I woke up as a King in a Fantasy World

The sword's voice rang out again, more insistent this time.

"I asked you a question—who are you?"

Jareth swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for an answer.

"And don't even think about lying to me," the sword continued, its tone sharp. "I'll know."

Jareth stiffened.

What the hell kind of sword was this? It could talk, shoot light, and now it could detect lies? 

This was beyond ridiculous.

He hesitated, running through every possible response in his head, but none seemed remotely reasonable. In the end, he gritted his teeth and went for the simplest—and most frustrating—answer.

"I... I don't know," he admitted, his voice cautious.

"Huh?" The sword made a noise of exaggerated disbelief. "You don't know? Interesting."

Jareth frowned. "No, I really don't."

"Hah! You're lying." The sword huffed, clearly unimpressed. "Though I suppose it's not a complete lie. You're still you—but you're not you. How amusing."

Jareth blinked. What?

"Even though this body is still the same, and I am bound to it by blood, your soul..." The sword hummed thoughtfully. "Your soul is different. It was already hazy before, but now it's even more chaotic—like a storm that doesn't know which way to blow."

Jareth's breath hitched. 

This sword could sense his soul? That was the last thing he needed right now.

"So," the sword continued, its voice taking on an authoritative edge, "just what exactly happened? Tell me everything."

Jareth clenched his jaw.

Should he?

This sword clearly had a connection to the original king—hell, it said it was bound to him by blood. That meant it probably knew everything about the previous owner of this body. If he lied, it might just see through him instantly. But if he told the truth…

Well, the truth sounded insane even to him.

'Hey, I was just living my normal life on Earth, and then one day I woke up in this body—your so-called king. No idea why, no idea how. Oh, and also, I think I had a prophetic dream about some guy killing another guy that looked like me. Fun stuff, right?'

Yeah. That was not going to go over well.

His gaze flickered toward the sword, which was still waiting expectantly, and he let out a long sigh.

"…This is such a mess," he muttered to himself.

Jareth took a deep breath, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he made a decision. 

Screw it. If this sword could already tell something was off about him, there was no point in lying.

He straightened up and spoke, his voice firm but uneasy.

"My name is Jareth Ellis, and I'm from a planet called Earth. I have no idea how I got here—I just woke up in this body. I don't know anything beyond that." He kept his tone stiff, as if stating the facts would make them easier to accept.

There was silence. Then—

"You're telling me... you're a soul from some place called 'Earth'?" The sword sounded almost amused, as if it had just heard the setup to a bad joke.

"Yes," Jareth answered, bracing himself.

"That's gotta be a joke."

Jareth exhaled through his nose. "I wish it was."

The sword fell silent for a moment, then muttered something under its breath, too low for Jareth to hear clearly.

But he caught enough.

"…Seemed impossible…"

Jareth smirked bitterly. 

Ha! So even here, in this world of magic and talking swords, transmigration is considered nonsense? Great. Just great.

His frustration boiled over, and he threw up his hands. "Well, impossible or not, it happened! So the real question is—what now? What do we do about this? Can you help me go back? I swear, I didn't do anything! I didn't mess with your king or whatever weird magic binds you to him, so don't start thinking I'm the bad guy here!"

Please don't think I did something to the king, he internally pleaded. I already have enough problems without a murderous sword trying to avenge its 'rightful master.'

"Of course, I know you didn't do anything to him." The sword's voice was calm, almost smug, as if Jareth's panic had been amusing.

Jareth blinked. "Wait… really?"

"Obviously. You don't have to worry—it's not your fault. In fact, all of this should be that stubborn brat's doing."

That statement made Jareth pause. Stubborn brat? He wasn't sure who the sword was referring to, but for now, he was just relieved that it wasn't blaming him. Letting out a deep sigh, he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Alright… then what now? What do I have to do to return to Earth?" His voice carried a hint of desperate hope. "Can you send me back now?"

There was a pause. Then—

"Return?" The sword's tone was oddly casual. "Oh, no need for that. You can't."

