“It is better to be loved than it is to be feared. Unless you are a king.”

- The Late King Demicules Marthur Blackstone, father of King Demoxtheles Garamont Blackstone

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The high elves were all but vanquished. They and their remaining allies, united under the griffin-clad banner of King Fenmarch, were on the brink of defeat, and the day of their extinction was fast approaching. At long last, the War of Bone and Vine would end.

“What news do you bring, Commander Krulnoth?” a deep, imperious voice boomed. The ominous tone came from the Dark Lord Demoxtheles Blackstone—the only son of the late King Demicules and the highest level individual in Etherion’s recorded history. Those who knew the sound of that voice quickly learned to fear it because its bearer had single-handedly reaped the XP from thousands of defeated foes with his army of the dead.

The Witch Lord sat upon his throne in the Black Hall. The room was so named because nearly everything in it was hewn of polished draconic obsidian—excluding the lurid jadeflame torches clinging to each pillar, and above the Throne of Bone. Beginning underneath the throne, plush white carpet made from owlbear pelts ran from the King’s seat to the tall hand-carved double doors. Inlaid over the arched doors was a bas relief depiction of his many conquests, impossible to ignore thanks to the way the torchlight danced upon its smooth, glossy surface—almost as if the figures battled and danced under the flickering lights.

“My Lord, your troops are waiting at the Umber Gate. Are you certain that now is the time to march? By every indication, the enemy will need weeks if not months to recover from the Torching of the Emerald Hills. We are in no rush.”

“Do you doubt my judgment, Commander Krulnoth?” The Witch Lord demanded. His timbre was predatory, deep, and dark, made even more imposing by the black magics that once sought to end him. Coupled by a hardened core of hatred buried deep within his heart—this was the tone Krulnoth of the Black Council knew to fear. “If you would prefer I back down now, when we are so close to achieving dominion over the high elves and their allies, perhaps you’d be more useful to me as kibble for my hounds.”

Krulnoth bowed low in apology. “My Lord—of course, I am ready to follow your command at a moment’s notice,” she hastily corrected herself. “I mean only to convey the lack of urgency—due to your incredible leadership. I simply wondered if, perhaps, our final victory might be more decisive if we took a few days to allow our force from Northhold to arrive.”

Krulnoth was a dark elven war priestess, sired by Underdeep nobility. Despite all the false threats he levied against her, she was his most trusted advisor and loyal to the throne. Bedecked in shimmering armor, as reflective as a silver glass mirror, it covered her body from shoulder to toe, though it hugged her trim figure tightly. Over her chest, she wore a tabard with the King’s crest—a purple scythe on a backdrop of silver. It resembled the Hopereaper, the sickle that her King carried into battle. Her dark skin was the color of a night sky, with ghost-white eyes twinkling like two of its brightest stars. Only fools failed to see the cunning behind those eyes that were as icy as her demeanor. Krulnoth’s hair was as white and delicate as spun white spider silk, and seemed to shine with its own radiance, independent of the torch flame that lit the rest of the room.

“I have fought this war for over a decade. It’s time to close the book on this chapter at last. The final campaign begins today, commander.”

“Of course, my Lord.” The elven woman bowed, her armor clinking under the weight of the gesture. “I shall join the rest of the generals at the Umber Gate and prepare our men to march out in formation.”

The Dark Lord lowered his head and tensed. “You shall return to the Underdeep and wait with your family until the final battle is over.”

Krulnoth blinked a few times, marking her confusion. Her thin eyebrow arched at her Lord, and she bowed again before seeking clarification. “Apologies, my King—what do you mean?”

“Just as I said. You will remain in the Underdeep—where it is safe. This last campaign will bring many casualties, and I would not have you among them.”

“My Lord, you dishonor me—”

“Speak not a single word in defiance. Do not make me regret this kindness.”

The dark elf’s mouth opened and closed, her jaw flapping as she sought words but ultimately hung her head. “Of course, my Lord.”

“Good.” King Demoxtheles stood up, grabbing his scythe from where it hung over the back of the Throne of Bone. He twirled it with an impressive flourish between his fingers. “You are dismissed. I will make my own preparations now.”

Seeing this, Krulnoth bowed again, her brow furrowing with disappointment when she knew her face was out of the King’s sight. She turned on her heel and made her way down the carpet toward the double doors. Two animated ogre skeletons pushed the doors open for her, and she had almost walked past the threshold when she heard the sound of metal clanging on marble echoing behind her. The Dark Lord had collapsed upon the floor without warning.

