I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

Although Jareth was pleased with his discovery, a slight sense of disappointment lingered. The Plant and Beast Sphere was certainly useful, but it wasn't the all-knowing artifact he had hoped for. He needed something that could provide him with answers—not just about plants and beasts, but about this world, his abilities, and the role of the king he was now forced to play.

With a sigh, he continued exploring the treasure room, meticulously examining each artifact, hoping to stumble upon something even more valuable. The items stored here were undeniably fascinating—glowing crystals pulsing with energy, preserved plants with shimmering leaves, and enchanted trinkets that radiated a mysterious aura. Some objects floated in midair, encased in magical barriers, while others were locked away in intricately designed boxes, as if hiding their true potential.

But despite the sheer wonder surrounding him, nothing stood out as particularly helpful for his current predicament.

"Tsk." Jareth clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. "All these magical relics, yet nothing that can just tell me what I need to know? What kind of stingy treasure room is this?" He muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Realizing he wouldn't get any immediate answers here, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the main chamber. His gaze shifted toward the other unexplored door, the one near the bed. If there was anything of importance left in this room, it had to be in there.

Standing before the closed door, Jareth took a deep breath and placed his hand on the handle.

 Alright, universe. If you're listening, please let this be something useful. No more glowing plants, no more fancy trinkets—just give me something that actually helps me figure things out.

With a silent prayer in his heart, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open…

He expected to see shelves lined with books, perhaps a study filled with records or even another collection of magical artifacts. Instead, the sight before him left him utterly bewildered.

The room was almost empty. No extravagant decor, no elaborate furniture—just a single table positioned at the very center. But what caught his attention wasn't the simplicity of the space. It was the item resting upon the table.

There, nestled atop a soft red cushion, lay a sword.

Jareth felt his breath hitch. His entire body tensed as an inexplicable sense of déjà vu washed over him. Without realizing it, his feet carried him forward, drawn to the blade as if under some unseen force.

"This sword…" he murmured, barely above a whisper. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach for it, yet some unknown hesitation held him back.

The shape, the intricate engravings along the hilt, the faint aura surrounding it—it was unmistakable. He had seen this before.

No. It can't be…

His mind reeled, desperately trying to rationalize what he was seeing. 

Was it truly just a coincidence? 

His gaze flickered around the room, his pulse quickening. The windows, the placement of the walls, the eerie atmosphere… It was disturbingly familiar.

This… this is the same room from my dream.

Jareth felt his throat go dry. In his dream—or perhaps, his memory—he had witnessed a man standing in a darkened chamber, murmuring incantations to a sword bathed in shadows. That same sword now lay before him in broad daylight.

Was that man… the previous king?

His fingers clenched into fists. He had dismissed those dreams as mere hallucinations, strange fragments of a mind struggling to adjust to an unfamiliar world. But this? This was real. The sword, the room—they were not mere figments of his imagination.

"What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath.

A thousand questions flooded his mind, yet no answers presented themselves. He swallowed hard, willing himself to stay calm. The logical part of him screamed that this was too much to be a coincidence. If this dream—this vision—had shown him something real, did that mean it was more than just a dream?

As Jareth stood before the sword, a strange sense of déjà vu washed over him. His fingers twitched as he hesitated, staring at the weapon resting on the soft red cushion.

And then—another memory from his dream resurfaced.

A throne room. A man standing tall. A sword raised high. And then—death.

Jareth's breathing slowed as realization crept in. That dream, the one that had haunted him before waking in this unfamiliar world… It wasn't just some random nightmare. The sword in front of him was the same one from his vision. And the man—the one who had stood over the throne, his presence cold and overwhelming—was undoubtedly the same as the one who had murmured incantations over this very blade. But there was something even more unsettling.

He had his face.

Jareth felt a chill run down his spine. His fingers twitched, his breath hitched. 

What the hell does that mean?

And the person on the throne—the one whose head had rolled across the cold marble floor, the one who had met such a brutal, merciless end—had also worn his face.

A strange, suffocating pressure settled over his chest. His thoughts raced wildly, trying to piece together the meaning behind this eerie revelation.

Was it a prophecy? A warning?

Had that dream been some twisted depiction of him forcefully taking over the king's body, his role, his very existence?

