I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

The warmth of the morning light caressed his skin, gently brushing against his face as it seeped through the cracks of his eyelids. It was soft, inviting—an unspoken call to wakefulness.

Jareth stirred, groaning as he shifted slightly, his body sluggish with lingering drowsiness. Instinctively, he reached out for the familiar comfort of his blanket, expecting the worn fabric he had known for years. But instead of the soft, slightly frayed texture he was used to, his fingers met something far too smooth, too refined. The fabric beneath his touch was cool and silky, embroidered with delicate patterns.

His brows knit together in confusion.

That wasn't right.

His blanket at home was nothing like this. It was well-used, a little rough from countless washes, not this luxurious material that whispered of wealth and status.

A strange sense of unease pooled in his stomach, a creeping dread settling deep within him.

His heart pounded harder as realization clawed at the edges of his mind. He forced his eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear the haze of sleep.

What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Above him stretched an impossibly high ceiling, adorned with intricate golden patterns that shimmered in the dim light. Massive, heavy crimson drapes hung over the tall windows, allowing only slivers of sunlight to filter through, casting long shadows across the room. Large, ornate pillars lined the walls, their surfaces carved with symbols and designs he didn't recognize—ancient, foreign, and steeped in mystery.

Everything around him was grand, extravagant—too extravagant.

This wasn't his room.

This wasn't his home.

A bolt of panic shot through him. Jareth sat up abruptly, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he frantically took in his surroundings. His hands trembled as he lifted them before his face, his fingers curling and flexing in an attempt to ground himself. The body was still unfamiliar—the hands too elegant, the limbs too long. The clothes draping his frame were unlike anything he owned—fine silk shirts and tailored pants that clung comfortably to skin that wasn't his own.

A cold weight settled in his chest.

This wasn't a dream.

Last night hadn't been some feverish nightmare brought on by exhaustion or stress.

No matter how much he wished otherwise, the truth was undeniable.

He had really transmigrated.

Jareth slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the vast expanse of the room he found himself in. Last night, in his dazed and exhausted state, he hadn't been able to fully take in his surroundings. But now, with the morning light illuminating every intricate detail, he could see just how truly grand and opulent this place was.

Towering marble pillars framed the walls, their surfaces adorned with elaborate carvings that exuded an air of regality. The furniture was lavish, each piece expertly crafted from the finest wood and embellished with gold accents. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystal pendants catching the faint sunlight that filtered through the heavy crimson drapes, casting scattered reflections across the polished floors. The bed he sat on was unlike anything he had ever slept in before—large enough to fit multiple people, with silken sheets softer than anything he had known. Everything about this room screamed wealth, power, and status far beyond anything he had ever experienced.

His stomach twisted.

This wasn't just some luxurious estate. This was a place fit for nobility—for royalty.

Then… what Roderic had said last night—it had to be true.

Jareth swallowed hard, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of the situation. He had truly transmigrated. He wasn't himself anymore—he wasn't in his own body. He was in the body of a king.

He took a shaky breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. The first and most important thing he needed to do was figure out exactly where he was—and, more importantly, how to get back home. But even if he somehow managed to return, a troubling question lingered.

Would his parents even recognize him in this body?

His stomach twisted at the thought. If he were to suddenly appear before them, looking nothing like the son they had raised, would they believe him? Would they even accept the possibility that he was still Jareth?

Or… had he truly died?

A chill ran down his spine at the notion. No, that couldn't be right. What if he was just in a coma somewhere, his real body lying unconscious in a hospital bed while his mind was trapped in this foreign existence? 

And then there was the body he currently inhabited.

It didn't feel like the original owner had died. The body was strong, full of life. So if the man hadn't perished, what had happened? Was it possible that they had somehow switched places? If that were the case, then where was the real king now? Was he stuck in Jareth's body?

If that was true, was there a way for them to return to their rightful bodies?

Jareth clenched his fists, frustration bubbling within him. There were too many questions and no answers in sight.

His mind drifted to what little information he had gathered so far. Based on the novels he had read about transmigration, most protagonists found themselves in parallel worlds or entirely different realities. And considering everything that had happened since he woke up here, that theory wasn't too far-fetched.

The knight from last night—Roderic—was proof of that.

Something about him had been undeniably strange. It wasn't just his formal, old-fashioned manner of speech or the way he carried himself with unwavering discipline—it was his entire presence. His appearance, his posture, his tone of voice. Everything about him seemed to belong to another era.

And then there was his armor.

Jareth had seen suits of armor in museums before, but they had always been relics of the past, artifacts meant for display. Modern militaries had long abandoned such things in favor of firearms and advanced technology. But Roderic's armor wasn't just for show—it had been practical, designed for actual battle.