This is when I came in.

“My Lord!” Krulnoth shouted, shunning propriety as she turned back and sprinted toward the throne where her master had fallen. “What in the name of the Lost Light happened?!”

The whole world seemed to be screaming at me, my mind turbulent with storied histories both mine and belonging to the original owner of this body. Completely broken by the flood of information swimming in my head, I cleared my throat, my eyes darting around frantically to try and make sense of...of something.

It hurt! Just to be in this body hurt. I was in a state of unabashed bewilderment, entirely perplexed by the oddly grim surroundings.

“Where am I?” I murmured, clutching my temple in pain, unable to think straight about the clumsy words leaving my mouth. “This isn't Minnesota, unless they opened a Medieval Times branch and I never heard about it.”

“Minn-uh-so-tuh?” she murmured, brows knitting. “What do you speak of, my King?”

Apparently I said that out loud. I clenched my jaw as another lance of pain shot through my brain, and I saw images of a weeping black-haired boy, swearing vengeance at the base of a tree. Krulnoth helped me to my feet, and I nodded as I considered my surroundings. A thousand mini-epiphanies flooded my thoughts, a kaleidoscope of memories and impressions hitting with the force of a hurricane, entirely overwhelming, but also making everything unerringly clear. “Ah. Okay. Ummm. Give me, like, five seconds to process this.” Five seconds wasn't even going to be close to enough. I felt drunk—broken...but I had to make it through this situation.

Everything I was about to do or say for the next hour or so was compromised and tainted with the pain and confusion I was experiencing, but I felt compelled to take action anyway, like someone or something had put me here to do something big and bold. That was insane, though. At the moment, I didn't even understand who I was, let alone what brought me here.

My head throbbed as I tried to parse the contents of my mind, no longer just my fragmented memories, but also the memories of the dreaded King Demoxtheles—whose body I was currently inhabiting from the looks of things.

“So. Krulnoth?” The name had come to me automatically, and I was grateful for that. It was an early sign that I wasn’t going to be lost in this situation indefinitely. I just needed a moment…Actually, I needed to buy some time.

“My King—what happened just now?”

“Nothing. Iron deficiency probably. Nothing to worry about, commander,” I muttered, swinging my arms back and forth. Damn, they were thick.

My war priestess apparently caught me staring at my own surprising physique. “You are indeed mighty, My Lord. Are you…alright? You seem changed somehow.”

Yeah, time to get in character, I realized in a near-panic. Do your best, me, even though you're in more pain than you’ve ever felt before. I cleared my throat, tapping my knuckles on my chest to conjure up the deepest, most convincing voice I could manage. As I spoke, I sounded like a silly edgelord even to myself. “Yes, Commander Krulnoth. I am fine now. If you’ll excuse me, I have some… planning to do.”

“Planning, my King? The plans for the march have already been set in stone.”

Being in the body of a JRPG villain didn’t suit me in the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. “I understand that, but there is more I must consider. Our foe cannot be underestimated—the high elves.” Relieved that I was able to recall who the Dark Lord’s enemy was, I hoped weaving that into the conversation might help my case. Then I furrowed my brow as confusion set in again, sweat streaking down my face. “Wait—what were we just talking about?”

“The final battle with the last of the Fenmarch Alliance’s forces, my King. Are you certain you’re quite alright? You look ill.”

I snapped my fingers as I recalled the conversation as though I’d been present for the whole thing. “Right. Of course. Listen—here’s the plan. We’re going to go with your suggestion, Commander.”

Her eyes opened wide. “We’ll wait for reinforcements from Northhold, My Lord?”

“Yeah. For sure. One hundred percent.” I almost slapped myself in the face. Dang it, I self-scolded, 'One hundred percent?' The Dark Lord doesn't talk like that.

“And…do you still require me to return to the Underdeep?”

My head pulsed as more information invaded. “If it means so much to you, you can attend the battle.” I barely managed to utter the words clearly. I needed to end this exchange as soon as possible.

“I would like to join the other generals in battle, of course. Are you certain you're alright? My king, if there's anything I can do...”

“Listen—things are going to change in the next couple of days—after the war, that is. On a scale of one to ten, one being you’re looking for an excuse to assassinate me right now, and ten being you are unflinchingly devoted—whereabouts would you rank yourself?”

She looked down at the ground, her dark blue cheeks flushing a different color. “Probably an eleven, I suppose.”