His grip on the edge of the table tightened, his knuckles turning white as he tried to steady himself. A creeping sense of unease coiled in his gut, an overwhelming feeling that he was entangled in something far more dangerous than he had first assumed.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising anxiety. His voice, barely above a whisper, trembled in the silence.

"Just what the hell is going on here…?"

Before Jareth could even attempt to make sense of the eerie revelations swirling in his mind, a sudden, high-pitched voice shattered the silence of the room.

"Ho! What brings you here, brat?"

Jareth nearly jumped out of his skin. His body stiffened, and he spun around wildly, scanning the room for the source of the voice.

Nothing.

The room was empty, save for him.

His pulse quickened. 

Did I just… imagine that? Am I so exhausted that I'm now hearing things?

"Oi, what's wrong with you?" the voice called again, laced with a mixture of impatience and amusement.

Jareth's eyes darted around the room once more, his brain scrambling for some logical explanation.

 A ghost? Do ghosts exist here too?

He scanned the room once more, but there was nothing—no concealed figures lurking in the shadows.

Just him. And the sword.

Could it be…?

Slowly, hesitantly, Jareth turned his gaze back toward the table, his eyes locking onto the blade resting on its red cushion.

It was utterly still. Ordinary, even. Yet…

"Little weirdo, what are you looking around for?" the voice piped up again, this time tinged with exasperation.

Jareth's entire body went rigid. A sharp breath left his lips.

"...You." His voice was barely above a whisper.

No response.

"...No way."

He swallowed, leaned forward slightly, and took a cautious step closer to the table.

"...Are you talking to me?"

A long pause. Then—

"Pfft, no, I'm talking to the dust on the floor. Of course I'm talking to you, genius!"

Jareth flinched.

His mind blanked for a solid two seconds before crashing into full panic mode.

"Wait. No—wait. You're talking?!" he spluttered. "A talking sword?!"

"Oh, congratulations, brat, you finally caught up!" the sword said dryly. "Did you get dropped on your head recently, or has your brain always worked this slow?"

Jareth gawked at the weapon in disbelief.

This had to be some kind of elaborate prank, right? Maybe Atticus and Roderic were messing with him, hiding somewhere with some kind of… voice-projection magic?

But no. The only thing in this room was the sword.

He felt his eye twitch.

"Am I talking? Of course I'm talking! Are you deaf?" the sword continued, huffing like an offended old man. "Seriously, what's wrong with you today? And your aura… huh?"

The sword went silent for a moment.

Then, in a much more serious tone, it muttered, "Wait a damn second… something's different about you."

Jareth tensed.

The sword was examining him.

"Your aura… it's changed."

Jareth didn't know what was more disturbing—the fact that this sword was talking, or the fact that it had just noticed something was off about him.

He forced out a nervous laugh. "Haha, w-what? No way! I'm totally the same person as always!"

The sword scoffed. "Liar."

Jareth grimaced.

Well. This is just great.

Jareth's eye twitched as the sword continued to mumble to itself, its tone filled with an almost theatrical level of irritation.

"Wouldn't I know if something changed? Why does everything feel off? This is strange—too strange."

Jareth, still struggling to accept that he was having a full-blown conversation with a talking sword, could only stare at the weapon with a mix of wariness and disbelief.

"Hey, brat." The sword's voice suddenly snapped back to focus, its tone sharp and accusing. "What exactly did you do?"

Jareth stiffened. "I— I didn't do anything!" he stammered, holding up his hands as if caught red-handed. "I literally just walked in here!"

Silence.

A long, drawn-out silence that made Jareth even more uneasy.

Then, without warning, the sword's tip emitted a sudden burst of light. Golden energy surged out, wrapping around him in a blinding glow.

"—W-WAIT, WHAT IS THIS?!" Jareth yelped, stumbling backward in panic. His instincts screamed at him to dodge, but there was nowhere to run. He braced himself for something—pain, electrocution, spontaneous combustion—but instead…

It was warm.

Pleasantly warm, like stepping into a sunlit garden. The sensation lingered for a brief moment before fading completely.

Jareth blinked, patting himself down. "Huh." He was…fine?

The sword, now eerily quiet, let out a contemplative hum. Then, in a more serious tone, it spoke again.

"Who are you?"

Jareth froze.

This time, the question wasn't casual. The voice carried weight—sharp, scrutinizing, almost demanding.

His heart pounded.

Crap.