I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

Jareth lay sprawled across the massive bed, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling. The soft glow of the lanterns in the room flickered gently, casting shadows that danced like silent ghosts. 

He sighed. 

Now that he was finally alone, he had the chance to truly reflect on his situation. No matter how much he turned it over in his mind, no matter how many times he tried to make sense of it, the reality remained utterly absurd.

Was this really happening?

Just yesterday, he had been an ordinary guy living an ordinary life—well, as ordinary as one could be with a slightly overbearing uncle who had a cushy clerical job lined up for him. He had just graduated and was looking forward to a well-earned break before being shoved into the world of mind-numbing paperwork. He and his cousins had planned a vacation—a long-overdue trip where he could laze around, eat good food, and pretend to be an influencer by taking dramatic sunset photos.

And now?

Now, he was apparently a king. Not just any king, but one with an ominous sword, shadowy bodyguards, and an entire kingdom to rule.

Jareth groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

How did this even happen?!

The nightmares. Right. It all started with those stupid nightmares.

They had been plaguing him for weeks, growing worse with each passing night. At first, he dismissed them as stress-induced hallucinations. Then, when the lack of sleep started making him look like an extra from a zombie movie, he turned to medication.

Did it work? 

Nope. 

The only thing he got was a growing sense of paranoia and a questionable dependency on chamomile tea.

Then came the fateful night when his friends—ever the reliable enablers—dragged him to a party. He had been this close to refusing, ready to launch into a speech about his ongoing sleep crisis, when someone chirped, "Dude, just have a drink. Alcohol knocks you out, problem solved!"

It had been tempting. Too tempting.

So, like the genius he was, Jareth had let himself get talked into it. One drink became two. Two became… well, he lost count somewhere between "Just one more!" and "Where did my shoes go?"

Somehow, miraculously, he had still managed to get home. Points for responsibility.

And then—darkness. The same wretched nightmares. The same overwhelming sense of dread. Except this time, when he woke up… he wasn't in his apartment.

Nope. Instead, he was in a castle. A king. With people bowing to him.

Jareth exhaled sharply and sat up. His gaze flickered to the mirror across the room, where his reflection—not his reflection, but the face of this so-called king—stared back at him.

...Could it really be because of that one drink?

He frowned, deep in thought. If that were the case, then all the cautionary tales about alcohol ruining lives were seriously understated.

What am I even thinking!

What he should think right now is whether he can really go back? What if he was stuck here forever?

Jareth quickly shook his head. "Nope. Not going there. No pessimistic thoughts." He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay positive. "I'll find a way. No matter what, I have to."

He let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples. His mother was probably worried sick by now. Well… that's if my soul just up and left my body like a hollow puppet.

What if we actually swapped? 

His lips twitched at the mental image of a cold, regal king fumbling through modern life—trying to figure out how to use a phone, reacting to car horns like they were war cries, or worse, being forced to socialize with his chatty aunt during family dinners.

Jareth snorted. "Mom would finally have a smart son." His amusement faded as his eyes turned blurry with emotion. 

He whispered, "Mom, don't worry. I'll work hard to get back soon."

He shook off the sentimentality and refocused. There was no use dwelling on things he couldn't control. Right now, he needed to figure out this seed inside him.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for it again—tapping into the strange power.

In an instant, the world around him melted away, and he found himself once more in that vast, endless space filled with twinkling stars-like orbs.

This time, Jareth took his time, carefully absorbing every detail of the starry space around him. The vastness of it was overwhelming, yet strangely serene. He was about to wander further, letting curiosity guide his steps, when something made him stop.

A pulse.

Not a sound, not a movement—but a feeling. A faint yet undeniable connection, like a thread pulling at his awareness. His gaze snapped to the source. It was the same white orb he had touched earlier, but now it was… different. Alive.

The orb shimmered faintly, pulsing like a quiet heartbeat, and Jareth felt an odd familiarity with it.

His brows furrowed as he stepped toward it. 

Why does it feel like it's calling me?

As he moved, he couldn't help but brush against a few of the other floating orbs. Each time his fingers grazed one, a faint tug formed between him and the sphere, a silent bond that he didn't quite understand.

He ignored them for now, his focus solely on the white orb ahead. Strangely, it felt farther away than before, as if it was shifting, subtly avoiding his approach.