Jareth's breath hitched. Wait… what?

"…What do you mean I can't return?" he asked, his voice rising in alarm.

The sword didn't respond immediately. Instead, it fell into an awkward silence, which only made Jareth more anxious. He stared at the weapon like it had just insulted his entire family lineage.

"…Hello?" Jareth prompted, tapping his fingers against the table impatiently.

"Ahem," the sword finally coughed, which was a deeply concerning thing for a sword to do. "Well, if you wanted to go back to that place—this 'Earth' of yours—I can't exactly help you with that. I don't actually know how."

Jareth deadpanned. "You don't know?"

"Nope."

"Then how the hell did I even get here?!" Jareth nearly shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Ah, well, that I also don't know." The sword sounded disturbingly unbothered. "But if anyone would know, it'd be that brat of a king."

Jareth narrowed his eyes. "Brat of a king… You mean the previous king?"

"Who else? I'm just a sword, you know."

Jareth stared at it, his eye twitching. "You sure talk a lot for just a sword."

"And you sure complain a lot for someone who hijacked another man's body."

Jareth choked on air. "I—!" He stopped himself before he could start arguing with an inanimate object. "Fine. So you're saying the king might know what's going on?"

"Might?" The sword snorted. "Oh, he definitely knows. Whether he left behind a way for you to figure it out… Well, that's a different story."

Jareth groaned, running a hand down his face in exasperation. "So, let me get this straight—I have no answers, no way back home, and the only person who might know anything is the very man whose body I ended up in?"

"Correct!" The sword answered cheerfully.

Jareth resisted the urge to throw the damn thing across the room.

Jareth furrowed his brows, crossing his arms as he eyed the sword with suspicion. "Then what happened to the king's soul? Is he still here somewhere? Or did we swap places?"

The sword let out an exaggerated sigh. "How should I know? As I've already told you—I'm just a sword."

Jareth narrowed his eyes. "Right. Just a sword that talks, questions my existence, and apparently knows when I'm lying."

The sword scoffed. "Well, I don't have all the answers, brat. Do you think I sit around all day pondering the mysteries of the universe? I have better things to do."

Jareth raised an eyebrow. "Better things to do? Like what? Collect dust?"

The sword fell silent for a moment before muttering, "I resent that."

Jareth huffed, rubbing his temples. Something wasn't right—he could feel it. The sword definitely knew more than it was letting on. But why wasn't it telling him? Shouldn't it want to find the real king? Or was there something else at play here?

He squinted at the blade, tapping a finger against his arm. "You're hiding something."

The sword made a sound that almost resembled a snort. "And you ask too many questions."

Jareth exhaled sharply. "Great. Stuck in a world I don't understand, in a body that isn't mine, and now I have a cryptic, sarcastic sword as my only source of information. Fantastic."

He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew there was no use in trying to force anything out of the sword—it was stubborn, and clearly, it wasn't going to reveal more than it wanted to. Pressing it for answers now would likely only lead to more cryptic responses or outright silence.

Still, at the very least, he had confirmed something important—he wasn't entirely alone in knowing the truth. The sword knew that he wasn't the original owner of this body, and though it refused to explain further, it acknowledged that something had happened. That was more than anyone else in this world seemed to know.

He glanced down at the blade resting on its cushion, tapping his fingers against the table as he thought. If the sword was truly bound to the king, as it claimed, then that meant it had a deep connection with him. It should at least know him—his habits, his past, his secrets. That meant Jareth could still get answers, even if they had to come in bits and pieces.

"Alright then," he muttered to himself, straightening up. "If you won't tell me everything, I'll just have to figure it out on my own."

The sword didn't respond, but Jareth could almost feel the smug silence radiating off of it. He rolled his eyes.

"Still, since you're bound to him, that means you know him, right? That means I can still ask you questions."

The sword let out an exaggerated sigh, as if already exhausted by the idea. "I suppose you could try," it drawled. "Though whether I answer is another matter entirely."