Chapter 2: The Weight of the Crown

Max's grip tightened on the reins of the warhorse as it carried him through the castle grounds. Every beat of the horse's hooves against the stone path echoed like a countdown to his inevitable fate. The cold night air nipped at his skin, but he barely noticed it. His mind was too busy racing, trying to piece together the fragments of what he knew about the Duke's story.

The council will betray me.

It wasn't a question of if, but when. In the game, the Duke's story had always ended the same way. No matter what decisions you made or how far you got, the council, his closest advisors, would turn on him. And not just because of political power struggles—they feared him. They feared his ruthlessness, his unpredictability. The Duke of Arenia had built his reign on fear, and it had consumed him in the end.

But now, Max was in the Duke's place. He had years—maybe less—before the betrayal. And the worst part? The person who had led the final charge against the Duke in the game, the one who had delivered the killing blow, had been Max himself. He had taken part in this betrayal, as a player, killing this very character before Arkathul's arrival.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had helped end the Duke's life before, but now he was living that doomed existence, trapped in a body whose future had already been written.

As the warhorse carried him toward the council chamber, Max's pulse quickened. He needed to gather his thoughts, fast. He couldn't afford to let his fear show in front of the council—those men would be looking for any sign of weakness, any crack in his armor. If they sensed even for a moment that he wasn't the Duke they remembered, they would start plotting his downfall right here and now.

You've played this game before, he told himself, trying to steady his nerves. You know how this works. You just have to stay one step ahead.

But this wasn't a game anymore. There was no respawning, no do-overs. If Max made a wrong move, it would cost him his life.

---

The warhorse came to a halt in front of the grand council chamber. Massive wooden doors loomed before him, each carved with intricate symbols and crests that Max vaguely recognized from his time playing Fate's End. His stomach churned as he dismounted, the heavy velvet cloak brushing against the stone steps. Two armored guards stepped forward to open the doors for him, their expressions blank, their eyes downcast as if avoiding his gaze.

Inside, the council chamber was vast, its walls lined with banners representing the great houses of Arenia. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the room, giving it a haunting, oppressive atmosphere. A long, rectangular table dominated the center of the space, with five men seated around it—his council.

Max's heart raced as he scanned their faces. They were all here—the men who would eventually plot his death. They didn't know it yet, of course, but in a few short years, they would turn on him. And if he wasn't careful, they would succeed.

Each man wore the insignia of his house, their expressions unreadable as they rose to greet him. Councilor Verrin, a slim man with sharp features and a nervous energy about him, was the first to speak.

"Your Grace," Verrin said, bowing deeply. "We are honored by your presence. We have much to discuss."

Max gave a curt nod, keeping his face impassive, cold. He knew enough about the Duke's character to know that any display of warmth or kindness would be met with suspicion. The Duke had ruled through fear, not loyalty. And that meant Max had to do the same—at least until he figured out how to change the game.

The council. The same council that, if Max wasn't careful, would one day orchestrate his downfall. His mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say to them? He wasn't a noble, he wasn't a strategist, and he certainly wasn't a leader. He was just a regular guy who had stumbled into this nightmare. But now, they expected him to act like a Duke—a Duke who had

commanded wars and ruled over an empire.

"Let's get on with it," Max said, his voice steady, though the weight of his own words felt heavy on his tongue.

The councilors exchanged brief glances before retaking their seats. Max moved to the head of the table, the high-backed chair creaking slightly as he settled into it. He felt the eyes of the council on him, waiting, watching, judging. They expected the Duke of Arenia—the ruthless, cunning leader they had served for years. They couldn't know that the man sitting before them was a stranger in this body, a man scrambling to survive.

Play the part. Just play the part.

Councilor Verrin cleared his throat, shuffling the documents before him. "The eastern borders are under increased threat, Your Grace. The orc and goblin forces are amassing again. We believe they may be planning a large-scale assault."

