Chapter 1: A Prince’s Ransom 

King Mienhas Erdian the Ninth, last of his line, slid a golden chalice across a bare wooden table. Here in the private armory of the inner vaults there was no reason for velvet carpets or silk curtains, none of the normal pomp that so often came with royalty. Green smoke rose from the chalice, stinging six eyeballs. 

“There is one more day until your eighteenth birthday…” Said the King. 

“You would have me gamble the kingdom with my last moments? Really father, do you have so little faith in me? I can manage a single cup.” Said Crown Prince Athlasar, or as his superiors called him, the mediocre princling. 

After today, they would never call him that again. 

‘Do not let him talk you out of this. The chalice sieves the feeble, mind or body. There can be no half measures.’ I say. 

Wrinkles appeared on the King’s face, dragging him into a frown. There was hurt in his eyes, the kind of pain one felt when news of their child’s death reached them. 

‘You are already dead to him. A disgrace who failed to sieze the throne. Trust me, you’ve struggled more than he ever will, and with my help you can accomplish more than he could ever dream of. Drink the potion, I’ve been through this a dozen times. It will awaken you. Turn you into the son he always wanted. One worthy of being called Crown Prince. No one will call you mediocre or princling ever again.’ I whisper. 

“This is not a matter of personal beliefs!” Begins the old windbag, already winding up for one of his rants. “The elixir is Eldarion’s most sacred treasure,” He points at the chalice, keeping his hand close to his chest, as if he’s afraid to touch the green fumes. It was really smoking now, like a bottle of coke and freshly added mentos. 

“-secret! Nine in ten drinkers have died! You must–” Continued the king. 

“No half measures!” Athlasar repeats. “This is my choice. For the good of the kingdom, I will die or I will seize the strength our ancestors promised and establish a new line of kings.” Athlasar says, stepping forward to place both hands on the table. 

His motion disturbs the fog, sending a ripple through the growing cloud. Inside the chalice is a caustic looking green sludge, full of odd bubbles. It was nothing like a carbonated drink, and more like boiling swiss cheese. If the cheese was somehow made from Monster energy drinks in their default flavor of electric green. The stench made Athlasar’s nose hairs curl. Before both their eyes his blond arm hairs whiten, curling as the fog began to dissolve them. 

King Erdian watches us in silence. Always the calm and collected monarch. Nothing could ever break his royal composure, not even the execution of his eldest –least favorite– son. I know what’s coming, but after my second life pain no longer discourages me, its an old friend, one who holds the keys to my princely Ferrari.  

‘Listen carefully Athlasar, that uh- elixir is probably going to be the worst thing you’ve ever tasted. Drink the entire thing in one go. It tastes worse the longer you keep it on your tongue, but unlike body shots there is no happy ending if you leave it unfinished. The less you taste, the better off you’ll be.’ I say, speaking directly into his mind. 

Not that I need to. After all, I’m a disembodied soul right now. A handicap I’ll soon be rid of, just as soon as Athlasar drinks the ‘elixir’. I try not to shake my head at the pompous name for what is probably just rat poison cut with expired whiskey. 

“It is your choice.” Says the King, his wrinkles softening. 

Hard not to see the relief in his eyes. No matter how this ends, King kocksucker will be rid of his screw up son. I have no sympathy for either of them. Both are only means, two devices I’ll use and dispose of when the appropriate time comes. 

Athlasar nods. His eyes close as he takes a few steadying breaths. As always, his hope blinds him to his father’s true meaning. He thinks this will be a challenge, a test to overcome. 

King Erdian glances towards the third and final body in the room, a wall of muscle in full plate armor sans helmet who goes by the name of Eruth. Athlasar’s hands brush along the table, nails thudding against each grain of wood, body knowing what his mind refuses to acknowledge. His eyes flick open, focused wholly on the poison when he should be watching his surroundings. 

