Chapter 1: The King Awakens

King of Chicago, King of Chicago—so that's what it meant! Harrison’s mind reeled, the words echoing like thunder. Only now, at the edge of everything, did he finally understand. That title—King of Chicago—was more than a nickname, more than a locker room joke. He’d worn it with pride, but never grasped the weight it carried until this moment.

The twenty-third year of the New Era, United States of America—a country rebuilt, renamed, and reshaped by decades of war and ambition. Harrison Whitmore, just past fifty, was battered by the Whitmore family curse of high blood pressure, a lifetime of football injuries, and a medicine cabinet full of questionable supplements. The aches in his bones told the story: he was at death’s door, and the city outside hummed on without him.

He slumped in his favorite battered recliner, the faded Chicago Bears blanket draped across the back—a tribute to the legendary football team that still held the city’s heart. Harrison’s hands trembled as he gripped the armrests, knuckles pale. The hum of the fridge, the distant honking and chatter from the streets, the scent of old coffee—they all blurred as he felt the heaviness of his last breath.

This was the man who, at the infamous Battle of Silver Hollow, had been surrounded by rival teams led by Coach Sanders and Captain Doyle. Against impossible odds, he shattered their formations like a quarterback breaking through the defensive line, earning the title "Champion General"—but time, undefeated, had finally claimed him.

He could still taste the mud and sweat, hear the deafening roar of Soldier Field, and feel the bittersweet sting of victory and defeat. The title "Champion General" had once meant everything, but now, even legends faded into memory. Nostalgia clung to him, a mixture of pride and regret.

The photograph of his team—framed and proud on the mantle—caught the last golden rays of the evening sun. Grinning faces, battered helmets, arms slung around shoulders, each teammate seemed to look back at him, waiting for one more play. Harrison’s heart ached with gratitude and regret, mind racing with memories of championship parades and locker room speeches. The New Era had been good, but nothing lasted forever.

With a deep sense of attachment to the twenty-four teammates who’d conquered the field, and to the hard-won prosperity of the New Era, Harrison closed his eyes, unwilling to let go.

The photograph seemed to shimmer as his vision faded, the city’s heartbeat slowing to a hush. Harrison’s thoughts lingered on the good years, the losses, the victories, and the weight of the crown he never knew he carried.

The instant Harrison’s eyes shut, time warped—a hundred years earlier, in northern Illinois’s Maple Heights, capital of the Chicago Empire, Prince Foster began to stir, breath returning as if summoned from the grave.

A thick summer air hung over Maple Heights, the sweet scent of fresh-cut grass and the cool breeze from Lake Michigan drifting through the open window. Foster’s eyelids fluttered, senses overwhelmed by the clatter of boots on wooden floors, the barked orders outside, and the low rumble of city life in a different century.

"Chief!" Marcus Taylor, voice full of worry, called out as Foster awoke, using the greeting reserved for leaders in the American military.

Marcus’s voice was raw with urgency, the kind born from sleepless nights and too many battles. He leaned over Foster, sweat glistening on his brow, hands gripping the mattress as if bracing for impact. The cramped room glowed under the warm light of a single lamp, shadows stretching across old brick walls.

At Marcus’s call, a flood of memories surged into Harrison’s mind.

It felt as if his mind was a whitewater river—faces, stadiums, names, battles, and triumphs tumbling over one another. Harrison gasped, clutching his chest, as two lifetimes collided inside him: the old world of football and city lights, and the new world of politics, power, and intrigue.

After piecing together the torrent of memories, Harrison realized his situation:

First, he had somehow become Foster, the eldest son of President Quincy Foster.

Second, he was in Maple Heights, and the broad-shouldered, determined general beside him was Marcus Taylor—a man whose loyalty was as solid as a linebacker’s tackle.

Third, an executive order had just arrived from President Foster, commanding him to resign—permanently.

His temper flared instantly, a familiar stubbornness rising up.

Damn it! I just came back from the dead, and now you want me out again? No way! Not even President Foster or the Lord Himself could make me quit!

Harrison’s thoughts thundered like a freight train barreling down the tracks. The Whitmore stubbornness was back in full force—a trait that had gotten him through a hundred scrapes and now refused to back down, even from death itself.

At that moment, all those history books he’d read in his past life, used to argue with Senator Welles, became invaluable.

Hell, if the Records of American History are accurate, then since I’ve received the termination order, President Foster must already be dead.

Not just dead—probably decomposing by now.

Maybe Chief of Staff Lee and Press Secretary Graham are spraying Febreze outside the Oval Office to mask the stench!

He chuckled darkly at his own morbid humor, remembering how politics always smelled faintly of desperation and cheap cologne. In the back of his mind, he pictured the Capitol as a mausoleum, the corridors haunted by ambition and secrets.

"General Marcus, what year and month is it now?" Harrison Foster demanded, urgency sharp in his voice.

"Reporting, sir, it’s the thirty-seventh year of President Foster’s term—July." Marcus replied, voice steady but eyes darting to the window, as if trouble might burst in at any moment.

The calendar on the wall read July, the pages curled and yellowed—a silent witness to the passage of time.

The timing matched the records perfectly!

President Foster was definitely gone, and this order was a forgery by Lee and Graham.

But for Harrison, whether the order was real or fake didn’t matter—even if it was genuine, he wouldn’t just sit and wait for the end.

