowly, bit by bit, he stopped trying.
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At twenty-three, John no longer went outside unless absolutely necessary. He lived off the scraps of his inheritance, doing occasional online gigs and surveys for cash. Most of his money went into gaming, food, and fantasy novels.
He had no friends.
No goals.
No future.
But in his mind? He was royalty.
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The bookshelf next to his bed was stacked with paperbacks about tyrants, conquerors, and warlords. He never liked noble heroes. They were weak. They forgave too easily, sacrificed too much, died too young. No—John admired the kings who bent nations to their will, who ruled through fear and cunning.
He read about Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Julius Caesar like they were his ancestors.
In every story, he inserted himself.
> The golden throne is mine.
The armies march for me.
The world shall kneel.
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Sometimes, late at night, he stood in front of the mirror holding a plastic sword and practicing speeches.
"Today, I ascend. No longer the castaway. No longer the forgotten. I am king, and all who doubted me shall suffer."
He imagined parades in his honor. Statues built in his likeness. His siblings begging at his feet, and his parents crawling from the grave just to apologize.
"I should have been born into royalty," he muttered often, with clenched fists. "I deserved better. The world owes me."
His greed wasn't about money.
It was about control.
He wanted everything he never had—respect, admiration, loyalty.
And power.
Absolute power.
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That evening, he sat in silence, scrolling through news on his phone. His older brother Marcus had just married into some rich European family. The headline showed him in a tailored tuxedo beside a stunning bride.
John stared at it for five full minutes.
Then he threw the phone across the room.
"Of course," he spat. "Of course they're doing great. Of course they're happy."
He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, chest burning with resentment.
> They got everything. I got nothing.
But I'm the one who was meant to rule.
I was just… born in the wrong world.
His eyes drifted toward the paused empire simulator on his monitor.
In the game, his kingdom—named Aetheria—spanned continents. The people feared and adored him. His advisors bowed before him. His enemies were executed at the gates.
He was their monarch.
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He clicked "resume."
The anthem of his empire began to play—an orchestral score filled with drums and horns. He closed his eyes and imagined it: a massive golden palace, banners fluttering in the wind, legions of soldiers in silver armor chanting his name.
John the Eternal. John the Supreme. John the God-King.
And standing at the center… him.
Not this greasy, broken loser in a dark room.
But a tall, regal man in crimson robes, eyes sharp, voice cold, hands resting on the hilt of a sword that had claimed thousands.
He smiled.
"One day," he whispered. "One day, it won't just be a fantasy."
He didn't know how, or when, or even why. But deep inside, something stirred. A hunger that never left. A whisper in the back of his mind that said:
> You were meant for more.
This world failed you. Another world will need you.
You were born to rule—just not here.
As the anthem played louder, his eyes began to water—not from sadness, but from longing.
A cruel, consuming longing to be someone else. Somewhere else.
He shut down the game and crawled into bed, crown still on his head. His mattress was stiff and lumpy, but he didn't care.
He stared at the ceiling again.
"If I ever get the chance," he murmured, "I'll take everything. I'll burn this world to the ground if I have to."
And with that thought, he drifted into sleep.
Dreaming of fire, of thrones, and of a world where he wouldn't be the king of nothing—
but the king of everything.
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