Arelion learned something important that morning.
Being a king was exhausting.
Not physically—his body felt absurdly strong—but mentally. Everywhere he went, people bowed. Too fast. Too deep. Some looked terrified, others overly reverent, like he might explode if they blinked wrong.
Relax, he wanted to say. I'm not a final boss.
Unfortunately, that was exactly how they seemed to see him.
The palace hall stretched endlessly ahead, pillars carved with ancient symbols lining both sides. Red carpets guided his steps like an unavoidable fate. At the far end—
The throne.
Gold. Massive. Imposing.
It looked less like a chair and more like a warning.
Arelion stopped walking.
The nobles froze behind him.
"…So," he said casually, hands in his robe sleeves, "this is where I'm supposed to sit dramatically and make important decisions, right?"
Silence.
The old man with the golden staff—apparently the highest-ranking advisor—cleared his throat.
"Yes, Your Majesty. From that seat, you rule the kingdom."
Arelion stared at the throne.
Then at the crown resting on a velvet cushion nearby.
Then back at the throne again.
Yeah. Absolutely not.
In another life, he'd spent years sitting behind desks, listening to people argue about things that never really changed. Meetings that led to more meetings. Authority that came with chains.
And now?
Same thing. Just fancier.
"If I sit there," Arelion said slowly, "does something bad happen if I don't act like a wise, all-knowing ruler?"
The nobles exchanged panicked looks.
"…Your Majesty?" someone whispered.
"I mean," he continued, rubbing his chin, "what if I make mistakes? Or joke around? Or decide to take a walk instead of attending court meetings?"
Several faces went pale.
The advisor coughed again. "A king must carry himself with dignity."
"Ah," Arelion nodded. "So no anime protagonist behavior."
No one understood that sentence.
Which only made it funnier.
He finally stepped forward—but instead of sitting on the throne, he walked past it.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Arelion stopped beside the cushion, picked up the crown, and turned it around in his hands. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. Solid. Final.
"…You know," he said, "where I'm from, wearing something like this usually means your life expectancy drops dramatically."
That, at least, earned confusion instead of fear.
He placed the crown back down.
Not on his head.
The silence was unbearable.
Arelion exhaled.
Okay. Jokes aside.
This body held overwhelming magic. Power that could erase armies, reshape landscapes, rewrite battles before they even began.
If he stayed here—sat on that throne—the world would move toward him.
Wars. Politics. Schemes.
Heroes would rise… or be crushed.
And he would become something distant. Untouchable.
Alone.
That's not how I want to do this.
Arelion turned back to the nobles, his expression calm but firm.
"I will rule," he said. "But not from a chair."
Shock rippled through the hall.
"I want to see this world with my own eyes," he continued. "Its cities. Its people. Its dangers. If there are heroes meant to rise—then I'll find them myself."
The advisor stared at him, speechless.
"Think of it as…" Arelion smiled faintly, "…field research."
Several nobles looked like they were on the verge of fainting.
A king leaving his throne?Walking among commoners?Madness.
But Arelion felt lighter than he had since waking up.
He glanced once more at the throne.
At the crown.
I'll come back for you later.
"Prepare what's necessary," he said, turning toward the exit. "I'll be leaving the palace soon."
"Y-Your Majesty!" someone cried. "That's far too dangerous!"
Arelion paused at the doorway.
He looked back over his shoulder, eyes sharp, calm—and just a little amused.
"Don't worry," he said. "If this turns into a power fantasy, I promise not to monologue."
They didn't understand.
But the world had just begun to move.