Now, forcibly surnamed Foster, Harrison stroked his chin, analyzing the situation:

His father—the President—was dead. He held military power, with Marcus Taylor and his brother Michael loyal to him.

Most crucially, he was the legitimate eldest son!

Last time, he fought countless battles and still didn’t earn the title; this time, he started with it—what’s there to fear?

Jackson, this time I’m the boss.

Thinking this, Harrison burst out laughing, the sound echoing against the old brick walls and startling a flock of pigeons outside. Marcus flinched, uncertain whether to be relieved or terrified by his boss’s sudden confidence.

"Chief, you okay?" Marcus was alarmed—about to be ordered to resign, yet laughing heartily. He wondered if his leader had lost his mind from the shock...

Marcus’s hands hovered, unsure whether to offer a glass of water or call for a medic. The tension in the room thickened, every breath heavy with anticipation.

"Ah? I’m fine."

Fine, my foot! Just moments ago, you were weeping about 'father not knowing son, son not knowing father,' ready to quit. You fainted, woke up, and started giggling—who could believe you’re mentally sound?

Marcus muttered under his breath, “Guy’s tougher than a two-dollar steak.” He eyed Foster, wondering if the old stubbornness had finally snapped.

"I must say! You’re of noble birth—even if the order seems genuine, sir mustn’t rush to take your own life!"

Marcus had already tried to persuade Foster not to quit at least eight hundred times.

He’d paced the halls, brewed coffee, even brought Foster a slice of pecan pie from the local diner, hoping food would talk sense into him. Nothing worked. Marcus was starting to think he’d need divine intervention—or at least a therapist.

"Resign? Who said I’m going to quit?"

Resign, my ass! In my last life, I wasn’t even the legitimate eldest son and didn’t just wait to be benched. Now, reborn as the true heir, why would I think of resignation?

Time to mobilize the team, find an excuse, and stage a coup at the Capitol!

Harrison’s mind spun with possibilities, recalling every dirty trick he’d learned in city hall and every playbook from his football days. This was no time for half-measures; he’d take the field and run the ball himself.

"General Marcus! How many troops are stationed in Maple Heights? I want to purge the traitors around the President!" His eyes gleamed with excitement.

This statement left Marcus utterly dumbfounded, making him worry that Boss was even more unstable than before.

How could he change so much after a brief coma?

Marcus scratched his head, jaw slack. He’d seen Foster go from tears to laughter to war planning in the span of a minute. “This guy’s a real piece of work,” he thought, but loyalty held him firm.

"Purge traitors? What do you mean, sir? Are you truly alright?" Marcus was confused.

He didn’t realize that 'purging traitors' had become synonymous with rebellion in later years.

Seeing Marcus’s bewildered look, Harrison switched to persuasive mode.

Harrison leaned in, voice low and steady, the way his father used to speak when negotiating city contracts. He locked eyes with Marcus, letting the weight of history hang between them.

"The President united the States, brought prosperity to the country—a leader unrivaled in history. Does General Marcus agree?" Harrison asked solemnly.

"The President inherited generations of achievements, unified the country, standardized law and infrastructure—truly a great leader!" Marcus replied, hands clasped in front of him, his tone almost reverent, like reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

"Then, does General Marcus think I am disloyal, unfilial, muddle-headed, or tyrannical?"

"Absolutely not! Sir is loyal, filial, benevolent, and righteous—admired by officials and the people alike!" Marcus’s voice rose with conviction, his hand pressed to his chest.

"Good. I am the President’s legitimate eldest son, bound by blood; the President is wise and mighty, and I am not lacking in virtue. If not for traitors corrupting our relationship, why would the President suddenly order my resignation?" Harrison’s voice was forceful, his eyes ablaze.

The room seemed to vibrate with Harrison’s energy, his words ringing with the certainty of a man born to lead. Marcus felt the pull of old loyalties and new ambitions, torn between caution and conviction.

"Sir is wise! But... without the presidential seal, raising troops without permission would be considered treason..." Marcus’s eyes were conflicted, thumb tracing circles on his belt, torn between duty and the law.

"General Marcus, you worry too much. Since it’s clear traitors are at the President’s side, as his eldest son, raising troops to protect the President and eliminate traitors is an act of loyalty and filial piety. With the President’s wisdom, he will not blame us.

If you still doubt, detain the messenger in my name and write to your brother Michael—he’s a senior advisor and should be at the President’s side. If he replies that all is well, I will submit to resignation for loyalty and filial piety. But if there’s no reply, then there must be upheaval at the Capitol, and raising troops will be justified by the Constitution and circumstance."

Harrison’s tactic of retreating to advance left Marcus speechless.

Of course, he didn’t know Harrison was already certain President Foster was dead, Michael likely imprisoned, and no reply would come.

But to Marcus, Foster’s words were a sobering reminder—the fates of the Taylor family and Foster were now intertwined.

He cursed inwardly:

Damn it, if you’d thought this way all along, just now you were dead set on quitting, wouldn’t let me stop you—I thought you really wanted out. Turns out you were acting for my sake?

Marcus’s jaw clenched, the lines in his weathered face deepening. He realized that loyalty ran both ways, and maybe, just maybe, Foster was the leader he’d always hoped for.

"In that case, I will follow your lead!" Marcus grumbled inside, but his spoken loyalty was firm. He straightened his back, saluted with military precision, the decision made. Whatever came next, he’d face it head-on, come hell or high water.