Death, it turned out, was painfully ordinary.
No blinding light.No divine voice.No dramatic final words.
Just a dull ache in his chest, a ceiling he didn't recognize, and the absurd thought that he still hadn't paid his rent.
Ah. So this is how it ends.
He had imagined dying would feel… bigger. More meaningful. Instead, it felt like falling asleep after a long, exhausting day—one where every bad decision he had ever made lined up neatly to wave him goodbye.
If there was one regret, it was this:
I really should've lived better.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke up choking.
Air rushed violently into his lungs as his body jerked upright. The sensation was so sudden and sharp that for a moment, he thought he had been dragged back into life by pure spite.
"—Your Majesty!"
A panicked voice echoed around him.
His vision blurred. Shapes swam in gold and red. The smell of incense burned his nose, unfamiliar and overwhelming.
Your Majesty?
That didn't sound right.
He blinked several times, forcing his eyes to focus. Slowly, the world settled into place.
An enormous bed. Silk sheets dyed deep crimson. Heavy curtains embroidered with patterns he'd never seen before. Candles lined the walls, their flames trembling as if startled by his sudden awakening.
And kneeling beside the bed—
People.
Too many people.
Men and women dressed in elegant robes, their heads bowed low. Some looked relieved. Others looked like they were holding back tears.
One elderly man stepped forward, gripping a golden staff like his life depended on it.
"Your Majesty… thank the gods. You have awakened."
Silence followed.
The room waited.
He stared back, mouth slightly open.
"…Okay," he said slowly. "Either I'm still dying, or this is one very elaborate prank."
No one laughed.
That was concerning.
He tried to move—and froze.
His body felt… different. Lighter. Stronger. Younger.
He lifted his hands. They were pale, unscarred, and unfamiliar. No calluses from part-time jobs. No small burns from careless cooking. No signs of the life he remembered.
His heart skipped.
That's… not my hand.
A sharp headache struck him without warning.
Memories flooded in.
A palace.A kingdom.A throne drenched in authority.A name whispered with reverence and fear.
Arelion.
The weight of a crown pressed down on his thoughts, heavy and unavoidable.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
The old man gasped. "Your Majesty?"
Arelion—his name now—slowly sat up, ignoring the way everyone flinched at the movement.
So. Let's review.
He had died.
And now—
I'm a king.
Not a hero.Not a chosen warrior.Not even a side character.
A king.
He leaned back against the pillows, letting out a long breath.
"Well," he said, rubbing his face, "at least I didn't reincarnate as a slime."
Several people exchanged confused glances.
Apparently, jokes did not translate well across worlds.
As the memories settled, one thing became painfully clear.
This body possessed power.
No—power wasn't the right word.
It was closer to absurdity.
Magic flowed through him like breath itself. Fire, water, lightning, wind—concepts that felt as natural as moving a finger. Knowledge of spells layered upon spells, refined and perfected beyond anything a normal mage could dream of.
Overwhelming magic.
The kind people wrote legends about.
And yet…
Arelion glanced around the room again. At the kneeling servants. The anxious nobles. The suffocating luxury.
The throne waited somewhere beyond these walls.
Yeah. No.
He smiled.
Not a heroic smile. Not a kingly one.
Just the smile of someone who had learned—very painfully—that sitting still and letting life happen to him never ended well.
"I want everyone to leave," he said calmly.
The room froze.
The old man hesitated. "Y-Your Majesty…?"
"I'm fine," Arelion added quickly. "Alive. Awake. Still king. I just need… silence."
After a tense pause, the attendants bowed and retreated one by one, closing the heavy doors behind them.
Finally, he was alone.
Arelion lay back, staring at the ornate ceiling.
Reincarnated as a king with ridiculous magic.
In another story, this was where he would become a legend—raise an army, conquer nations, sit on a throne and command the world.
He snorted.
"Sounds exhausting."
He turned his head toward the window, where sunlight poured into the room, warm and inviting.
If this world was going to force a crown onto his head…
Then he would do things his own way.
Not as a hero.
Not as a symbol.
But as a king who chose to walk forward instead of ruling from above.
Unaware of the fate waiting at the end of his journey—
Arelion closed his eyes and laughed softly.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's see how bad I can mess this up."