I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

The sword's voice took on a more serious tone. "The upcoming ritual is going to be easy—at least, in theory. As long as you can control your seed, everything should go smoothly."

Jareth raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You say that like I've mastered it already."

The sword huffed. "Hah! Don't be so dramatic. You just need to focus. Here's how it works—during the ritual, I will imbue you with my essence. That essence will flow through you, and you will act as the channel to plant my seeds into the new awakeners."

Jareth frowned. "So I'm basically just a conduit?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it so blandly," the sword replied, amused. "But yes, you won't have to do anything particularly difficult. Once my essence merges with your seed, you'll carry out the ritual by reciting the incantation I'm about to teach you. That's all."

Jareth crossed his arms. "That better be all. If something suddenly goes wrong, I'm blaming you."

The sword chuckled. "Oh, believe me, brat, if something goes wrong, it won't be me who suffers for it."

That wasn't reassuring.

Before Jareth could voice his complaints, the sword continued. "Now, listen carefully. This incantation is crucial. Memorize it word for word—there's no room for mistakes. If you mess up, I won't be responsible for whatever disaster you unleash."

Jareth let out a sigh, bracing himself. "Alright, let's hear it."

The sword began to recite the incantation, its voice deep and resonant. As the ancient words filled the air, Jareth could feel something stir inside him, as if his very core was reacting to the power embedded in the chant.

"By the will of the Eternal Blade, by the bond of blood and soul,

I call upon Vaelcrest, Guardian and Guide, Keeper of the Sacred Oath.

From your essence, strength is given; through your power, destiny is shaped.

As light follows the first dawn, as fate is woven in the stars,

Let your gift descend upon those who stand before me.

Through you, they are chosen; by you, they shall awaken.

This vow is sealed, unbroken and true,

Bound by the first covenant, granted by the hands that shaped all.

Your power flows, your will endures; through you, they shall rise.

Jareth let out a deep exhale after hearing the incantation. It sounded grand, but not too complicated—he should be able to memorize it without much trouble.

"Is that all?" he asked, feeling rather confident.

The sword scoffed. "Hah! Do you think it's that easy, brat? If it were, any random fool could perform the ritual! Why don't we put that arrogance to the test, then?"

Jareth raised an eyebrow. "How hard could it be?"

The sword let out an ominous chuckle. "Oh, you'll see. First, hold me horizontally against your chest. I'll imbue you with my essence, and then you'll need to connect with it. After that, use your seed to incorporate the incantation into the flow of power. Sounds simple enough, right?"

Jareth nodded. "Alright, let's get this over with."

He followed the sword's instructions, holding it firmly across his chest. Almost immediately, a strange warmth seeped into his skin, spreading through his body like liquid fire. His seed pulsed in response, flickering like a tiny flame. It felt... odd. Not painful, but also not pleasant—like he had just swallowed a mouthful of molten honey.

Pushing through the sensation, he focused on the seed, weaving the incantation into it as instructed.

"By the will of the Eternal Blade—"

The moment he spoke, he faltered. His breath hitched, and an unexpected weight pressed down on him, as if an invisible force had just slammed into his chest. His tongue felt heavy, like he was trying to lift a boulder with every word.

What the hell?

He gritted his teeth and tried again.

"By the will of the Eternal Blade—"

A sharp pull drained at his core, the essence of his seed surging forward like it was being siphoned. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His limbs felt sluggish, his mind hazy.

The sword cackled. "Oh? What's wrong, brat? You were so confident a moment ago!"

Jareth shot the blade a glare. "Shut up. I wasn't expecting it to feel like I'm being squeezed by a damn boulder!"

The sword hummed in amusement. "And here I thought you were smart. Did you really think channeling the will of an ancient power would be as easy as reciting poetry?"

Jareth groaned. "Could've at least warned me that it would suck the life out of me!"

"You wouldn't have believed me anyway," the sword said smugly.

Jareth clenched his jaw. He had started this, and he wasn't about to let a weapon mock him into quitting. With a deep breath, he steadied himself and prepared to push through the ritual.

He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, determined to finish the incantation no matter how much it drained him. Every word felt like dragging a boulder uphill, every syllable pulling at his energy like a leech sucking him dry.

Meanwhile, Vaelcrest was absolutely thriving on his misery.

"Hah! Look at you, panting like a dying fish! You sure you weren't a weakling in your past life, brat?" the sword cackled.

Jareth wanted to snap back, but he barely had the breath to argue. His entire body was slick with sweat, his muscles trembling as if he had just run for miles. When he finally uttered the last words of the incantation, he felt as if someone had wrung every ounce of life out of him.

He collapsed onto one knee, gasping for air. "What... the hell... was that?!"

Vaelcrest hummed smugly. "That, my dear brat, was just a taste of true power. Congratulations, you survived!"

