The sky above the capital of the Valerius Empire was not the blue sky children knew in the green meadows. It was a canvas painted with gunpowder smoke, stained with streaks of orange and red from distant artillery bursts, and stitched by blinding lines of energy projected from shield emitters. The earth-shaking sound was not thunder, but the deafening roar of next-generation Howitzers releasing their lethal payloads toward the unseen enemy lines. In the midst of this carnival of destruction stood a towering command spire, a pillar of steel and glass overlooking the battlefield like an indifferent god.
Inside, in a room crowded with flickering holographic maps and the never-ending static of communicators, stood the War King himself, Emperor Valerius IX. He wore no regal robes or ornate crown. His simple, stained gray combat uniform, marked only by the insignia of the supreme commander—an eagle clutching a sword and a hammer—was the sole sign of his rank. His stern face, carved with scars from forgotten battles, was illuminated by the pale blue glow of the strategic display. His eyes, cold steel-gray, scanned the incoming data, absorbing information at a speed unimaginable for ordinary minds.
"Alpha Group, advance to coordinates 7-4-0. Destroy their artillery bunker. Beta Group, flank the left. They're trying to retreat through the valley. Do not let a single one escape."
His voice was calm, flat, almost mechanical. Every word was a command, every command a death sentence for hundreds of lives across the field.
He had led the Valerius Empire from the brink of ruin to the height of glory. Hundreds of battles, dozens of campaigns, all won through a combination of ruthless tactics, unrivaled technology, and a will that knew no mercy. He had united a planet torn by war under his banner. Today was supposed to be the final day of victory. The final battle. The culmination of everything he had fought for.
A young general approached, his face pale and drenched in sweat. "Your Majesty, the Regent Council… they sent a message. They request—no, they order a ceasefire. They claim victory is already secured, and further bloodshed is unnecessary."
Valerius didn't even turn. "The Regent Council is a pack of politicians frightened by their own shadows. They do not understand that true peace can only be built upon the graves of enemies completely annihilated. Ignore them."
"But Your Majesty—"
Dorr!
A muffled gunshot echoed through the room, which fell silent in an instant. The young general staggered back, a smoldering black hole burned into his forehead. He collapsed to the floor, dead before his body touched the hologram-lit ground.
Valerius calmly holstered the smoking energy pistol at his hip. His gray eyes finally turned, sweeping across the room, meeting every frozen officer whose faces twisted with fear and disbelief.
"Anyone else wish to deliver the Council's 'orders'?" he asked, his voice a whisper sharp enough to kill.
No one answered. Only the static hiss of the communicators and the drone of the machinery broke the silence. Yet behind the visible fear, Valerius saw something else in the eyes of several older officers—a flicker of satisfaction. It was a look he knew well—the gaze of hunters who finally cornered their prey.
It was then he understood. This was not merely the final battle. This was a trap. Not one laid by the enemy beyond the walls, but by the serpents he had raised within his own palace. The Regent Council, nobles jealous of his power, generals craving his throne… they had all conspired.
He turned sharply, primal instinct screaming danger. But it was already too late.
A shrill alarm blared, different from any battlefield alert. It was an internal security alarm. Crimson emergency lights flashed to life, drowning the room in hellish red.
"Emergency lockdown activated. All access to the Primary Command Spire has been disabled," the synthesized AI voice announced.
From the walls—supposedly solid metal—panels slid open, and a squad of Elite Guards, his own personal mechanized soldiers, emerged with weapons trained directly on him. But their weapons were not set to stun. Deadly violet energy pulsed within their barrels.
Betrayal.
The word echoed in his mind, cold and sharp as an ice dagger. He had calculated everything—enemy strength, terrain, logistics—but he had overlooked the deadliest plague of all: human greed and the fear of a king made too powerful.
There was no time for words. No time for anger. Only action.
With fluid motion, Valerius snatched a kinetic grenade from his belt and slammed it onto the floor. Its explosion was not fire, but a lethal shockwave that shredded everything in the chamber. The Elite Guards were flung back like wooden dolls, their bodies crushed by an invisible force.
He ran. Not to escape, but to strike back. His energy weapon roared, tearing through traitors who dared block his path. His body, forged in thousands of battles, moved with deadly precision. Every kick was a shattered bone, every shot a clean kill. He was a storm of death tearing through the corridors of a tower now turned tomb.
But there were too many. They had planned this well. Tracking bullets from security drones chased him, forcing him to take cover. Collapsing walls blocked his routes. He heard frantic footsteps behind the rubble, voices shouting orders, all closing in.
At last, he reached his destination: the Core Reactor Chamber. Here beat the heart of the tower, its endless power supply. If he could not escape, he would ensure no one claimed victory from this betrayal. He would take this entire tower, perhaps half the capital, with him into death.
