Chapter 2: The Throne of a Doomed King

The iron shackles burned against Damien Voss's wrists as the guards hauled him forward. Each step echoed in the vast stone chamber, a reminder of the inevitable fate that awaited him. He was supposed to die here—just as the game had intended.

But Ethan Cross was no fool.

He had spent his life clawing his way to power, navigating betrayals, and crushing anyone who dared to stand in his way. And if this world thought he would bow to fate, it was about to learn just how wrong it was.

The obsidian throne loomed ahead, cold and unyielding. Massive banners bearing the sigil of the **Voss Dynasty**—a silver dragon coiled around a bleeding sun—hung above the grand dais. This was his kingdom. His **legacy**. And yet, the very people who owed him their lives were here to strip it all away.

A long, ornate table stretched before him, occupied by the **Imperial Council**—a collection of nobles, generals, and advisors, each more treacherous than the last. At the center sat **High Chancellor Aldric**, a man with silver-streaked hair and a face lined by years of scheming.

"Damien Voss," Aldric intoned, his voice carrying the weight of judgment. "You stand accused of war crimes, tyranny, and the ruthless slaughter of thousands. Do you have anything to say before your sentence is carried out?"

Damien lifted his head, and for the first time, the council **truly saw him**.

His white hair cascaded over broad shoulders, a stark contrast to the dark chains biting into his skin. His **blue eyes**, cold and piercing, flickered with something **far more dangerous than fear**—calculation.

And his **aura**—the very essence of his presence—spread through the room like a slow-building storm.

A tense silence followed. Some nobles visibly stiffened. Others swallowed hard.

**They feared him.**

**They admired him.**

Even in chains, he commanded their attention.

Damien exhaled slowly. He knew this scene—he had played through it before. The council would pass judgment. The hero, **Leon**, would arrive in a dramatic burst of righteousness. And then—**the execution**.

Not this time.

He let a slow smirk curve his lips. "Treason," he said, testing the word on his tongue. "What a bold claim from men who owe everything to me."

Murmurs spread through the council. A few exchanged uneasy glances.

Aldric's expression remained cold. "Your crimes speak for themselves, my lord."

Damien's eyes darkened. "Then let me speak for myself."

He pulled against the chains—not to break free, not yet, but enough for the iron to **groan in protest**. The sound reverberated through the chamber. More than one noble tensed at the sheer **force** he exerted, **a reminder of the power that once ruled this throne**.

"Let me remind you," Damien continued, voice smooth as silk, "who led the Empire's armies when the world sought to destroy us. Who crushed rebellions before they reached your gilded gates. Who—while you sat in your palaces—**bled** for this kingdom."

The tension in the room thickened. Some members of the council shifted, clearly remembering the truth behind his words.

Aldric, however, remained unmoved. "Your reign was built on **fear, not loyalty**. You are no emperor, Damien. You are a tyrant, and the world will not mourn you."

A shadow passed over Damien's face. Tyrant. That was the role the game had assigned him. The villain destined to fall.

But this was **his** story now.

He tilted his head, watching Aldric with something almost akin to amusement. "Is that so?"

The chamber doors **slammed open**.

A figure strode in, armor gleaming beneath the torchlight.

**Leon.**

The **hero**. The man meant to strike Damien down.

Damien had faced him countless times in the game, memorizing his every strength, every weakness. A golden-haired warrior with the **blessing of the gods**, carrying the sacred blade **Solstice**—a weapon said to burn away darkness itself.

Leon's eyes locked onto Damien with righteous fury. "The gods have passed judgment on you, Voss." He unsheathed **Solstice**, the blade **humming with divine energy**. "And I am here to deliver your sentence."

**So it begins.**

Damien lowered his gaze to the blade. In the game, this was where he would die. Bound, powerless. The story had never allowed **Damien Voss** a chance to fight back.

But he was no longer just Damien Voss.

He was *Ethan Cross**.

And he had never been a man who played by the rules.

A slow, dark smile curved his lips.

"Come then, hero," he murmured.

"Let's rewrite destiny."**