Determined, Jareth quickened his pace, finally stopping in front of the shimmering sphere. Up close, its glow was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, like looking into a pool of liquid moonlight.

With a deep breath, he reached out and placed his hand against its surface.

The moment his fingers made contact, a powerful force pulled him in. His entire body was yanked forward, weightless, as a blinding light consumed his vision.

His breath hitched. His instincts screamed at him to resist, but it was too late—he was already being drawn inside.

For a moment, everything was pure, radiant white.

Then, the light faded.

Jareth blinked. He was no longer in the starry expanse.

The air around him felt different—lighter, dreamlike, as if he had stepped into the world between sleep and wakefulness. He turned his head, taking in his surroundings. The landscape was hazy, shifting at the edges, yet eerily familiar.

His stomach twisted with unease.

I've been here before.

Memories from his nightmares flooded back—how he would find himself in strange, vivid places, always watching, always powerless to act.

His heartbeat quickened. 

Is this another dream?

Just then, Jareth noticed movement in the distance. A shadowy figure took shape, and as the haze cleared, he realized who it was—Atticus. And in front of him stood two more figures.

His breath caught.

It was the King.

Or rather him.

Standing beside him was Roderic, his towering presence unmistakable. The scene before Jareth was strangely familiar—the corridor, the positioning, the atmosphere—it was the exact place they had met earlier that day. But something felt… off.

What is this?

Jareth frowned. The moment felt too real, too detailed to be just a dream. But at the same time, it wasn't quite reality either. It was as if he were watching a reenactment of his own life, but with altered dialogue.

As if on cue, the scene played out.

Atticus leaned in slightly, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Your Majesty, why are you acting strange today?"

The King—him, but not him—stood with regal composure, exuding an air of deep contemplation. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed off into the distance, as if looking beyond the confines of the kingdom itself.

Jareth raised an eyebrow. Dramatic much?

Then the King spoke, his voice rich and authoritative.

"Atticus, I have high aspirations. I have a plan." He turned slightly, his emerald gaze piercing and full of conviction. "Vaelcrest will not remain as it is. I do not wish to simply rule this kingdom—I wish for it to rise above all others."

Jareth's eye twitched. Oh, great. Now I sound like a megalomaniac.

Atticus, however, looked positively enchanted. His breath hitched, and his eyes gleamed with something close to reverence. "Your Majesty… you mean…"

"Yes," the King continued smoothly. "Vaelcrest will become the mightiest nation on this continent. No force shall threaten us. No kingdom shall dare challenge our rule. The world will recognize our strength." He paused for effect, then added, "But for that, I will need capable people by my side."

Jareth internally cringed. What is this speech? A villain's monologue?!

Atticus, instead of recoiling, straightened with newfound resolve. "As expected of Your Majesty! You truly are extraordinary. If this is your vision, then I will dedicate everything to make it a reality!"

The King smiled faintly, as if pleased by Atticus' loyalty. "Good. I knew I could count on you. You are the one I trust the most."

Jareth blinked. Okay, what?

Was this a historical re-enactment or a badly written political drama? Because from where he stood, the scene looked like a classic moment before two power-hungry rulers went on a conquest.

Atticus looked thrilled, standing at attention like a soldier receiving his greatest mission. "I will follow your every command, Your Majesty! Whatever it takes, I will ensure your vision comes true."

The King nodded approvingly. "Then prepare yourself, Atticus. This is only the beginning."

Jareth stared.

What the hell?

What the actual hell was happening?! What is he watching!

He turned his attention to the supposed him in the scene—the king standing there, looking like he was about to ascend to divinity under an invisible heavenly spotlight. His posture was perfect, his every movement radiating an aura of grandeur, as if he were reciting a monologue before an adoring crowd.

I don't talk like that!

Jareth's face twisted in embarrassment. What was this propaganda film nonsense? Where was this kingly confidence when he was talking to Atticus earlier? And why did Atticus look like a devoted disciple being blessed by the hand of a saint?!

His fingers twitched. 

No, seriously, what is going on?

Was this a dream? A vision?

His mind raced. At first, he thought maybe this was a glimpse into the future—but no, the details were too similar to what had already happened. It was like a replay of his conversation with Atticus from earlier, except… rewritten.

Or rather—rebranded.