Max felt a flicker of recognition. This was familiar. The orcs and goblins in Fate's End were always a nuisance, constantly probing the borders of Arenia's lands, testing the defenses. Early in the game, the Duke would personally lead a military campaign to crush the threat, earning the fear and respect of his soldiers.

But in the game, that had been easy. Click a few commands, move some units, and watch as the orcs were slaughtered. This, though—this was real. Max didn't have the strategic genius of the Duke. He didn't know how to command troops in battle.

His fingers tightened around the armrests of the chair. "What are our current defenses?" Max asked, trying to stall for time.

Councilor Hale, a stocky man with a gruff demeanor, spoke up. "We've deployed two battalions to the eastern border, but they're spread thin. The orcs are increasing in numbers, and the goblins have been raiding villages. We'll need more forces to mount an effective defense."

Max's mind raced. He couldn't afford to make a wrong move here. If he hesitated, if he showed any sign of uncertainty, the council would question his leadership. But he had no idea how the Duke would have handled this. The Duke had been ruthless, commanding respect through sheer force. Max didn't have that power. Not yet.

Max's heart sank. His strength? His presence on the battlefield was supposed to be decisive. But how could he lead troops when he didn't even know what they were talking about? He didn't remember any of the battles they referenced, and certainly not the power they attributed to him.

Max (Internal): They think I can win this war with the same power I don't even know I had. But what happens when I step onto the battlefield and can't deliver?

His face remained impassive, the practiced mask of authority he hoped they expected, but his

mind raced with doubt. He was trapped, forced into a role he couldn't fill, and any sign of

weakness would be the crack that shattered the illusion he so desperately needed to maintain

"Double the defenses," Max said, his voice cold and detached, hoping it sounded authoritative. "Send reinforcements to the eastern border and prepare the siege weapons. We'll crush the orc forces before they can mount a full attack."

Councilor Hale nodded, though Max caught the brief flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knew this wasn't enough. The orcs were a powerful enemy, and they wouldn't go down easily. But Max didn't have the strategic mind of a military leader. All he could do was pretend.

"As you command, Your Grace," Hale said, though there was an edge to his voice that made Max's stomach turn.

Max glanced at the map spread across the table, red markers dotting the eastern border where the enemy was gathering. It was overwhelming. How had the Duke managed this? How had he kept control over a kingdom constantly under threat? How had he commanded the fear and loyalty of these men?

"Any news from the scouts?" Max asked, his eyes scanning the faces of the councilors.

Councilor Verrin shuffled his papers, his gaze flickering nervously between the others before landing on Max. "Yes, Your Grace. The scouts report that the orcs are being led by a new warlord. A particularly fierce one. They've allied with the goblin tribes in exchange for spoils from their raids."

Max's pulse quickened. A warlord. This was bad. Orc warlords were among the toughest enemies in Fate's End. They were massive, hulking brutes, capable of leading entire armies into battle with devastating force. If the orcs had a warlord, it meant they were preparing for something big—something that could tip the balance of power at the borders.

In the game, the Duke had faced similar threats before, and each time, he had crushed his enemies with ruthless efficiency. But Max wasn't the Duke. He didn't have that knowledge, that skill set. All he had was a vague memory of a game he had played years ago, and that wasn't enough.

But he couldn't let them see his hesitation. He couldn't afford to let them know he was struggling.

"Then we'll remind them of who they're dealing with," Max said, his voice steady but cold. "Send word to the eastern garrison. I'll personally lead the next campaign against the orc forces."

The councilors exchanged uneasy glances. Max could feel the tension in the room rising. They didn't expect him to lead the battle personally. But in the game, that had always been the Duke's greatest strength—his willingness to stand on the front lines, to show his men that he was just as ruthless as they feared.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Councilor Verrin said, though his voice wavered slightly.

Max's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know how he was going to pull this off. He didn't know how to lead an army, let alone fight against a warlord. But he had no choice. He had to keep up the act, at least until he figured out how to survive.

