King in another world

Brandon Hamilton’s penthouse office sat above the clouds, a glass fortress overlooking a city that bowed to his will. The skyline glittered, but to him, it was dull—like a trophy you’ve seen too many times to admire. He was fifty-three, sharp as a whip, ruthless when he had to be, and rich enough to fund his own private country. Yet, in the final hours of his life, none of that could save him from the gnawing feeling in his gut:

He was tired. Tired of everything.

The day began like most did. A barrage of meetings. Faceless suits with fake smiles. Another deal, another billion. The acquisition of a South African logistics firm was on the table—a move that would give Hamilton International a monopoly on supply chains across three continents. A no-brainer. But even that didn’t thrill him anymore.

“Mr. Hamilton, the board will be joining remotely in five. Shall I prepare your notes?” asked Tim, his executive assistant—too eager, too rehearsed.

Brandon gave a half-nod, not really listening. He had outgrown men like Tim years ago. Yes-men. Cling-ons. People who mistook proximity for power.

His phone buzzed. A text from his wife.

“Dinner with the Jeffreys tonight. Don’t be late. And don’t wear black again.”

The Jeffreys. Another couple from the circle of elite boredom. His wife, Vanessa, was beautiful and icy, with a Botoxed smile and an eye for appearances. She hadn’t loved him in years. Didn’t even pretend anymore. Their conversations were dry, transactional. Her biggest complaint wasn’t his late nights or his detachment—but that he’d stopped bringing her on magazine covers.

Another buzz. “Dad. I need another 250K. It’s a Crypto thing, an old man like you wouldn’t understant. Trust me on this one,” said Zach. 

His son. Twenty-two. Born with a platinum spoon and the humility of a god. He’d dropped out of college “to find himself,” which so far meant burning money on failed NFTs, popping champagne on yachts, and dating influencers with IQs lower than their follower counts. Brandon tossed the phone onto his desk with a grunt. This was the empire he’d built? This was the legacy?

By 4 PM, he’d closed the deal, made a new enemy in Europe, and fired a VP for incompetence. Just another day. Yet as the sun dipped low and the lights of the city flickered to life, something in him snapped. He walked past his assistant, ignoring the pile of folders.

“Sir, you have the 5:30 with—”

“Cancel it.”

“Dinner with your wife—”

“Cancel everything.” He stepped into the private elevator, rode it to the lobby, and exited through the side door. No driver. No security detail. Just him and the air. Cold. Crisp. Real. He walked aimlessly, blending in for once. The people on the streets didn’t know him. Didn’t care. That anonymity felt freeing. For a moment, Brandon thought maybe, just maybe, he’d disappear. Book a flight. Buy an island. Never come back. But fate had its own plans.

One block from the alley he used to cut through in college—back before suits, before billions—he crossed the street. Didn’t even check the light. The truck came out of nowhere. Fast. Swerving. Horn blaring. Brandon turned just in time to see the wide-eyed driver, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his knees, and a look of sheer panic on his face.

Impact.

Darkness.

Cold.

Then warmth.

Terranus Terradiva’s first memory was not of light, but of pain.

Not the emotional kind. The real kind. Searing, primal, animal pain. His tiny chest heaved. His fists clenched instinctively as a slap cracked through the air—his welcome into the world.

He cried.

But only for a second.

Then the room began to blur into focus.

The walls were stone—rough-hewn and cold. The fire in the corner fought against a winter draft that slipped through the slits of a high window. Candles lined a long table cluttered with rags, boiling water, and stained instruments. The midwife’s hands were trembling as she stared at him, slack-jawed. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

A tall man stood in the shadows. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. Steel-gray hair at his temples. Broad shoulders. A scar across his brow—earned, not bought.

This was his father.

Baron Darius Terradiva, Lord of the High Vale, Warden of the Northern Woodline, and a man not easily impressed. Yet as his gaze locked on his newborn son, something in his eyes shifted. Not softness. Not warmth.

Hope.

At his side, the Baron’s wife, Lady Elana, lay drenched in sweat. She looked exhausted, yet serene—as though she knew something others didn’t.

“He didn’t cry like the others,” she whispered. “Just that one sound. And then… silence. His eyes opened before they even cleaned the blood from his skin.”

Darius stepped closer. Slowly. Measured, like he was walking toward a sword in the dark.

“What shall we name him?” the midwife asked, regaining her voice.

Lady Elana answered without hesitation. “Terranus. Terranus Terradiva.”

The name meant “Of the Earth.” An old noble name. Rare. Rooted in times before kings.

In the halls outside, servants whispered. They’d seen things. Felt things. An unease when they touched the child. Not fear—but reverence. The stablemaster, old Joren, swore the horses had gone quiet the moment the boy was born. The kitchen fire that had been sputtering all morning suddenly roared back to life.

And Matya, the old maid who had served three generations of Terradivas, quietly slipped a prayer stone into her apron pocket.

Inside the mind of the infant Terranus, chaos ruled.

Brandon Hamilton’s memories flooded in like a broken dam. The sound of traffic. The smell of air conditioning. The taste of red wine. His company. His board. His wife. His son. The damn truck.

It was all there.

But it was wrong. Like watching someone else’s life on a cracked screen.

He tried to speak. To move. To do something.

Nothing worked. His body betrayed him.

So he did the only thing he could: he listened.

He watched. He memorized faces. Voices. Mannerisms.

He learned that the Terradiva household wasn’t as grand as it seemed. They were nobles, yes—but rural ones. Isolated. Far from the capital. Forgotten by the court. Their army was small, their coffers modest, their power mostly symbolic.

But there was loyalty. And history. And dignity.

That mattered.

He learned that he had an older brother—six years his senior—named Caelen. Strong. Proud. Already being groomed to lead. And now, a second son was a surprise, a shift in the family dynamic.

Elana, his mother, wept over him daily. Not out of sadness, but something deeper. Relief? Or maybe… fear.

As the days passed, Terranus began to understand.

This wasn’t just a rebirth.

This was a reset.

His wealth was gone. His power, erased. But what he’d kept… was himself.

His mind. His experience. His hunger.

And this time?

No boardroom to play politics. No shareholders to babysit. Just a fractured land. A name that still meant something. And a world waiting to be bent, piece by piece, to his will.

As snow fell on the high mountains outside and wolves howled in the forest, baby Terranus stared at the wooden beams above him.

And for the first time in his new life, he smiled.