The Glitch in the Hero's Path

Chapter 4: Royal Schemes and Stolen Glances

The heavy stone door shuddered under a blow that vibrated through the floorboards. Chairil didn’t move, his eyes locked on the darkening air where the walls were beginning to pixelate into static.

"He’s not waiting for an invitation," Chairil muttered, his voice devoid of his usual arrogance. "Go through the terrace. The Sacrifice Protocol isn't just a timer, Budi—it’s a homing beacon."

"Wait, you’re just going to leave me?" Budi grabbed his jacket, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"I’m the distraction. You’re the one who needs to survive the next hour." Chairil flicked his wrist, and a shimmering blue gust of wind threw the terrace doors open. "Move! Or the Duke will have your head on a platter before the bells even chime."

Budi didn't wait. He vaulted over the railing, catching his breath as he hit the wet cobblestones of the inner courtyard. He didn't stop until he reached the bustling entrance of the Royal Banquet Hall, where the sounds of strings and laughter drowned out the chaos in his head.

"Late again, Budi? You look like you’ve been running from a ghost," a cool, melodic voice purred.

Budi skidded to a halt. Princess Sloane stood by the grand entrance, her fan fluttering like a moth’s wings. She looked at him with eyes that saw far too much.

"Just had a disagreement with some bad wine, Sloane," Budi said, smoothing his hair. "Why are you standing out here?"

"Watching the rats scramble. You look pale, dear. Or perhaps just terrified?"

"Terror is so last season. I’m going for 'haunted chic'."

"Charming," she drawled, tucking her arm into his. "Try to keep your chin up. Duke Ruan is inside, and he’s been dying to discuss your 'recent lapses in judgment' with the entire court."

"Ruan? Great. I love being the center of a target practice session."

They stepped into the golden glow of the ballroom. The air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and expensive lies. Across the room, Duke Ruan stood by the buffet, his gaze locking onto Budi instantly.

"Ah, the man of the hour," Ruan shouted, his voice ringing through the sudden silence of the orchestra. "Budi! Do tell us—has your sudden change in personality been brought on by a head injury, or are you just playing the fool for the sake of the crown?"

Budi felt the eyes of the entire aristocracy turn toward him. He gripped the Princess’s arm, his knuckles white.

"Duke Ruan," Budi called back, his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "I’d say it’s a bit of both. The head injury was courtesy of your boring stories at the last gala."

The crowd gasped. A few courtiers stifled laughs.

Ruan narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "You were always a spiteful creature, Budi. But now? You stumble through the halls like a man who’s forgotten his own name. Is it true what they say? That you’ve lost your wits in that empty skull of yours?"

"If I lost them, it’s only because I was trying to find yours," Budi shot back, forcing a lazy, arrogant smirk. "And trust me, searching for a needle in a haystack would be significantly more rewarding."

"You arrogant brat," Ruan sneered, drawing a sharp collective breath from the onlookers. "Do you think a sharp tongue will save you when the King asks why you’ve been seen whispering with commoners and criminals?"

"Whispering with commoners?" Budi stepped into the Duke’s space, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low pitch. "I whisper to everyone who’s more interesting than the local antique furniture. You should try it, Ruan. You might actually learn how to be relevant again."

The room hummed with tension. Sloane tapped her fan against her lips, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He has you there, Duke. Your relevance has been slipping since the spring harvest."

"Silence, Princess!" Ruan’s face flushed a deep, bruised purple. "This is about the safety of our circle. Budi, answer me—what were you doing in the cellar district? Plotting another sabotage?"

"I was doing community service," Budi lied through his teeth, his pulse racing. "Helping the underprivileged understand the concept of 'staying away from Duke Ruan.' It’s a very popular charity."

A burst of laughter rippled through the hall. The tension shifted; the audience wasn't afraid of the Duke anymore—they were enjoying the spectacle.

"You think this is a game?" Ruan hissed, leaning into Budi’s ear. "I know about the mark, Budi. I know you’re running out of time."

Budi’s breath hitched, but he kept his face perfectly blank. "Then you should probably stop talking to me and go prepare a eulogy. It’ll save us both the trouble of another conversation."

"I don't need a eulogy to bury you," Ruan whispered, turning away with a predatory grin. "I have something far more efficient."

He stepped back and snapped his fingers. A server glided out from behind a pillar, eyes cast downward, carrying a silver tray. He wove through the crowd, his movements unnaturally precise, and stopped directly in front of Budi.

On the tray sat a single, crystal goblet, the wine within glowing with a faint, iridescent hue that seemed to pulse in time with the mark on Budi’s chest.

"A toast, Budi," Ruan called out, his voice smooth and mocking. "To the end of the show. Drink up. The King expects a toast, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be the reason the party ends early."

"Is that a threat or an invitation?" Budi stared at the glass. The liquid inside looked like liquid shadow.

"It’s a requirement," Ruan said, his eyes hard as flint. "Take it, or I’ll ensure your presence here becomes a permanent state of absence."

Budi looked at the goblet, then at the crowded room. He felt the System flicker in his vision: [Warning: Neurotoxic compound detected. Probability of fatal outcome: 98%.]

"You really are a stickler for tradition, aren't you?" Budi reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushed the cool glass.

"Don't worry," the server whispered, his voice sounding like dry parchment. "It’s not just poison."

Budi looked up, his eyes meeting the server’s blank, empty gaze.

"It's the cure to your existence," the server finished, his lips curving into a jagged, unnatural smile.

Budi’s fingers closed around the stem. He realized with a jolt of horror that he couldn't let go—the glass was sticking to his skin, drawing the heat right out of his hand.

"Well," Budi muttered, glancing at the Duke’s triumphant face. "If I’m going to go out, I might as well make a scene."

He lifted the glass to his lips, his heart thundering against his ribs like a war drum. He could see the Duke leaning forward, waiting for him to collapse.

"To the Duke," Budi said, his voice ringing out clearly, "may he eventually find a personality worth keeping."

As the liquid touched his lips, the room began to dissolve into white static.

"Budi, don't!" Sloane screamed, but the sound was already miles away.

He swallowed.

Everything stopped. The music, the murmurs, the ticking of the invisible clock—everything faded into an absolute, suffocating silence.

And then, as Budi’s knees hit the floor, the world didn't just end. It rebooted.

A voice spoke, not from the room, but from inside his own mind—a voice that sounded exactly like his own, but colder, sharper, and utterly devoid of mercy.

"Access granted. Welcome back, Sacrifice."