The councilors continued discussing logistics—troop movements, supply lines, defensive strategies—but Max barely heard them. His mind was too busy spinning, trying to think of a way to escape the trap he had found himself in. The weight of the Duke's legacy pressed down on him, suffocating him with its expectations. He couldn't be the leader they expected him to be, but if he failed, it

Chapter 2: The Weight of the Crown (Continued)

would be the end—not just of him, but of everything he was trying to protect. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about navigating a web of betrayal and deception before it tightened around him.

As the councilors droned on about defensive positions and troop logistics, Max's thoughts drifted, the weight of his situation bearing down on him like a crushing tide. His mind swirled with fragmented memories from his time playing Fate's End. The faces of these councilors—Verrin, Hale, and the others—blurred with images of their betrayal. He could see it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday: the final confrontation, when they turned on him in the game, stabbing the Duke in the back while the empire was on the verge of collapse.

In the game, Max had been part of that betrayal. He'd led the charge, coordinated the strike that took down the Duke. Now, he was trapped in the body of the very man he had killed. The irony twisted in his chest like a knife.

Suddenly, the reality of his position hit him harder than before. This wasn't just a game. These men weren't NPCs following pre-scripted lines. They were real—intelligent, calculating, and dangerous. One wrong move, one slip-up, and they'd sense weakness. Max could feel their eyes on him, waiting for him to falter, to give them the slightest excuse to question his authority.

He couldn't let that happen.

I need more time, he thought, his mind racing. He had to figure out a way to delay the inevitable betrayal, to shift the story—his story—in a different direction. But how? What could he possibly do that hadn't been done before?

"What did I do?" Max asked, the words slipping out colder than he had intended. He

immediately regretted it, but it served its purpose. Verrin flinched as though he'd been struck,eyes wide in fear. The other councilors exchanged nervous glances, unsure if this was a test.

"At Stonefield, Your Grace… you annihilated an entire goblin army by yourself. Burned them to ash with your magic," Verrin stammered.

Max's breath caught in his throat. Magic? He had used magic? But how? He couldn't remember a single spell, let alone enough power to incinerate an army.

Max (Internal): Burned them to ash? How did I do that?

He forced himself to remain composed, his expression unreadable. But inside, a storm of panic

swirled. How was he supposed to fight like the Duke when he couldn't even remember how to

cast a single spell?

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips—a confident, controlled smile, one he prayed

looked convincing.

"Good," Max said, his voice steady. "Then we'll remind them of that power. Prepare the troops.

I'll lead them myself."

The councilors froze, their fear palpable. They hadn't expected him to step onto the battlefield

personally. Yet none of them dared to question him. Fear, it seemed, was still his greatest weapon.

Max (Internal): They think I'm unstoppable. I'll have to let them keep thinking that, at least until

I figure out what I'm capable of.

"Your Grace?" Verrin's voice broke through Max's thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

Max blinked, realizing that Verrin had been waiting for him to respond. His mouth went dry. Say something, anything. He leaned forward, doing his best to mimic the Duke's commanding presence, his fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table.

"I trust you'll handle the preparations for the campaign against the orcs," Max said, his voice measured. "But I want regular updates. I don't want any surprises."

Verrin nodded, looking relieved by the familiar coldness in Max's tone. "Of course, Your Grace. We'll ensure everything is in place before your departure."

Max gave a curt nod, though his mind was already racing again. He needed to get out of this room. He needed space to think.

Five years, in the game story will start he reminded himself. After few years the game story will start the Outer God, Arkathul, descended to finish off the world. But the betrayal would happen much sooner than that. If he didn't act now, he wouldn't even make it halfway through those five years.

"That will be all," Max said, standing abruptly. The councilors looked momentarily startled, but none dared question him.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Councilor Hale muttered, bowing his head as the others followed suit.

Max turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The cold corridors of the castle stretched out before him, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls. His footsteps echoed in the silence, but his mind was anything but calm.

I need to figure out a way to change things, he thought. The Duke's story was one of inevitable betrayal and death. But Max refused to let that be his fate. If he was going to survive in this world, he would have to rewrite the script. He would have to change the course of events before the council turned on him.

