The Player was battling the twelfth of the game's formidable bosses: the King himself. The King, brimming with arrogance and conviction, was certain of victory. He swaggered through the fight, convinced his prowess would crush the Player. But as the battle raged on, the tides turned. With his health dwindling to a mere sliver, the King met his downfall—knocked out by the Player's decisive strike.

The King thought all was lost. Yet, contrary to his grim expectations, he wasn't vanquished. For reasons unbeknownst to him, the Player spared his life. Dazed and disoriented, the King awoke in the Player's village, laid out on a cozy bed. Muttering under his breath, the King groggily sat up, stretching his sore muscles.

"Ugh, where am I? Could've sworn I won..." The King grumbled, still seething from the humiliating defeat at the Player's hands. The sting of loss lingered, making him look...vulnerable. A notion he detested. Furrowing his brows, the King scanned his unfamiliar surroundings. Confusion mingled with a hint of panic.

"Where the hell am I?!" the King mumbled to himself, voice low but laced with growing unease. How did he end up here? Why was he spared? Questions swirled in his mind as he rose from the bed, testing his sore limbs. The Player's mercy puzzled him. What lay ahead for a defeated king in enemy territory?