In the luminous halls of his utopian palace, Kaelen Morhart was deep in debate.
His virtual forum pulsed with activity — arguments, counterarguments, logical traps and ideological landmines. It was glorious.
Except for the person currently trying to bait him into a reaction.
A provocateur.
Not a thinker. Not a rival. Just a digital heckler.
But Kaelen remained calm.
Always calm.
"Patience is the highest virtue," he thought.
He replied with measured precision:
— "Appointing a representative — even temporarily — is nothing but monarchy in disguise. The structure remains. Power concentrates. The system feeds the elite, not the people."
Silence.
Then came the insult.
The troll, frustrated by Kaelen's lack of reaction, lashed out with petty mockery... and promptly rage-quit the forum.
Kaelen exhaled through his nose.
Debate over. Waste of time.
He closed the channel and stood.
— "I need tea."
He strolled through his sleek, sterile palace — all glass, curves, and soft ambient light — until he reached his private garden.
The kettle whistled.
He poured a delicate cup of jasmine.
Steam curled through the air.
He raised it to his lips.
And then — pain.
A jolt. A flash.
His muscles locked. His vision blurred.
The world around him shattered like a mirror.
Kaelen opened his eyes.
He was lying on the ground — cold, hard, and unmistakably filthy.
The scent alone was enough to inform him that this was not his palace.
He groaned and stood, brushing mud off his clothes.
Above him floated a translucent window, glowing faintly.
He squinted.
"Change the world with your vision. Shape it into utopia... or dystopia."
That was all.
No interface.
No menu.
No voice.
Just… text.
Kaelen muttered:
— "Of course. Even in alternate realities, the user interface is garbage."
He looked around. The village was primitive — huts of wood and stone, dirt roads, smoke rising from crooked chimneys. Peasants in tattered clothes stared at him.
He took a step forward.
More stares.
People whispered. Pointed.
Kaelen frowned and glanced down.
Ah.
His clothing — sleek, synthetic, clean — shimmered under the sun like ceremonial robes from a civilization a thousand years too advanced.
He had definitely overshot the fashion timeline.
Then came the smell.
Pungent. Rotting. Pre-modern.
He grimaced.
— "This place smells like the appendix of human progress," he muttered.
Footsteps.
A knight approached — or someone playing knight. His armor looked like it had survived more rust than battles.
The man eyed Kaelen cautiously.
— "From… from which lordship do you hail, noble one?"
Kaelen blinked.
Crisis. No ID. No background. No clue what was going on.
Think, Morhart. Fast.
He needed credibility. Authority. Intimidation.
He gave the man a flat, unimpressed look and said:
— "Leonheart."
The knight's face turned white.
Leonheart.
A name so loaded with history, power, and fear that only a madman or a true heir would dare invoke it.
Kaelen said nothing more. Just held his gaze with calm detachment.
The knight visibly gulped.
— "W-what brings you to our humble lands, s-sir Leonheart?"
Kaelen raised one eyebrow, tilted his head ever so slightly, and replied with aristocratic venom:
— "How dare you ask?"
Inform your lord that I demand an audience. Immediately."
The knight flinched, bowed deeply, and almost stumbled.
— "A-at once, my lord! Please… this way!"
Kaelen followed.
He still had no idea where he was, what rules governed this world, or who the hell the real Leonheart family was.
But he knew one thing for certain:
Power responds to confidence.
And he had centuries of theory to back him up.