The sun had barely risen above the spired rooftops of Strabila's royal palace when King Bera received the letter. It was sealed with the crimson insignia of Naga—the twin serpents coiled around a crown.
The king sat in his private study, the scent of ink and parchment heavy in the air. He broke the wax with his thumb and began to read.
---
To His Majesty, King Bera of Strabila,
I have received word of the tragic deaths of your First and Fourth Princes. I am deeply grieved by your loss. I regret that urgent matters prevent me from visiting in person to offer my condolences.
It is with a heavy heart that I must also address our prior agreement. The marriage proposal between Princess Hema of Naga and Prince Kall of Strabila must be canceled. I hope you understand my position. Should you require aid, you may call upon me at any time.
—Hron, King of Naga
---
Bera lowered the parchment slowly. The study felt colder now, though the morning light spilled across the desk.
His jaw tightened. He thought of the quiet words of the alchemist from the night before—Kall was not dead. The boy's body, though broken, clung to life with an unnatural tenacity. But Bera did not move to write a reply correcting the letter.
For now, he would let Naga believe their assumption. In a world where alliances were fragile and politics sharper than any sword, revealing the truth too soon could paint an even larger target on Kall's back.
---
Far away, in the golden-walled palace of Naga, Princess Hema stood in her father's audience chamber. Sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, catching the jeweled clasps of her scarlet gown.
"Father," she said, her tone sharp as a blade, "I don't want to marry that trash."
King Hron, seated on his throne of black marble, smiled faintly. "Don't worry, my dear. You won't have to."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Kall died last night," Hron said simply, as if discussing the weather.
She tilted her head, suspicion in her gaze. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because our man killed him—along with his First Brother. One of the assassins escaped and returned with the report himself."
A slow smile spread across her lips. "Oh? Then why kill the First Prince too?"
Hron's voice grew colder, more calculating. "Because the First Prince was the most talented among Strabila's heirs. Remove him, and their kingdom loses its strongest blade. With him gone, taking Strabila will be far easier."
Hema chuckled. "Clever. Very clever."
The two shared a laugh, one that grew louder and darker until it filled the chamber.
"Ha…ha…ha…hahaa…"
Their laughter echoed off the high ceiling, mingling with the distant caw of a raven outside the palace walls.
---
Meanwhile, in the endless white expanse that served as Kall's current prison, the boy was sprawled on his back, arms behind his head, staring up at the nothingness above him.
He sighed. "I'm bored. So bored I could die again… Hey, Sage-voice, can't I do something? Anything?"
The calm, mechanical voice answered without emotion. "You may clear the first floor of the dungeon."
Kall groaned. "Anything else?"
"No. Unless you wish to create one with my assistance."
He sat up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "If I progress here, what happens to me in the real world?"
"After a few minutes of your awakening, your progress will be reflected in your physical body."
Kall smirked. "Alright then. Create something interesting. Let's say… body training as my quest. And if I fail, you can give me any punishment—related to body training, I mean."
"Understood. Your quest is as follows:
1. Run 1 kilometer.
2. Perform 200 skipping jumps.
3. Do 300 push-ups.
4. Complete 200 high jumps.
You have one hour to finish. Failure will result in immediate transfer to the First Floor of the Hell-Dungeon."
Kall's eyes widened. "Wha—?! That's not fair! You know I can't do that, right?" His voice cracked like a child's.
The voice was silent.
"Hello? Answer me!"
Still silence.
Kall's shoulders slumped. "Fine, whatever. Guess I'll be visiting this Hell-Dungeon place after all."
A faint sound—half a chuckle, half static—came from the void.
"Ye—" the voice began, but cut off abruptly.
"What??" Kall blinked, confused. "What were you about to say?"
"Proceed. Your destiny awaits."
Kall groaned again, muttering under his breath. "Destiny, huh? Sounds like trouble."
---
Back in Strabila, King Bera sat in the war council chamber, the letter from Naga lying open beside a map of the continent. His generals and advisers debated troop movements and the security of the capital, but his thoughts drifted again to Kall—lying unconscious, his body quietly knitting itself back together in defiance of death.
If Naga truly believed him dead, then perhaps there was a way to turn this to their advantage. But that would require secrecy, patience… and a dangerous gamble.
Bera's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"Let them think the Fourth Prince is gone," he thought. "And when the time comes… we'll see who laughs last."