As far as Jareth knew, no country on Earth still used full suits of armor like that. It wasn't just outdated—it was completely out of place.

It looked more like something out of a historical drama or a high-budget fantasy film.

Which meant…

A heavy weight settled in his chest.

Wherever he was, this was no longer the world he had once known.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to steady his thoughts. Panic wouldn't help him now. Thinking too much about the impossible situation he was in would only cloud his judgment. He needed to focus.

There has to be a way back. I just have to find it. He clung to that thought, using it to push away the lingering dread in his chest.

With renewed determination, he sat up, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The luxurious fabric of his clothes brushed against his skin, unfamiliar yet strangely comfortable. His bare feet met the soft carpet, the sensation grounding him in this unsettling reality.

He needed to familiarize himself with this place. If this wasn't a dream—and everything so far told him it wasn't—then understanding his surroundings was the first step.

As he slowly stood, his eyes roamed the vast room once more, taking in the intricate details of its design. The towering pillars, the heavy drapes, the massive windows letting in slivers of golden light—everything was extravagant, regal even.

Then, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

A mirror.

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on the tall, wide mirror standing against the wall. Its polished gold frame gleamed under the sunlight, intricate carvings decorating its edges.

His heart pounded. Finally, I can see what I really look like.

Excitement flickered in his chest, momentarily overriding his anxiety. He needed to know. He needed to see.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the mirror.

As he neared, his reflection became clearer, every detail of the unfamiliar body laid bare before him. When he was close enough to take in his full form, Jareth halted abruptly. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he stared into the mirror, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar, yet there was no denying the striking presence it held. A man stood before him—tall, lean, and undeniably regal. There was an effortless elegance in the way he carried himself, an innate nobility woven into every inch of his form.

He was clad in a simple white sleeping shirt and matching pants, yet the modest attire did little to dull the air of refinement surrounding him. If anything, the pristine white fabric only served to enhance his presence, making him appear almost ethereal. It draped perfectly over his frame, emphasizing the sharp angles of his collarbone and the smooth lines of his shoulders. 

His skin was warm and sun-kissed, a faint golden tan that hinted at time spent under the open sky. It provided a striking contrast to the rich brown curls that framed his face—thick, unruly waves, dark as the finest coffee, cascading just past his shoulders. They fell effortlessly into place, neither too neat nor too wild, as if deliberately crafted to enhance his striking features.

And those features were almost too perfect. His face bore a refined, aristocratic beauty, as if sculpted by the careful hands of an artist seeking to capture the very essence of elegance. A heart-shaped face with smooth yet defined contours, a straight nose that lent him an air of quiet dignity, and lips that were full, plump, and unnaturally red—like the ripest of cherries, as if they had been permanently stained with color.

But it was his eyes that unsettled Jareth the most.

A brilliant shade of emerald green, they gleamed like polished gemstones, their depths unreadable yet mesmerizing. They were piercing, holding an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. There was something both alluring and unnerving about them, a quiet authority, a presence that commanded attention without a single word.

Jareth couldn't help but let his thoughts drift as he studied the man in the mirror. A small seed of doubt crept into his mind—if this truly were his world, wouldn't he have recognized someone with such a striking appearance? If a man like this had existed on Earth, he had no doubt he would have been famous. Someone like him couldn't possibly go unnoticed. With a face that seemed almost too refined, too otherworldly, there was no way the media wouldn't have covered him.

A young, handsome king with such an extraordinary presence? He would have been all over the news, featured in magazines, admired by the public. But Jareth had never seen or heard of anyone like him before. That only reinforced the unsettling truth—this was not the world he once knew.

Well, at the very least, he had been given an exceptional appearance. If there was one small silver lining in this bizarre transmigration, it was that.

He sighed, trying to find some silver lining in the situation. Looking at it from a practical standpoint, things could have been much worse. At the very least, he hadn't ended up in the body of an old man, someone disfigured, or, worst of all, a woman. He inwardly shuddered at the thought.

And to top it off, he had been placed in the body of a king. That was a significant advantage. A ruler had power, wealth, and resources at his disposal—things that would undoubtedly help him figure out a way to return to his original world. If he played his cards right, he could command people to search for answers, investigate any strange occurrences, or even seek out scholars.

Yes. This wasn't as bad as it could have been.

The realization helped him relax, even if just a little. If he was going to be stuck here, then he needed to use everything at his disposal to get back.

A sudden knock echoed against the heavy doors, the sound reverberating through the grand chamber. Jareth flinched, the unexpected noise jolting him from his thoughts and pulling him further into the stark reality of his situation. His body tensed instinctively, his mind racing as he turned his gaze toward the door, uncertain of what—or who—awaited him on the other side.