The colossal mahogany doors of the Grand Council groaned as they opened, as if their heavy iron hinges were singing a prelude to our fate. Beyond them lay no stifling classroom nor a holiday villa, but a vast stage prepared for us. We, the children of Wood Carving Engineering, were no longer students. We had been thrust into the leading roles of a ruthless play called power.
Before me stretched a sea of humanity. Thousands of tiered seats curved like a colosseum, filled to the brim. Nobles wrapped in silken robes, ministers with faces carved from stone, and representatives of the people of Vanchett. All of them NPCs, all of them staring at me. Their gazes pierced like needles, a volatile blend of savage curiosity and hope balanced on the edge of a blade.
My eyes lifted toward the balcony of honor.
There, a silhouette sat upon a wheelchair.
My father. The King of Vanchett, in this strange game-made flesh. His body looked as brittle as dried twigs, his face pale as parchment, yet within his eyes still burned a stubborn ember of authority that refused to die.
Beside him stood a beautiful woman in her thirties, graceful, radiant, her beauty so striking it seemed to freeze time itself.
Wait. Was she not the NPC who once called me "husband"? If she was the Queen, then that made me the Crown Prince? Tch. To hell with this tangled game lineage.
One truth stood undeniable before my eyes. The King was dying. And I, Prince Mike, had to convince these thousands that the kingdom would not collapse when his final breath escaped his lungs.
I stepped forward.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythm of my leather boots struck the cold marble, their echoes marching in time with my racing heart.
"Straighten your shoulders," Erika whispered. She walked one step behind me, her voice cold as ice, sharp with the weight of an absolute command, like that of a shadowed adviser.
I drew a long breath, filling my lungs with the scent of beeswax candles, aged wood, and raw tension. When I opened my mouth, the voice that emerged was no longer the shrill tone of a class president collecting dues.
"People of Vanchett!"
My voice thundered, deep and resonant. The stat boost of this new body, tall and powerfully built, was utterly insane. This was not a student's voice. This was the baritone of a ruler.
"The sun may be setting on one era…" I cast a brief glance toward the old King on the balcony, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough. "But a new dawn will rise. We are not a people who wail in the dark. We are a people who carve our own destiny!"
Silence strangled the chamber for a heartbeat. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
Then, clap. A single pair of hands met. Another followed. And in an instant, a roaring cheer erupted like a shattered dam, shaking the very pillars of the palace.
"Long live Prince Mike! Long live the future King!"
My gaze swept across the front rows. There stood the Elites. Zane offered a thin, knowing smirk, as if to say not bad, while Rudy struck his chest with a clenched fist, a rigid salute of military respect.
I raised my fist into the air, drinking in the wild energy of their cries.
So this was how it felt.
This was no mere class presidency.
This was addiction.
This was power, pure and intoxicating.