I nodded, thumbing my chin. “That's reassuring at least. Then, could you give me… twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“That’s what I said. Just leave me here. Use the latrine, get a snack, then come back in about twenty minutes and we’ll hash some stuff out.”

Krulnoth nodded, though I could tell from her face that my woozy brain let one too many Earth colloquialisms through. “I’ll let Commander Haythorne know that the Final March will be delayed.”

I waved a dismissal to her, but then realized I was absurdly hungry. “Yes, perfect. Go do that. And—bring back some fruit if you head by the kitchen. If you could.”

Krulnoth shifted her weight onto one hip. “Umm. Any kind of fruit in particular?” She was clearly onto me, as she should be. I was messing every detail of this interaction up and too out of my mind to stop myself from making things worse. I needed to get my head on straight and story together sooner rather than later or she was going to blab to the rest of the generals that something was up with their King. They’d probably stage a mutiny or something… and I literally just got here.

I cleared my throat. “No, commander. The fact that you would even dare to ask my preference is contemptible. Should not the kitchen staff be aware of my tastes? Are you that dimwitted that you would waste my time with such prattling questions?”

She bowed low, suddenly sporting a look of anxiety. Good. I think it worked.

“My apologies, Witch Lord. I shall see to the task at once.”

“See to it that you do,” I remarked coldly. I sat back down on the throne and watched her leave. As soon as she was gone, I slouched in my seat and let out a groan.

That felt really mean. I hope she didn’t take it too hard.

“Now, let’s see,” I muttered to myself, tapping my forehead as I tried to make sense of everything. “This is incredibly jarring. And I definitely could have handled that better." Honestly, stunned silence would have been more appropriate in certain moments, but I hadn't been thinking straight. I still wasn't. And yet I had to make decisions now. Even with the delay I'd ordered, I'd be marching to mass murder before dawn at this rate.

I had appeared in this chamber without so much as a warning. Thankfully, having Demoxtheles’s memories right at the drop, I’d figured out pretty fast what had happened. I was transported to some high fantasy world in the body of some badass necromancer king hellbent on wiping out all high elves because of their dubious role in his mommy's death over a decade ago. Now, I'd been brought here for some unknown reason, but I had to assume it began with putting a stop to his plans before it was too late. At least, that's what it felt like...Something in the back of my brain made that clear enough. It was so absurd of a premise—and cliché—that I almost considered it might be a dream. But I could tell it wasn’t.

There was way too much specific information in my head for this to be some mere midnight hallucination brought upon by expired flamin’ hot cheetos. You know how when you’re dreaming you have a sense of everything being so vague, and the logic of the dream changes up every few minutes so that bonkers things happen and you just kind of accept it? This wasn’t that.

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For all the absurdity of my current situation, it wasn’t illogical. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t vague or ever-shifting the way dreams are. The surroundings were vividly detailed and persistent, the conversation felt real, and an entire personal and world history was swimming in my brain. I closed my eyes and organized my thoughts, collating what I’d learned with an emphasis on the most urgent matters first.

“My name is now Demoxtheles Garamont Blackstone. I am the King and Supreme Leader of the Wraithwaste Kingdom and probably soon the whole continent of Eragor. That lady was Krulnoth Whiteweb—she’s one of my top generals and the most important woman in my life. This world is Etherion.” My eyes shot open as a final fact settled into place. “This body has already killed tens of thousands of innocents, and if I don't get the hell out of here right now, that number is going to multiply.”

It wasn’t the coziest situation to blip into by any stretch of the imagination. It would have been better for me to end up in some random peasant’s body, destined to live a quiet life as a farmer or fisherman in some untold corner of this world where I would be safe from the onslaught that was about to come. Now, however, I had the unenviable responsibility of putting a stop to all this.

I took a moment to consider the consequences of an abrupt end to this conflict. Most of the Dark Lord’s army was composed of the undead corpses of high elves, being used to kill their own kind. The war had brought a curse upon the land, partially engineered by vengeful elven sorcerers, but also caused by the Dark Lord’s own corruption, hence the gloomy name for his kingdom—the Wraithwastes.

Soldiers that should be at home rebuilding cities and healing the land with the king’s massive stores of wealth and resources were wasted as escorts for the undead. They carted them from conflict to conflict like babysitters leading children by the hand from one aisle to the next in a grocery store. Bandit mobs made up of deserters that could be easily quelled by trained soldiers now plagued the border territories. Ending the war would put a stop to all of this and allow the country to heal.

