Thunder didn't just crack the sky over Valdori Palace—it split Arin Kalabhra's skull open like a rotten melon. He gasped awake, choking on the metallic tang of blood that pooled warm under his cheek. His cheek? No, the cheek of whoever's body this was. Silk sheets stuck to his skin, heavy with gore that wasn't his own.The crown hit first—heavy, thorned gold biting into his temples like it wanted to burrow straight into his brain. He clawed at it, fingers slipping on crusted jewels, and staggered to his feet. The room spun: towering marble pillars veined with glowing runes, tapestries of forgotten conquests hanging limp in the humid air, and a massive mirror cracked like a spiderweb across its face.The man staring back wasn't him. Sharp cheekbones sliced shadows, amber eyes burned with slit pupils like a predator mid-hunt, and veins crawled black under pale skin, pulsing faintly. Arin's heart hammered. His last real memory? Dust-choked ruins on Earth, excavating Kalabhra Empire relics. A cave-in. Void-black nothing. Then... this."Sovereign Protocol Initiated."The words burned into his vision, holographic blue letters flickering like faulty code.User: Tyrant Emperor Arin Kalabhra
Status: Fractured Vessel
Time to Execution: 7 days, 3 hoursArin blinked hard. The text hung there, mocking. Execution? He laughed—a short, ragged bark that echoed wrong in his throat. That's when the first voice slithered in."Finally awake, meat puppet? We've been rattling your cage for centuries."It wasn't his voice. Deeper, oily, like gravel dragged through honey. Panic clawed up his spine. More murmurs layered underneath—laughter sharp as broken glass, a sob muffled in chains, whispers plotting in dead languages. They felt like him, echoes of memories jammed too tight in one skull. Past lives? Madness from the transfer?"Who the hell are you?" he snarled aloud, gripping the mirror's edge. Cracks spidered wider under his palm."Us," they chorused, a dozen tones blending into a hiss that made his teeth ache. "Your fractures. The emperor you stole. The wars you forgot. We're trapped in here with you now."The throne room doors exploded inward. Cold wind rushed with six ministers, robes swirling like vultures. Their faces twisted—fear masked as loyalty. "Your Majesty! The rebellion masses at Blackridge. Duke Valthor demands audience. The court fears you've..." One trailed off, eyes flicking to the blood.Arin straightened, crown humming approval. The voices purred. "Play the mad king. Or end them now." He forced a grin, slow and feral. "Let Valthor come. I'll send him back in pieces."The lead minister—pudgy, sweating—bowed low. "Sire, mercy—""Mercy is for corpses." The thought wasn't all his. Arin's hand shot out, snatching the man's collar. Strength flooded unnatural—veins glowing faintly. He hurled the minister into a pillar. Bone cracked. The others froze.By dawn, screams echoed from the dungeons. Arin had walked the halls himself, voices guiding his hand to quills and blades. Three traitors confessed everything—plots, bribes, poison timelines. Explosions lit the western horizon: rebel supply lines, mysteriously ignited.He slumped onto the throne as silence fell, crown throbbing like a migraine. Six days left. And the voices? They laughed softly, settling deeper. "Good start. But we're just warming up."One final whisper cut through, colder than the rest: "Wake us fully... or we'll wake you."