The king shakes his head, ‘do not heal him.’ Mouths the king, his lips working silently while Athlasar prepares to ascend. 

Healing would only increase our chance of success, denying us aid this late is a special kind of familial disappointment. I’m not fully up to date on this specific world, but it already adheres to the laws of reincarnation I’m familiar with. So I bet the same leveling system exists here as well, a gamble I'm staking my and Athlasar’s lives on. Well, mostly his. If he dies completely or becomes an unfit host, I’ll get bounced into the next candidate’s body.

Not that I want that, Athlasar is quite the strapping young man, his body is desirable. Not just by me, but by ladies and men of all ages. A natural six pack of abs and biceps that come from a life of striving to exceed impossible standards. Not to mention his jawline, that alone could wet every panty in the nation. To say he is a handsome man, is to say the sun shines. He’s such a gotdamned perfect specimen that he could earn a good living posing for sculptures. Or selling body shots to old ladies. 

Sooooo much better than my last life.

Anyone who tells you to take performance over appearance, has never had to live out their life as a female cave troll. I’ve been male in all my other lives so I figured, why not give being a woman a try? Reincarnate enough and eventually I’ll get stuck in a pair of tits, so why not take an option with perks? Trolls always took me hours to kill so it would be a special kind of satisfaction to be the invulnerable she-beast for a change. 

Other reincarnators had encouraged the choice, ‘Take the regen option, it’s soooo overpowered’ they had said. Idiots, red cheeked baboons! The other souls didn’t care about me, they were trying to take the troll out of the candidate pool, and I happened to be the only one gullible enough to jump into the grenade. Ugly did not begin to describe my old face, beady eyes the size of my fists, a nose that was larger than a football, and an estrus cycle that was a condensed month of horny-madness that made me gag. Like having a wet dream without conclusion for thirty days straight. Later I found ways to cope, eating a particular species of fey reduced symptoms and munching on elven brains completely satisfied me. But the first cycle was purgatory, a blind fuege of lust. Within my mountain cave I had no way to cope, no outlet, nor fairy to eat or warriors to vent my frustration on. All I could do was wait until the cycle naturally ended and my hormones returned to normal levels. Stupid. By the end the stalagmites started looking like the world’s finest dildoes. A forbidden possibility that wouldn’t kill me. After all, regeneration was a very powerful ability… 

I mentally shake my head. We are NOT taking over a troll again. NEVER again. Once was too many lives wasted. Humans from here on out. Preferably well endowed specimens like Athlasar. Tits are nice, but not on myself. 

Athlasar moves, his hands shaking. The chalice rises to his lips, putrid fumes burning our cheeks. The mad lad pinches his nose and chugs the poison like it’s a blue ribbon beer, bubbles pop against our tongue like wet farts, though the taste is surprisingly smooth, with a sort of oily aftertaste that is somehow slick. Like trying to drink bleach. Skin and flesh melts away, succumbing to whatever substance we’ve just ingested.

Yep, this so-called ‘elixir’ is just discount poison. Bottom barrel stuff. I’d complain about the taste, but Athlasar’s tongue already melted. Along with half his throat and stomach. But he kept it down. Not vomiting a drop. 

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‘Good job Athlasar.’ 

His body slumped onto the floor, earning a weary sigh from the King. 

“Sire, I could heal him.” Offered Eruth, leaning on an oversized warhammer. 

King Erdian shakes his head, “Save your mana for the council of war. The greenskin rebellion requires our attention. Besides, Athlasar is no son of mine.” 

“We’ll crush the orcs just as we have in the past. They’ve less than a dozen awoken, killing them will hardly staunch my decay.” Grumbled Eruth, referring to the level decay inherent to the systems levels.

“Take whomever you desire, my dreams are troubled, the crown whispers in the dark always out of reach, yet always warning of something in the shadows. There may be more to this rebellion than we fear. Cull the ogres if you must. I cannot allow any of my champions to decay.” 

“As you command Sire.” 