Then there was the other side of the conflict. No matter how I sliced it, the Fenmarch Alliance was in for dark times ahead—they had suffered too much and lost too many. But ending the conflict now meant the difference between continuing to exist versus being entirely annihilated. That couldn’t be overstated.

But that wasn’t all that came to me as I pondered the complexities of this world—there was more. I felt a crackle of power surging inside me, hinting at an underlying complexity that tickled the back of my brain. What was that? It was like my body was telling me something.

The second I questioned it, the answer came to me—magic. Literal magic. But it wasn’t simply magic like I’d seen in movies or read in books before. Indeed, everything about Etherion was dictated by some kind of inherent system of level progression, more like a video game or tabletop RPG than a typical fantasy world. My awareness of this ‘System’ was ephemeral at first, but soon it returned and I had an overpowering urge to view a loadout of my so-called ‘stats’. To my surprise, they appeared in front of me at my very whim.

* NAME: Demoxtheles Garamont Blackstone

* LEVEL: 86 (Necromancer—Primary Class), 1 (Undeclared—Secondary Class)

* * XP to next Primary Class level: 209,948,231

* * XP to next Secondary Class level: 150

* * Skill Points: Primary - 0/85, Secondary 0/0

* AGE: 28 years

* ACTIVE TITLES:

* * Legion Slayer - Gain a +110% damage bonus against armies of twenty men or more

* * Bone Harvester - Undead minions are able to rise 50% faster than normal

* * Sickle Expert - Your range and speed with a sickle/scythe is increased by 30%.

* * Feared Leader - Your subordinates and enemies alike fear you greatly, with very few exceptions.

* * Survivor - You have survived several attempts on your life, making you tougher to kill.

* SPELLS KNOWN: 34

* STATS:

* * Body - 62 (Strength 30, Speed 32)

* * Mind - 84 (Memory 44, Wit 40)

* * Spirit - 99 (Soul 50, Will 49)

I scanned the readout multiple times. I riddled out quickly that I could actually dig through for more details, but I decided against going down that rabbit hole for the time being. I’d seen what I needed to see.

“Okay. I’m definitely a powerful guy. Sooo…I need to figure out some way to stop this war and get the hell out of here.”

I puzzled over the question silently for a while. My Wit stat seemed above average assuming that 50 was the max, but I didn’t feel particularly crafty as I tried and failed to come up with solutions. My head still spun with pain and dizziness, and I hadn't yet absorbed all the king's knowledge yet. I did, however, see an image of an ambulance from Earth, which hinted that I may one day remember my own past. That was a welcome concept.

After what must have been the quickest twenty minutes of my life, a loud pounding sounded at the door across the throne room. “Lady Commander Krulnoth Whiteweb of the Underdeep, Firstborn Daughter of Kirinoth Whiteweb, is here to see you, my King!” A man’s voice shouted from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” I bellowed as imperiously as I could, feeling like I might finally have a grip on this identity. I may or may not have coughed a bit as I tried to slip into my body’s default booming voice.

Krulnoth walked in with a basket of fruit in several colorful varieties. The humble tweed basket clashed amusingly with the shimmer of her plated pauldrons. “Forgive me, my King—the kitchen staff said they never knew you to request fruit of any kind until now.”

I stroked my chin and nodded mysteriously. “Very well. They passed the test,” I said.

“So you… don’t want the fruit?”

I shook my head heatedly. “No, no, I want it.” I reached out my long gray hand and grasped at the air with a groping ‘come hither’ gesture that I realized a moment later was probably not becoming of a Witch Lord of any kind. Whatever post-bodyhopping sickness had infected my ability to think and act normally was not gone yet. But I had to make this work.

The dark elven priestess closed the gap between us and handed the basket to me with a smirk. “If you’ll forgive me, my Lord, you’re acting rather strangely.”

“Yes, I will be retiring to my quarters shortly,” I murmured as I picked some grapes from the stem and set the basket in my lap. “Perhaps my mageblight is acting up in unexpected ways.”

“I've never known you to behave quite like this, my Lord. Are you certain you're alright? I can fetch the Apothecary or the Court Witch.”

I scrunched my face up as I tried to come up with a response, noting stiff muscles in my cheeks that refused to bend, but I recovered quickly. “Speaking of tests, commander, I have a series of inquiries for you. Some may seem exceedingly strange, but given the situation we find ourselves in, one simply cannot be too careful and must take everything into consideration. Some of these questions are for my benefit, and others are, perhaps, a further assessment of your loyalty and worthiness to serve.”

