The morning light filtered through the towering glass windows of the 51st floor, illuminating the sterile white walls of Dominion Corporate Tower. The hum of computers, the low murmur of conversations, and the rhythmic tapping of fingers against keyboards created the all-too-familiar symphony of corporate monotony.

Achem Powers sat in his cramped, windowless office, staring blankly at his computer screen. The artificial glow reflected in his tired eyes, highlighting the dark circles beneath them. A decade in this company, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing but a nameplate on his desk and a dwindling sense of purpose.

Beyond the glass partition, employees bustled through the hallways, their movements mechanical, their laughter hollow. They all played the game, navigating the unspoken rules of corporate survival—smiling at the right people, shaking the right hands, stepping on the right backs.

Achem had never been good at the game.

His thoughts were interrupted by the distinct click-clack of heels against polished tile.

Resa.

She moved through the office like she owned it—confident, composed, and utterly untouchable. Her blouse, a pristine white, hugged her curves in a way that commanded attention, while the slit in her skirt danced with every deliberate step. A dark bra peeked through the fabric—a subtle yet calculated choice, one that only added to her magnetic presence.

She was dangerous, and she knew it.

As she passed his office, she flicked her gaze toward him. Achem met her eyes for the briefest moment.

A smile.

It was small, barely there, yet brimming with something unreadable—an acknowledgment, a challenge, a game only she understood the rules to.

She continued down the hallway, disappearing into one of the private meeting rooms.

Achem hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself out of his chair and followed.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air. The blinds were drawn, casting long shadows across the sleek wooden table.

Resa stood near the window, her arms crossed. The confidence that radiated from her was intoxicating—a storm contained within the walls of an office.

"You followed me," she observed, turning to face him.

Achem leaned against the doorframe, exhaling slowly. "Maybe."

A smirk played at the corner of her lips. "Bold."

Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then, without warning, she closed the distance between them, her breath warm against his skin.

No words were needed.

Their lips met in a clash of lust and indifference, an unspoken agreement between two people who expected nothing beyond the moment. Clothes shifted, breaths mingled, and for a brief moment, Achem allowed himself to feel something other than the crushing weight of existence.

When it was over, Resa adjusted her blouse with practiced indifference.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, that knowing smile never fading. "Try not to think too hard about it."

And just like that, she was gone.

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Achem sat on the edge of the table, staring at the door she had just walked through.

Another day. Another distraction.

How many times had he done this? Chased fleeting moments to escape the hollowness of his life?

Too many.

Back at his desk, Achem sifted through a mountain of paperwork—proposals, reports, meaningless spreadsheets. His computer flickered, struggling to stay on, as if mirroring his own exhaustion.

His phone sat beside him, untouched. No messages. No missed calls.

No one was waiting for him.

For ten years, he had poured his efforts into this company, believing that hard work led to success. That competence mattered. That someday, he would be rewarded for his loyalty.

But he had been wrong.

Time and time again, his ideas had been stolen, repackaged, and presented by those who played the game better. Promotions passed him by, handed instead to yes-men who knew how to smile in the right rooms.

The world wasn’t fair.

And Achem was tired of pretending it was.

"I'm sorry, Achem. The company is downsizing."

"It's not about your performance."

"This was a difficult decision."

Achem sat across from Richard Gremson, his smug supervisor, as the words fell from his lips like rehearsed dialogue from a play he had seen a thousand times.

The office was pristine, the scent of rich leather and expensive coffee masking the stench of corporate betrayal.

Achem clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table. "Who’s taking my position?"

Richard hesitated, but only for a second. "Greg."

Achem let out a slow breath through his nose.

Greg.

A man who had spent more time brown-nosing executives than actually working.

A man who laughed at Richard’s jokes, who never questioned orders, who knew how to play the game.

"Right," Achem muttered. His voice was calm. Too calm.

Richard gave him that fake sympathy smile. "You’re a great asset, Achem. I know you’ll land on your feet."

The words meant nothing.

It was raining when Achem stepped outside.

The neon cityscape blurred beneath the downpour, the streets slick with reflections of red and blue lights.

Achem walked aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His mind was numb, his thoughts sluggish.

The weight of ten wasted years pressed down on him, heavier than the storm raging above.

Would anyone even notice if he disappeared?

Would anyone care?

A distant horn blared, snapping him from his thoughts. He turned his head just in time to see the blinding glare of headlights barreling toward him.

A screech of tires.

A sickening crunch.

Pain exploded through his body as he was thrown through the air.

The world spun.

And then—

Darkness.

When Achem opened his eyes, he wasn’t lying on cold asphalt.

He was on the ground, but it wasn’t the city streets. It was stone. Rough, uneven, covered in dirt and blood.

The sky above him was an unnatural shade of purple, two moons hanging low on the horizon.

His body ached. His head pounded.

Where…?

Shouts echoed in the distance—armored men, weapons clanking as they moved through the ruins.

Then, a voice, low and mocking:

"So, you’re still alive, Your Majesty."

Achem turned sharply, his pulse thundering in his ears.

A woman stood in the shadows—long black hair, piercing eyes that gleamed with amusement.

And suddenly, memories flooded his mind—memories that weren’t his.

Memories of a kingdom lost. A throne stolen. A king betrayed.

His breath came in sharp gasps as realization dawned.

He was no longer Achem Powers, the corporate worker.

He was Rogar, the Fallen King.

And in this world, power was the only thing that mattered.