“Good,” Says Erdian, glancing at Athlasar’s collapsed body. “How many bastards did he leave behind?”

“More than a dozen. That Jawline is so virulent I wouldn’t be surprised if he impregnated half of them with nothing more than a wink. But we’ve seen to them all. Appraised each one to be sure. None were empowered.” 

Erdian steps over us, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. Its purple hue indicates lavender, a perfume meant to cover the elixir’s stench. A final pulse of heat leaves our body, Athlasar’s lungs turn to slag as the elixir melts through our stomach and esophogus. 

On one hand I’m seriously impressed at the elixir’s violence. A poison that kills within seconds is worth exploring! But on the other hand, if it could awaken my enemies, that’s a risk I won’t take. 

“I’m too old for this shit.” King Erdian mutters, exiting the room where his firstborn son lays dying. 

I wait my turn. Athlasar’s consciousness fades from reality, sinking into an eternal sleep. He has no idea what is waiting for him on the other side. 

‘Hey Athlasar, thank you.’ I say, meaning every word. No one should die alone and abandoned. At least I can save him from my own fate. ‘You did good, we’ll make you king soon enough, I swear it.’ 

He tries to reply verbally, only managing a gurgle of esophageal tissue. Teeth drip onto the floor, half melted stumps of ivory. The poison really did a number on him, completely gutting his organs. Normally I wouldn’t condone this much damage to a host, but my class is already chosen. I won’t die.

Athlasar’s heart stops. 

Two souls cannot cohabitate a corpse, Athlasar’s soul is ejected before his body cools, and now that I’m in control… 

A blue screen appears in our mind. My mind. Four class options begin scrawling across my vision in cursive script. I have until the ATP within our mitochondria is used up. Seconds to make my selections and repair this body. The letters are rendering at the speed of light, too slow, I hammer my selection home, cutting off the cursive three letters in. ‘Pal’ is my selection, and I blink to hit ‘yes’ on a second confirmation window. Power courses through my veins as my body is transfigured. Every cell augmented to accept the divine mandate of my class. Mana fills me, even lying on the floor I can feel my muscles gain the strength to grind stones, I’ll need to train, but not today. Seconds tick by, the elixir still melting my internals. I only have eyes on the bottom right of my vision, where a translucent cross now sits. 

Cmon you useless feck! ACTIVATE! GIVE ME THE FIRST LEVEL! I think, mentally pogo-sticking the skill menu. 

My vision blurs, I try to breath, my shredded diaphragm contracts, yet fails to lower the pressure in my lungs. Modern medicine would diagnose that as a sucking chest wound, prognosis? Fatal in thirty seconds. Plug the hole or die. 

Cut off from oxygen my mind wanders. I’ve died before… 

Troll regeneration means they are eternal, existing as long as they have ‘food’. Considering the swamp muck some trolls survive off, ‘food’ is closer to biomass than anything a civilized being might consider edible. It was no wonder that most trolls went mad after a few hundred years of mucking out a life. I’d done well to avoid that fate, but my goals were soon fulfilled in that body so a way out was needed. 

Fire is the most reliable way to counter a troll’s regeneration, meaning the only route out of that trollbitch was to allow myself to be burned alive. Idiot peasants built a pyre like I was some kind of witch come to curse their babies. Which was a ridiculous notion, I’d been trying to eat the whole town, not just the babies. I try to laugh, but the poison was far more caustic than I could have guessed. Molars fall onto the rug, red blood and green mucus staining it. 

I could really use that skill point right now! 

Ribs crack as the mouthful of elixir eats through my chest cavity. Really impressive stuff, but maybe it had done too much. Another click and the skill window opens. Three options appear and I select the first icon before any description loads. 

–WARNING–

Read the descriptions carefully-

SKIP

As if I care what some washed up linux admin has to say. I select the first ability and cast it on myself, punching a fist above my head like my life depends on the anime powerstance. 

Because it does. 