Krulnoth nodded as though that weren’t all incredibly weird. It helped that my alter ego was paranoid enough to pull off shenanigans like this from time to time. “Very well. I am ready to hear your questions, Witch Lord.”

“Perfect. Question number one: What would happen if I were to fall in this final battle? Or generally. Who would take power?”

I had my own inklings from what awareness I had of the world around me after being in this head for a few minutes, but trying to sort through the evil king’s mind was a mess. I figured I should hear it from Krulnoth and see if her responses rang true to me.

“There are no official succession plans or decrees active that I am aware of since you possess an extended lifespan and have no heir. If you fall, frankly, the kingdom would go through a prolonged period of stagnation and the right of rulership would be an open question for us generals to debate over.”

“Ahh yes. But my army of the dead. They’ll die if I die, correct?”

Krulnoth visibly shuddered at the thought. “Yes, My Lord. Should you fall or even be knocked fully unconscious for more than a few minutes, your entire army of the dead will likely fall as well. The only soldiers who remain will be the human, orc, goblin, and slave warriors that hang in the back. It’ll bring our numbers down to something comparable to the southern kingdoms.”

“So, the war would likely go on hiatus,” I added, tapping my cheek thoughtfully. It was as I suspected. There would be a forced peace as both sides would be in a precarious position to commit troops to any further military campaign.

A look of disgust crossed her sharp-featured face. “Truly, I can imagine no fate worse for your legacy, my beloved King. We could face up to a hundred years of peace as both nations would be forced to heal and grow internally—perhaps a treaty would even come about one day.”

“How nightmarish,” I grunted, clicking my tongue as though it weren’t the best outcome I could imagine. “Do you really think they’d entertain that possibility?”

“They blame only you for what’s happened,” Krulnoth sighed. “With you dead and your undead army gone, they would likely opt to move on and act pragmatically in the interest of their own survival.”

In truth, I wouldn’t even need to die. I could simply drop the spell keeping my minions animated right that moment, and just like that, thousands of them would crumble to the ground. It would be so, so easy.

But then there were the questions I would face. No—a plan was forming in my head that would allow me to bypass all that, but in order for any of it to work, I needed people to actually believe I was dead and give me the space to run away.

This was all happening so fast. I’d scarcely been in this world for twenty minutes, and yet I was putting an end to a protracted war and making plans to ride off into the sunset and…

And do what? That was the next question I had, but I needed to save thousands of lives before I tossed and turned at night over that issue. That would come soon enough. But if a gun were to my head? I’d probably say something like starting up a farm or learning to be a carpenter. Honestly, anything would be better than sitting on an evil king's throne trying to deal with the consequences of what I was going to have to do. Whatever I was brought to this world for, I refused to believe it was being a fall guy. No...I knew I was meant to do more. Don't ask me how, but I knew even then my purpose was beyond these castle walls.

“You must never die, my dear King,” she said, hand over her heart with a solemn expression on her midnight blue face.

“I’ll add that to my itinerary,” I muttered with an unkingly snort.

Krulnoth smirked at that. “Something has come over you, My Lord.” She cocked an eyebrow at me and bowed low when I never responded. “What else would you ask of me?”

“I have a few more questions,” I admitted against my better judgment. Literally—half of my brain was screaming "dismiss her!" while the other half just kept stubbornly clamoring for information. I cleared my throat. “Tell me about the difference between a Secondary Class and a Primary Class.”

She squinted at me in confusion, then corrected the expression, which admittedly did seem a bit disrespectful considering who I was to her. I let it pass—maybe a bit out of character, but given how basic I sensed this information was, it was forgivable even by the Dark Lord’s standards. “A Primary Class is the class you gain most of your titles and abilities from. You can unlock a Secondary Class only after you accept your Primary Class—My Lord, you haven’t ever selected yours. Is this…another test?”

“Indeed it is,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “Did I ever tell you why I never selected a Secondary Class, Commander?”

“You were careful not to commit to a Secondary Class before you knew which one was correct—you aspire to be a Hell Knight, but were unsure which class combination would help you to unlock that Legendary Title.”

“Excellent,” I replied. “Truly, you listen carefully. Very well, Commander, I am at ease.”

She smiled. “It is my honor to serve.”

“You’d better see to the troops.” I stood up, and she instinctively took a step back and lowered her head.

“I will do that at once. Enjoy your fruit, sir.”

I looked down at the basket and growled hungrily. “Oh ho-ho, I intend to.”

***

Once she left, I retired to my kingly chambers and started plotting. After I finished all the fruit, I ordered a proper meal to my room and asked that it be left outside the door. Honestly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. It was part of the plan.