"Barely!" Jareth shot back, wiping his drenched forehead. His limbs felt like lead, his head spinning as if he had been twirled around a dozen times. He flopped onto the ground, too exhausted to care about maintaining his dignity.

The sword vibrated with laughter. "You thought it would be easy, didn't you? Look at you, completely wiped out after just one round. You'd better hope no one sees you like this, or they'll start questioning if you're actually the king or just an impersonator who skipped all the training!"

Jareth groaned, staring up at the ceiling. "I hate you."

"Aww, don't be like that! You should be thanking me. I just gave you valuable experience."

"Experience?!" Jareth propped himself up on his elbows, glaring. "That was more like near-death torture!"

"Semantics," Vaelcrest said cheerfully.

Jareth let out a deep sigh. The worst part? The sword wasn't wrong. The incantation was much harder than he had anticipated, and the toll on his body was way greater than he had expected.

If he didn't get used to this soon, he was going to end up embarrassing himself in front of everyone during the ritual.

"Ugh," he muttered, dragging himself up. "Fine. Again. Let's go."

The sword whistled. "Oh? Back for another round already? You might not be as hopeless as I thought!"

Jareth scowled. "I'd rather die than give you more reasons to laugh at me."

Vaelcrest practically purred. "Oh, brat, you just did."

Jareth clenched his fists. It was going to be a long, long day.

-

Jareth lay sprawled on the floor, completely spent, staring blankly at the ceiling as he struggled to catch his breath. His limbs felt like jelly, his body drenched in sweat, and his mind was screaming at him to never attempt that incantation again.

Vaelcrest, of course, was utterly unsympathetic.

"Alright, that's enough for now," the sword said, sounding almost bored. "You can try again after you've recovered. Looking at your weary little face is making me feel tired, and I don't even have a body."

Jareth let out a weak groan. "You feel tired? You?! I was the one doing all the work! All you did was sit there and laugh!"

"Exactly. Exhausting, isn't it?"

Jareth closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm. He wasn't going to let an artifact get under his skin. Not today.

Unfortunately, he had more pressing matters to deal with. "Wait," he said, pushing himself up with great effort. "I still have a ton of questions. You can't just dismiss me!"

Vaelcrest made an unimpressed hum. "Brat, do I look like a historian to you?"

"You don't look like anything," Jareth shot back. "You're a sword!"

"Exactly. So why don't you go find actual person or books if you want information?"

Jareth groaned. "Yeah, because me waltzing into the royal library won't make anyone suspicious at all."

"Then send someone to fetch the books for you," Vaelcrest said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you trying to get me caught? The king's subordinates aren't idiots. If I suddenly start showing interest in kingdom history, they're going to sniff out that something's off. And then I'll have a very big problem."

"Oh," Vaelcrest said, voice dripping with amusement. "I wasn't talking about them."

Jareth frowned. "Then… who?"

"The king's private soldiers. The Silent Order."

Jareth blinked. "The what now?"

Vaelcrest let out an approving hum. "The Silent Order. A group of individuals who are the most loyal to the king. They don't question orders, don't ask why, don't even think beyond their mission. They just do. If you need something, they'll handle it, no fuss, no suspicion. They only exist to serve you."

Jareth's exhaustion briefly faded as a surge of hope rose in him. "Private soldiers? So you're telling me I have my own group of secret, unquestioning minions?"

"Though I don't know what the minions you are talking about. I guess it's more or less."

Jareth let out a slow whistle. "Now that is fantastic."

Finally, something useful! If these soldiers were as obedient as Vaelcrest claimed, then he could maneuver a lot more freely without having to worry about slipping up in front of his more observant subordinates.

"Alright, then tell me—how do I find them?"

"Check the necklace you're wearing," Vaelcrest instructed.

Jareth glanced down and lifted the pendant. Now that he looked closer, it was an intricate golden piece with a long pipe-like extension.

"This thing?"

"Yes. That's an artifact, too. All you have to do is imbue it with your energy and blow through the pipe. That'll summon them."

Jareth eyed the necklace warily, turning it over in his fingers. "...So you're telling me I just blow on this like a whistle?"

Vaelcrest paused. "Whistle? What's that?"

Jareth blinked. "...You don't know what a whistle is?"

"I'm a sword, brat. Not exactly well-versed in weird human trinkets."

Jareth sighed. "It's a small object that makes a sound when you blow air through it."

"Huh. Well, I don't know about that, but that pipe on your necklace works similarly. When you imbue it with energy and blow through it, it will produce a sound—one that only the Silent Order can hear."

Jareth raised an eyebrow. "So… it is a whistle."

"If that makes you feel better, then sure. A whistle. A very fancy, very important, magical whistle."

Jareth's lips twitched. 

"A king's secret, most elite soldiers… are summoned with a whistle."

"Would you prefer to shout their names into the night like a lunatic?"

Jareth snorted despite himself. Alright, fair point.

He exhaled, rolling the pendant between his fingers. The Silent Order, huh?