Chapter 405

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire that burned in the hearth. A dark, eerie presence seemed to hang in the air, but the king was too dazed to feel it at first. His eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.

The thick stone walls of his palace had been replaced by strange, gleaming surfaces—white and flat, like an endless sea of glass. He gripped the armrest of the chair beneath him, but the leather was slick under his fingers, unlike the rough materials he'd known.

He stared at his hands, waiting for the world to settle around him. It hadn't.

His clothes—rich, royal robes—were no longer there. Instead, he wore something that felt too tight, constraining, like the skin of a snake. His body was different now, too. He no longer felt the broadness of his chest, the heaviness of his crown. Instead, he felt light, almost fragile. But his heart, his heart was heavy—heavy with confusion, heavy with fear.

There had been no warning. One moment, he had been seated on his throne, his advisors standing around him, the faint smell of incense filling the chamber. The next, a blinding flash of light. And now, this.

A figure entered the room. It was a man—tall, sharp-featured, dressed in strange garments that had no resemblance to any attire the king had ever seen. He approached slowly, a look of curiosity on his face. The king tried to speak, but his voice felt strange in his throat, as though it were not his own.

"What... where am I?" The words came out raspy, unfamiliar. His tongue felt foreign in his mouth.

The man stared at him for a moment, his brow furrowing. "You don't know? You're in a hospital. Are you feeling okay? You were out for a while."

The king's eyes widened. A hospital? His mind could hardly comprehend the word. "A hospital? What is this place? Where is my kingdom?"

The man blinked, confused. "Your kingdom? What are you talking about?"

The king gripped the armrest again, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind swam with questions, but nothing made sense. The world outside the stone walls of his palace had always been a distant thought, something he knew existed but never had to face.

Now, the cold, artificial walls around him felt suffocating. The modern world, with its strange gadgets, its flickering screens, its noise—it all felt wrong. Alien.

His thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. He could remember his kingdom, his warriors, his advisers. But none of it mattered now. What was he supposed to do? What could he do in this strange new world?

The man looked at him, still unsure of how to react. "You really don't know, do you? You're... well, you're in what's called a mental health ward. A psychiatric hospital. You were brought here after... well, after they found you wandering the streets."

The king furrowed his brow. Streets? He had never wandered a street in his life. The streets were beneath him. He ruled his people from the grandest halls. He never had to walk among the lowborn.

"I don't understand." His voice trembled, despite his efforts to stay composed. "Where are my guards? My kingdom?"

The man shifted on his feet, his face unreadable. "Look, I'm just going to get someone to talk to you, okay? Just stay calm."

The king watched as the man turned and left the room. Alone again, the silence pressed in on him like a suffocating weight. He could hear the faint hum of something outside the room—machines, perhaps, or the distant murmurs of others. But it wasn't like the sounds of the court he was used to, the low voices of nobles speaking in hushed tones.

He needed to think. He needed to understand what was happening to him. Slowly, he rose from the chair, the world around him spinning for a moment as his vision swam. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself and stared at the reflection in the glass that surrounded him.

His own eyes stared back at him, but they seemed... different. Hollow, even. The light in them had faded. What had happened to him?

The door opened again. This time, a woman stepped into the room. She was dressed in a white coat, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes scanned him with a mixture of concern and something else—something colder.

"You're awake," she said flatly. "How are you feeling?"

The king's heart beat faster. Her words—empty, detached—struck him in a way that felt unnatural, like they didn't belong in his world. He was used to the voices of his people, their respect for him, their reverence. This woman did not look at him as though he were a king. She looked at him as though he were a patient, an object to be analyzed.

"Where am I?" His voice cracked, this time with more force than before. "I demand to know what's happening."

The woman blinked, then sighed. She took a step forward, her eyes searching his face, but her expression remained cold. "You were found... well, it's complicated. But the short version is you were picked up in a... a mental state that's very inconsistent with what you think you are. You're in a hospital. You've been here for a few days."

The king recoiled at the mention of his mind being "inconsistent." His mind was sharp, as sharp as it had always been. The idea that his mind was in any way broken was absurd. But the more he tried to focus, the more distant his thoughts seemed, as if they were slipping away, just beyond his grasp.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I am a king."

She didn't respond at first. Then, her eyes softened slightly, but the coldness was still there. "I know. And I'm sure you believe that, but it's not true. You're not a king. You're just a man."

The words struck him like a blow. He stared at her, his breath catching in his throat. A man? He was no man. He was a ruler, a sovereign. A king. What was this place, where even his own identity was questioned? What had happened to his kingdom?

She stepped back, her gaze never leaving him. "You've been diagnosed with a severe dissociative disorder. The people around you—the ones who found you—described your behavior as delusional. You're convinced that you were once a king, but that's not reality. You need help."

He was about to shout again, to demand that she listen to him, but the words caught in his throat. His body felt strange. His chest felt tight. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing against him, mocking him with their modernity. His mind reeled. He could see his kingdom again, his throne room, his people—but it all seemed so far away, like a dream he could no longer reach.

"I... I'm not crazy," he said, his voice shaking. "I was a king."

The woman turned, her expression unreadable. "We'll talk more later. Rest now. You need it."

She left without another word, and the door clicked shut behind her. The king stood there, his mind unraveling. The walls pressed in on him. His heart raced. He couldn't breathe. His kingdom—his life—felt like a fading memory, slipping further and further into nothingness.

Time passed. Days? Hours? It was hard to tell. The world outside his room felt like a distant dream, one he could not return to. He never saw the woman or the man again, but other people came, always in strange uniforms, speaking in voices that echoed in his mind like distant drums.

He tried to leave. He tried to stand, to walk, to escape. But each time, his body betrayed him. The world was no longer his. The throne was no longer his. The crown was a lie.

The king no longer remembered when it happened, but he had stopped trying to escape. The world outside his small room had become nothing more than a blur. His mind no longer functioned as it once had. He was no longer the king.

In the end, the hospital room became his kingdom. A place where nothing mattered anymore, and no one believed who he truly was.