I waited for a long while to claim the platter I had my servants deliver to my door, letting enough time pass so that it might be feasible to suspect that someone could have tampered with it.

Looking around my room, I felt kind of sad that I was about to throw this all away. The umber-colored stones that made up the fancy castle walls and floors were a bit dismal, but they were clean, and to say that the room was spacious was an understatement. The room was freaking huge.

A bed, beyond king-sized, lay in the corner. When I’d first arrived in the chamber, there was even a woman waiting for me, tangled up in my sheets in a certain state of undress. I promptly asked her to leave, citing “important evil business”. She offered no complaint as she dressed in a hurry, but seemed embarrassed and caught off-guard by my denial of her.

The woman was one I didn’t recognize—just some random beauty who had been offered to the King on the eve of this final conquest. I didn’t dwell on that thought too long until the moment was gone, and I realized that she probably would have been the perfect person to pin my murder on. Still—no one would believe she could have pulled it off, and if they did, the poor girl would end up dead.

Of course the same fate could face the kitchen staff if my plan worked. I preferred not to think about it. What’s that expression? You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. I never was much of an ‘ends justify the means’ guy, but when it came to ending a genocidal war stemming from my host's mommy issues at the hypothetical cost of a few people whose names and faces I didn’t know—well, let’s just say I wasn’t proud of what I was willing to do, but I was willing to do it.

I ate the steak and drank the wine they’d sent for me, leaving a little of the beverage left in the jeweled goblet. With a sigh, I looked at my spell list, pulling up the readout once more. The text glowed in the air, almost sparkling in front of my face—adorably pixelated.

* Superior Poison - Enchant a consumable item with a necrotic poison. The imbiber will be killed within an hour. Has no effect if consumed by the caster.

* Deathlike Trance - Enter a trance that perfectly mimics death in every measurable way and come out of it at will or after the effect wears off on its own.

With these two spells, I knew the first phase of my plan had a strong chance of working. There was, of course, the question of what they would do with my body once they discovered it. If they burned it or chopped up my limbs, that might be a bit of an issue, but I was willing to bet they would want to preserve my corpse in case they could find a way to revive me. Regardless, I would be long gone by the time they found someone capable of that. Even Krulnoth, powerful war priestess though she was, couldn’t revive a level 80+ necromancer.

“Let’s see,” I muttered as I took my goblet and lay back on my bed, sprawling out in some dramatic position with my hand over my heart. I let the necrotic enchantment seep from my fingers into the drink, then allowed it to spill onto the mattress.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. They were a certified mess, obviously, and I was still reeling from the agony of trying to exist in this body and mind, but this was what I had to do. Yet even though I now had the presence of mind to formulate this plan, I still was unclear just who I was. The Dark Lord's memories were more prominent than my own for the moment, though that was probably by design.

I realized that explained my lack of shock over the situation—even if I did handle my encounter with Krulnoth poorly in parts. She for sure knew something was up, but in my defense, everything was a mess in my mind at that point. Now that I had some time to acclimate and the worst of my confusion and pain had subsided, I was certain that I would have been able to slip into Demoxtheles’s persona just fine if I had to, though it wouldn't be fun. Anyway, it was too late for that now. With a cringe, I recalled the look on the dark elf's face when I asked about the fruit. Oh well.

The final nail in the coffin had been the disturbing epiphany I had about my army of the undead—it was made up almost entirely of high elves and a few human citizens of Korinonthia. Even if I did stay and try to do some good with the Dark Lord’s immense power, I couldn’t bring myself to use that unethical army. The thought of it made me sick.

Not only that, but the idea of pretending to be someone so different from myself day in and day out for people who would definitely question my change of heart on every issue—exhausting just to imagine. I’d have to be an idiot to think that would work in the long term. The Court Witch could even read souls, and I doubted I’d pass that sniff test.

Adopting this plot to fake my own death, none of that would matter. They could suspect me all they wanted in the end. Once my plan was finished, even if my generals were on to me, I was too high level to easily track, and they'd be too busy trying to cover up my disappearance to pursue me because to admit that I was gone would invite panic.

Yep. As I probed the Dark Lord's mind one last time, I realized that for all the gracelessness of my execution, this was the only way forward that could actually work. All that was left was to drop all my undead minions at once and activate the trance state. This felt like a very big moment, with high stakes to boot. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “Welp,” I muttered softly in that corrupted voice that was deeper than my own, “time to die.”