My vision is gone, eyes open and unseeing. No hematic circulation remains. Yet mana flows freeling, converting into fuel for my healing power. I self target, aiming the saving beam of light at myself. Ribs fortify, flesh regrows, and my fallen teeth reappear in my mouth. I gasp for air, breathing in a fight for my life. 

Dizziness engulfs my mind. I’m fading fast, even as my heart begins to beat once more. Strength flees from my limbs making any attempt to rise akin to climbing Mount Tai. The elixir remains in my system, a poison that fights against new flesh. My ability heals, it does not purify. Necrotic flesh excretes from my pores, ruining my shirt and more importantly, carrying away most of the remaining elixir. Fabric begins to smoke, catching fire even as I rip the shirt off my back and  leave it to burn on the Armory’s stone floor. 

I’ve survived. Ten minutes pass before I can sit up. There’s a barrel of water for scrubbing weapons, with hard bristle brushes and a pile of rags, tools I now use to wash. 

“Hell yeah.” I say, grinning stupidly as I find new clothes and armor. 

Dear old dad left me alone in the armory, so i’ll take everything of value. Not that he’ll ever notice, there are no enchanted items here, no wand of fireballs, nor a vorpal sword, or even a +1 magical arrow! Those don’t matter, what does matter is the gift Athlasar left behind. In the far corner lies an unlocked chest lid propped ajar with a stained rag. I pull it open, steel whines as my newfound strength deforms the steel. 

“Oh… Right. Move slowly.” 

Steel bending strength and on-demand healing make this class about as balanced as pocket nukes. I sigh, guessing what the price will be. Greater ability always has a price, some trade off to dissuade reincarnators from dogpiling into the prettiest princling. In my vision, near the top left, there is a red circle with the number 1 inside it. Same as all my past lives. A mental click opens the quest, revealing this life's objective. 

Quest: Find Athlasar’s Worth. 

Description: You promised him everything the world could offer. A father’s respect, the kingdom, and a dynasty to surpass all others. Keep your word. 

Reward: Reincarnation. 

Penalty: Soul dissolution. 

“Soul dissolution?” I read out loud, mentally cursing whatever slut pissed in my quest. 

Golden showers should involve gold coins, not this penalty. Nothing could be worse. ‘Soul dissolution’ was the system’s way of saying ‘true death’. If I failed this quest then there would be no more lives, no second chances on my road to ascension. The old saying, Save or Die, came to mind. 

“Whatever. It’s one old man, how hard can it be to make him proud? I’ll level up, take over the kingdom, and make some babies!” I say, glancing at a nearby suit of armor and giving it a wink. 

Oh baby, I look good. When the time comes, establishing a dynasty will be easy. 

For now I settle on retrieving Athlasar’s belt pouches. They’re simple things, unadorned leather pouches. Until you open them fully. Each pouch is dimensionally transcendental, able to hold far more than it’s external dimensions would ever allow, convenient for holding the two hundred and fourteen gold coins we’ve already saved. Plus its an excellent way to pilfer everything portable in the armory. Never hurts to have a second dagger. 

Or a third… 

Or a two hundredth. 

“Alright, time to level up. That should make dad proud. Then we can turn that silly moniker of his into reality. ‘Last of his line’. Bah, just cause he’s the ninth doesn’t mean you simpletons have to start a new dynasty. People have ten fingers, counting to ten is fine!” 

I rise to my knees, still feeling queasy. Which is where I stay until I can heal again. And again. In total I activate my skill five times before my mana reserve runs dry. For a single level five uses is more than I was expecting. A metric shttonne more! 

With a smile on my face I set off towards the nearest hospital, keeping an eye on my mana regen as I look for some orphans to heal, ruling a kingdom requires more than a pretty face, I’ll need to start ingratiating the people to me, that will sway the majority. 

After the hospital, I'll pay dear old dad a visit. He ought to be done with his council and halfway through a keg by then.