[I]Something is different.[/I] The thought was there the instant the warrior's body turned limp, striking Perfect as much more than just a suspicion; it was an instinctive certainty that had him reeling from the impact of it, and for an instant he was petrified as his mind worked to cope with what was happening to him. Fear and stress barely touched him, but this was neither. It was a cognitive process that momentarily overloaded his brain, taking up so much of its processing power that it felt as though he was incapable of thought or action beyond that single endeavor. He closed his eyes, and [I]outside[/I] grew distant and insignificant as the inside enveloped him.
Imagines, sounds, smells, sensations, tastes... Impressions appeared in his mind, seemingly from nowhere, forming a scene wherein he was the main actor, playing his role by a manuscript beyond his choosing. Darkness... a woman... he spoke, his voice not his own. It was not right, this memory was not his, this was not him! But he remembered... He remembered a feeling in his chest, emotions he had never experienced before. What was it? Why did he feel the need to heed the words of this woman? Why had he devoted himself to her? What sorcery was this?!
[I]"Do you renounce your kinghood for me?"[/I]
Somewhere within him, the very core of Perfect's being rose up in protest against the memory, rejecting it. He remembered doing, saying and feeling these things, but this was not him... was it? Surely, he would never have felt something like this. He would never have said the things he remembered having said.
But it was there, this memory; a great, powerful presence, soaking into his mind and trying to find its place. Much had been lost when he died, he knew this, and this alien memory was trying to fill the space left behind by those, like a piece of one jigsaw-puzzle trying to squeeze itself in place in another where it would not fit. [I]Put the triangle through the triangular hole, not the square,[/I] he thought desperately, laughing inwardly at the improbability of it all. [I]But that's not going to happen, is it? It's going to keep trying until it all becomes circles.[/I]
And just like that his eyes flew back open. Like a cog finally finding a way to mesh in existing machinery he felt the memory snap into place within him, adding fragile complexity to its workings and new compatibility to future additions.
[I]"Do you renounce your kinghood for me?"[/I] the woman asked in the memory, her words bleeding from it, tainting the rest of his being, even as his own corrupting influence did its work on the memory, altering it; adapting. The voice he spoke with was no longer the voice of the one he had killed, but his own. What he felt was no longer loyalty, no longer this crazed devotion and willingness to sacrifice; it was ownership. This was [I]his[/I] woman. His most precious woman. He enjoyed her. But would he renounce his kinghood for her?
[I]Why would I do that?[/I] he thought, smiling once again, feeling an entirely new kind of power and confidence spread through his very being. [I]I am the king, after all.[/I]
"Go! Find the crown, find your way home!" the man had said, and now Perfect understood.
[I]My crown, my home, my woman. They would take it away from me, they would steal everything, leave me with nothing... empty. I will not let them. It is [/I]mine[I]! The crown, the home, the woman, this world and everything in it; it is all MY KINGDOM![/I]

The process, while intense, lasted only an instant, and when it was over Perfect had changed. Although some might have been tempted to call him a narcissist in the past, this had never been the case simply because narcissism suggested not only love for oneself, but also a desperate need for everyone else to love one as well. Perfect did love himself, and tended towards egotism, but he had never cared about anyone else before beyond their potential uses to him. He had been happily living in obscurity, the hunter prowling the darkness, preying upon his lesser to give himself enjoyment and satisfaction. He had not cared about the warrior beyond the fact that he was an obstacle, a hazard to his own person, and he did not care about the warrior's companions aside from them potentially having resources and information that would be valuable to him. His life had never had any deeper meaning to it; he lived primarily to survive, and secondarily for pleasure.
But why had he ever felt like that? These people did not submit to him, and therefore were insufferable. They would be his servants, give him everything he demanded, or they would die.
He was their king, after all. Their glorious perfect king.

Still smiling, Perfect ignored the blood-thirsting creature whose cries echoed through the valley and withdrew his knife from his slain opponent and placed it on the ground beside himself. The movement was gentle, cautious, as if afraid that the knife would break or vanish as soon as he was no longer holding on to it. In sharp contrast to the care with which he set aside his knife his left hand traced a violent backward arc as his fingers uncurled, sending the puny sticks he had sharpened flying into the darkness, scattering in the valley. He did not care about them; they were not worthy of him anymore.
Instead he leaned over the warrior, still ignoring the scurrying creature that had appeared and seemed to assail the corpse of his downed prey, seeming intoxicated with the blood and barely aware of Perfect. He reached out, his right hand seizing the halberd of his victim, and his left taking hold of the shield. Both items were wrestled from the nerveless fingers of their old owner, and was claimed as the first regalia of the new king.
[I]They are heavy,[/I] he noted, struggling to stand up with both pieces of new equipment, feeling their weight in his hands. Perfect was quite strong, himself - stronger than the average man, at least - but he did not think that he could use the halberd in one hand, as the warrior had. For that man to have wielded the halberd in one hand, to have wielded the shield in the other and worn such heavy armor... he must have been incredibly strong. Perfect had been right to eliminate him before he could become a threat. [I]Before he brandished it to fight these creatures, the warrior wore the shield on his back. I can see why; I think I will do the same, and use it only in conjunction with my knife. I will need both hands to use this halberd properly, that much is certain.[/I]
About to stand, Perfect noticed one more thing of note on the warrior: a container of some sort, the kind referred to as a skin, meant for holding liquids, though it seemed regrettably empty. He retrieved it nonetheless, fit the shield onto his back as he had seen the halberdier do in reverse, picked up his knife with his newly freed left hand, and stood. The warrior had nothing else that would be of use to him. This blood-starved creature, whatever it was, could have what was left.

Perfect went back to where he had left the sheath to his knife and, after wiping blood off the blade as best he could on the sand of the valley, fit it back onto the blade. Once that was done the knife went down his left pant-leg, in lack of a better place to store it. He gripped his new halberd with both hands and turned, calmly, to face the creatures that accompanied him in the darkness. The giant monsters seemed contrastingly docile now compared to how they had been before, but not mindless; they watched him. He smiled.
"I am thirsty," he informed those present, hoping that one of them might be able to understand his words. "Help me get something to drink."