But how? How could he outmaneuver a council that had already betrayed the Duke once before?

---

As Max made his way through the winding corridors of the castle, his thoughts continued to race. The walls seemed to close in on him, the cold stone pressing down on his shoulders, suffocating him. The castle itself felt like a maze, each corner and hallway unfamiliar and disorienting. He couldn't help but feel like a stranger in this place, despite the Duke's title and power.

I need to know more, he realized. If he was going to survive, he needed to understand the Duke's relationships—his allies, his enemies, and the councilors themselves. He needed information, and fast.

Max's steps quickened as he made his way toward the Duke's private chambers. The Duke's quarters would have records, journals, something—anything—that could give him insight into the man he had become. He needed to understand the political landscape he was navigating, the delicate balance of power that he was now at the center of.

When he reached the large oak doors of the Duke's quarters, two guards stationed outside immediately straightened and bowed.

"Your Grace," one of them said, stepping aside to open the door for him.

Max nodded curtly, pushing through the doors and into the room. The first thing that hit him was the sheer scale of the place. The chamber was vast, with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sprawling city of Arenia below. The room was furnished with luxurious dark wood, the furniture polished to a gleam. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls, and a large fireplace crackled with a low fire, casting a warm glow over the space.

Max's eyes were drawn to the large wooden desk near the window. He approached it slowly, his heart racing. If there was anything in this room that could help him, it would be here.

He pulled open the first drawer and was met with a stack of parchment—letters, documents, all neatly organized. His fingers moved quickly, sifting through them. Most were reports—updates on the kingdom's financial status, troop deployments, letters from other nobles. But as he continued to search, he found something that made his breath catch.

A journal.

Max pulled it from the drawer, the leather cover worn from use. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning the entries. It was the Duke's personal journal, written in his own hand. The neat, precise handwriting detailed everything—from military campaigns to political maneuvering.

This is it, Max thought, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. This was his key to survival. If he could learn how the Duke thought, if he could understand the man's strategies and plans, he might be able to find a way to outmaneuver the council.

He flipped through the pages, his heart pounding as he read. The entries were filled with the Duke's thoughts—his paranoia, his suspicions of betrayal, his cold and calculated approach to leadership. The Duke had always known that the council would turn on him. He had seen the signs, had even taken measures to prevent it. But in the end, his paranoia had only hastened his downfall.

Max's stomach twisted as he realized how closely the Duke's story mirrored his own. The Duke had been ruthless, suspicious of everyone around him, and in the end, that had been his undoing. The council had turned on him because they feared him, because they couldn't trust a man who trusted no one.

I can't make the same mistakes, Max thought. I have to be different.

But how? How could he change the course of events when the entire world seemed set on following the same path?

Max continued reading, his eyes scanning the pages frantically. And then, he found it—a single entry, written in hurried script, that made his heart stop.

"The council grows restless. I can see it in their eyes, the way they whisper when they think I'm not watching. They plot against me—I know it. But I have one last move to make. One last card to play."

Max's breath caught in his throat as he read the words. What was the Duke planning? What was this "last card" he had referred to?

He turned the page, desperate for answers, but the next entry was written in a different hand—shaky, panicked. It wasn't the Duke's handwriting.

Max's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the page. This was it. This was the moment of the Duke's downfall, recorded in real time. But there was no mention of the Duke's final move, no explanation of the "last card" he had been planning to play.

What was it?

Max closed the journal, his mind racing. The Duke had known the betrayal was coming, but he hadn't lived long enough to put his plan into action. And now, Max was left with the pieces of a puzzle that had never been solved.

Maybe I can solve it, Max thought, determination flooding his veins. Maybe I can finish what the Duke started.

He set the journal down and turned to the window, staring out at the sprawling city of Arenia below. The council was already plotting against him. The betrayal was inevitable. But Max wasn't the Duke, and he didn't have to follow the same path.

If he could figure out what the Duke's "last card" had been—if he could find a way to change the game—then maybe, just maybe, he could survive.

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