After lingering in the throne room for a while, Etharell made his way to his chamber. Although he had a rough idea of what he looked like from his memories, he still wanted to see his new body with his own eyes for the first time. The door to his room creaked open slightly. It was a room worthy of a king. Though the Kingdom of Tannurad was a small one, in a feudal land like this, landowning nobles—and especially someone like the king—were relatively wealthy.
Even though the kingdom's treasury was now depleted due to the war, that hadn't always been the case. The former kings had ensured the coffers never ran empty, thanks to trade and taxation. As a result, building a palace befitting a kingdom had not been too difficult. Although it was far from being one of the finest palaces in the world, it was still large and impressive.
Standing before a heavy-framed mirror that was slightly taller than him, Etharell closed his eyes for a few seconds. A curiosity overwhelmed him, he couldn't suppress—this new body, this new shell… Did it truly belong to him? He was probably a world away from the way he looked in his previous life.
The first thing he saw in the mirror were broad shoulders and a face sculpted with sharp lines. His jawline was well-defined, and the subtle hollows in his cheeks cast shadows across his face.
His body held the solid frame of a warrior—muscular yet not exaggerated, as if shaped by a natural, innate balance. His skin bore a light bronze hue, as if kissed by the sun.
His eyes were deep black, their gaze sharp and penetrating. His hair was black as well, medium-length, and slightly tousled. He was clean-shaven, which made his chiseled features all the more visible.
Etharell liked what he saw.
Then, making sure he was alone in the room, he checked his lower half as well. Once again pleased with what he found, he pulled his trousers back on. He then dressed in a formal coat and shirt before leaving the room.
Now it was time to deal with this damned war. Despite possessing very little magical power, Etharell at least had a powerful body—but he knew that alone, it wouldn't be enough to change anything.
His only real advantage in this frighteningly unjust war against the Empire—or perhaps the only good thing about it—was that the monstrously powerful Emperor was not personally leading the enemy army.
According to rumors, the Emperor was as strong as an entire army on his own, one of the most powerful humans in the world. It was said that, despite all his strength, he was incredibly intelligent and curious, and that he spent most of his days in the royal library.
A famous quote, attributed to the Emperor of the Raddonan Empire, was often cited across the lands:
> "Even a book written by a fool is more valuable than ten of my soldiers."
In short, even if Etharell somehow managed to win this war, it was almost certain that he would face the Emperor's wrath afterward. He would end up making the most powerful enemy possible. But there was no other choice. This war had to be won—for Etharell, at least, that goal was worth fighting for.
He pushed his heavy thoughts aside and stepped out of the room. Soon, he would be holding an emergency meeting with the handful of important figures who remained. His mind was flooded with ideas on how to defeat the Empire, but he wasn't confident in any of them. He believed this meeting would help break that uncertainty.
The dim light filtering through the stone walls stretched his shadow long, as if to underline the burden he now carried. Though he had only been king for a short time, the weight on his shoulders already felt like the weariness of years.
When he arrived at the council chamber, two guards standing at the door saluted him. Etharell returned the gesture with a subtle nod and entered. A small group had gathered around the table—each one a person who played a critical role in the survival of the kingdom.
First, there was the elderly but sharp-eyed Chief Advisor Morell, who locked eyes with Etharell the moment he entered. Beside him stood Valren, commander of the Royal Guard—one of the few who had survived the bloodiest fronts of the war. In another corner sat Lirya, known for her calm demeanor, a childhood friend of Etharell's father and now the head of foreign affairs.
Sir Caelen, the kingdom's chief knight, stood silently behind Etharell. And General Maern, whom Etharell had spoken with earlier, sat in his place with a composed yet weary expression.
Also present were the two most powerful nobles in the kingdom: Lord Reginald and Lord Matthias. But the expressions on their faces clearly showed discomfort. They were curious—why had this young king called them all here?
Etharell took his seat on the broad, throne-like chair at the far end of the table, a little apart from the others. Sir Caelen took his place directly behind him.
Leaning back against the high backrest, Etharell fell silent. The room grew quiet. All eyes were on him. The silence hung heavy, as if awaiting the moment the young king would finally put the weight of his reign into words for the first time.
Etharell let his eyes wander across the table, then met the gaze of each person in the room one by one. He knew he had to speak properly—eloquently, with conviction. His greatest fear at that moment was saying something foolish and humiliating himself.
But he forced himself to calm down. He had no choice. If he failed, his head would likely be hanging from the gates of the capital within a month of losing the war. So he pushed aside his anxiety. Even if he couldn't be a good king… he could at least pretend to be one.
Finally, lowering his head slightly, he began to speak.
"Every life lost in this war is my responsibility. Tannurad's treasury is empty. Its army is exhausted. Its people are hopeless. But we are still breathing. And that means we can still fight."
Lord Reginald leaned forward. His gray hair fell across his forehead, and his voice was sharp and cold.
"Your Majesty, of course we will fight. But we must face the truth. The Raddonan army is crushing us. We're losing our cities. We can't send reinforcements because we have no soldiers left."
His words echoed through the room like a chill. For a moment, no one spoke. Each word seemed to strike like a nail driven into wood. But the silence was broken when Valren struck the table with a slow but deliberate fist.
"Even so," Valren said, "we must fight. If we surrender now, we lose not only our kingdom—but our honor."
Chief Advisor Morell coughed softly, as if trying to ease the rising tension.
"Your Majesty," he began in a polite yet clear tone, "time is running out. We needed foreign support to win this war, but there is little time left. The Kingdom of Tannurad is the Ren Chronnal dynasty. The land may fall under occupation, but as long as you and your bloodline survive, this kingdom will never truly belong to the Empire."
As Morell's words echoed across the chamber, silence fell once again. They were a reminder that a kingdom was not just stone and soil—it was a name, a memory, an identity that lived on.
Etharell lowered his gaze to the ground. Morell was right. Borders drawn in blood could be redrawn in a day. Fortresses could fall, armies could scatter. But a dynasty… if it survived, it could one day rise again from the ashes.
Yet Etharell had been given a second chance at life, and he had no intention of spending it in shame. Still, Morell had once advised the previous king as well, and his insights were worth understanding more clearly.
"So, what exactly are you proposing?" Etharell asked in a deep, firm voice. "That I flee and seek refuge in other lands? That I become a useful pawn for them to use against the Empire?"
Chief Advisor Morell bowed his head for a moment under the weight of the direct and harsh question. But he didn't respond like a proud noble, nor recoil like a timid bureaucrat. When he looked up again, there was weariness on his face—but also wisdom.
"No, Your Majesty," he said calmly. "I speak not of running or hiding. But a king's greatest weapon is not always his sword. Sometimes, a letter, a marriage proposal, or a call for alliance can shift the tide more than a thousand soldiers."
At that, Lirya interjected. Her voice was soft, but steady.
"The Principality of Belmora in the east is still neutral. And the Blackpine Tribes in the north harbor deep hatred toward the Empire. If we can strengthen a few key diplomatic ties, we might open a second front against the Raddonan Empire. We can't stop them alone—but together, we might at least tip the balance."
Etharell nodded silently. His eyes turned to Valren. He took a deep breath, and let the thoughts in his mind flow outward.
"No one wants to ally with a kingdom on the brink of collapse. And no one wants to make an enemy of the Empire for a cause that's already lost... Even if we do form an alliance, by the time help arrives, the capital may already be fallen. That's why we have no choice but to fight!"