By entering the emergency code, he initiated the self-destruct sequence. Warnings flashed wildly across the screens.
"Self-destruct sequence activated. Reactor detonation in T-minus 60 seconds."
A thin, bitter smile tugged at his lips. All his life, he had built an empire through destruction. It was fitting that he ended it the same way.
But then, something strange happened. The air around him began to tremble. Not with the rumble of the coming explosion, but something deeper, more primal. A strange light—coming from nowhere in the chamber—began to seep through the steel walls, the floor, even the air. A light of violet and gold, swirling like liquid, radiating an energy entirely foreign.
Woooom…
A low resonant hum, like a colossal bell struck in the void, filled his ears. He felt a pull, an unnatural force tearing him from his own reality.
He looked at his hand—fading, becoming translucent.
"What… is this?" he whispered, feeling for the first time a flicker of unknown fear.
He tried resisting, reaching for the console to cancel the sequence, but his arm no longer obeyed. The world around him vibrated and disintegrated—not into rubble, but into particles of light. He saw the shocked faces of his betrayers, the glowing core of the reactor about to explode, all distorted as if seen through churning water.
Then, there was nothing.
Only void.
•••
Consciousness returned not like a gentle dawn, but like a lightning strike. Every nerve in his body burned. Every muscle screamed in protest. He tried opening his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy as lead. He tried to breathe, only for a stabbing pain in his lungs to force a hoarse, pathetic cough from his throat.
Smell. That was the first thing he truly processed. The stench of sweat, damp cloth, dirt, and something sweet yet rotten—the smell of infection. It was so foreign, so revolting that it forced his eyes open.
The sky above him was not the steel and smoke of Valerius. It was a filthy gray sky, streaked with low rolling clouds. Cold drizzle pattered against his face. He lay in the mud, surrounded by primitive tents made of torn leather and cloth. In the distance, he heard voices—shouted orders, the cries of strange beasts, the clang of metal.
He tried to sit up, but another wave of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him. His body felt… wrong. Smaller. Weaker. His hand—no longer the massive, scar-ridden hand that had held weapons and signed death warrants—was a pale, slender hand. He wore a rough, soaked uniform of unfamiliar design, marked with insignia that meant nothing.
He raised his hand to his face. The features he touched were smooth, unmarred by scars. His hair was long and tangled, not the short, practical cut he knew.
"This is not my body," he thought.
Reality struck him with physical force. He was no longer Emperor Valerius, the War King. He was now trapped in the body of a… woman? A low-ranked soldier, from the looks of it.
"Oi, Elara! You finally woke up!"
A young man with a dirty, weary face crouched beside him. He wore the same uniform, his chest plate dented. "Thought you'd be the next one buried. Void Drain level two is no joke, you know?"
Elara. That was the name he was called. And… Void Drain? The words were strange, yet somehow he understood the context—a severe backlash of magical overuse. But Valerius had no magic. His world ran on technology. The emptiness inside him, the crippling weakness… was this what they called Void Drain?
He tried to speak, but only a broken rasp left his lips. "Where…?"
"Where else? The front lines, idiot," the man said, shaking his head. "7th Company, 3rd Infantry Regiment of the Arthas Kingdom. We were nearly wiped out by that Orc mage assault yesterday. You tried holding the barrier too long—your core couldn't handle it. Nearly killed you."
He offered a waterskin. "Drink. The instructors say we're moving again soon. The noble mages need fodder—I mean, infantry—to push forward."
The Arthas Kingdom? Orcs? Mages? Every word was a puzzle piece from a world he didn't know. But one thing was clear: he was now at the very bottom. A disposable soldier without power, without forces, in a military that saw him as expendable.
Panic—an emotion almost foreign to him—began gnawing at the edges of his mind. He was an Emperor, a Commander! He should not be here, filthy and dying, trapped in this fragile body!
But then, something else flared within him. A familiar fire.
His survival instinct.
The instinct of a War King.
He forced himself upright, ignoring the stabbing pain across his body. His eyes—no longer gray and cold, perhaps—but the intensity behind them flickered back to life. He surveyed his surroundings—the disordered tents, the defeated soldiers, the poor organization. He heard inefficiency in the shouts of officers. He smelled the stench of impending defeat in the air.
They might have taken everything from him—his empire, his power, even his original body.
But they could not take what lived inside his mind.
Decades of tactical experience.
Knowledge of warfare, psychology, and logistics.
The iron discipline that had won hundreds of battles.
He, Valerius, the War King from another world, still lived.
And in this new land of primitive magic and chaos,
he would rise again.
...