Lee nodded slowly, his head still spinning like he'd been dunked into a VR game with no tutorial. The regal woman, his supposed mother, sighed, her emerald dress rustling as she rose from the bed. Her face was a mix of relief and worry, like she was carrying the weight of a thousand secrets.
"Rest now, Lee," she said, her voice soft but firm, like a mom who knew you were about to argue but wasn't having it. "I'll have food sent up. You need to regain your strength. Later, you'll meet the king, so prepare yourself." She smoothed her dress, her movements graceful but heavy, and headed for the door.
Lara, the bombshell guard who'd just called him a prince, gave him a quick glance, her dark curls bouncing as she followed the woman out. "I'll be outside, guarding the door," she said, her tone clipped but professional, like she was used to dealing with his nonsense. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Lee alone in the massive room, the silence pressing in like a physical weight.
He sat there, frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. The chandelier above cast flickering light across the velvet-draped walls, but it did nothing to calm the storm in his head. He wasn't just in some fancy room, he was dead.
Or at least, the old Lee was. The fall from that rain-slick ladder, the snap of his neck, the blood pooling under him, it had all been real. But now he was here, in the body of another Lee, a prince no less, in a world that felt like it was ripped from a fantasy novel.
Reincarnated. The word felt ridiculous, like something out of an anime he'd binge with Orlo, his little brother, on lazy weekends. But it was the only explanation that made sense.
His stomach churned as the reality sank in. This Lee, the prince, had been poisoned, and it had worked. The original guy was gone, and Lee was squatting in his body like some cosmic freeloader. What if they figured it out?
The mom, Lara, the king, any of them could realize he wasn't the real deal. He didn't have this Lee's memories, his mannerisms, nothing. He was a high school kid who couldn't even get off the bench, not some royal who knew how to navigate palace drama.
One wrong move, one slip-up, and they'd sniff him out. Would they lock him up? Execute him for being an imposter? His hands shook as he clenched the silk sheets, the fabric so soft it felt like a lie.
He shook his head, trying to clear the panic. "Get it together, man," he muttered, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet room. He had to focus, figure out what the hell was going on.
That's when he noticed it, a faint glow in front of him, like a hologram from a sci-fi flick. He blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light, but the glow sharpened into floating panels, shimmering with text that made his jaw drop. Welcome to Orlo's Harem System, it read in bold, futuristic font, the words pulsing like they were alive.
Lee's heart stopped. Orlo? His little brother, Orlo, the 12-year-old who spent hours scribbling in notebooks and ranting about his dream WebNovel? The kid who'd named his main character Lee because he thought it'd be "cool" to make his big bro the hero? Lee's mouth went dry.
This wasn't just some random fantasy world, it was Orlo's story, the one he'd been yapping about for months, full of princes, harems, and over-the-top battles. Lee had skimmed a few chapters, mostly to humor him, but now he was in it, living it. The prince's name being Lee wasn't a coincidence, it was his brother's nerdy tribute.
He stared at the glowing panel, his mind racing. Another screen popped up, this one showing a stats menu like something out of an RPG.
Name: Lee Fireheart.
Speed: 10.
Agility: 10.
Strength: 10.
Perception: 10.
Skills: None.
Lee snorted, despite himself. "Damn, I'm basic as hell," he muttered. Ten across the board? That was rookie numbers, like starting a game at level one with no gear. Apparently, this Lee Fireheart was a blank slate, a weakling with no skills to his name.
Lee leaned forward, squinting at the panel. If this was a game system, he could work with it. He'd played enough RPGs to know the drill, grind, level up, get stronger.
But what kind of life did the original Lee have? Was he a cool prince, respected and powerful? Or a loser like real-world Lee, stuck on the sidelines, overlooked because he was the concubine's kid? The thought made his chest tighten. He didn't know this world, this palace, or these people. He was flying blind.
Before he could spiral further, a new panel flashed, this one with a menacing red border.
Lee's eyes widened. Punishment? What kind of punishment? No way he was finding out. "Alright, system, let's do this," he said, psyching himself up.
He rolled out of bed, the plush carpet soft under his bare feet. The room was huge, but there was enough space near the bed to work out. He dropped to the floor, his palms pressing into the rug, and started with push-ups.
His arms wobbled on the first one, and by the fifth, he was sweating like he'd run a mile. "What the hell?" he gasped, collapsing after barely hitting ten. This body, Lee Fireheart's body, was weak as hell, like the original prince had never lifted anything heavier than a quill. Back home, Lee could crank out thirty push-ups no problem, thanks to late-night workouts dreaming of making the team. But this guy? Pathetic.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep going. Each push-up was a struggle, his arms shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He pictured Coach Grayson's smug face, Trevor's cocky grin, and channeled the anger into his reps. "Come on, man, you got this," he muttered, his voice hoarse. By twenty push-ups, he was done, his face pressed into the carpet, chest heaving. He realized this workout was going to take everything he had.
The original Lee must've been a couch potato, probably sipping fancy wine while Lara guarded his door. No wonder someone poisoned him, he was an easy target.
Lee dragged himself up, wiping sweat from his brow. Twenty minutes later, he was only a quarter done, his body screaming in protest. The sit-ups were even worse, his core burning like he'd swallowed hot coals.
He hadn't even touched the chin-ups yet, and he was already dreading the lack of a pull-up bar in this fancy room. He was about to start another set when a soft knock on the door made him freeze. Panic shot through him, he couldn't let anyone see him like this, sprawled on the floor like a sweaty mess, half-dead from a measly twenty push-ups.
"Uh, come in!" he called, scrambling back into bed and pulling the silk sheets up to his chest like a kid hiding from a monster.
The door creaked open, and a girl stepped in, carrying a silver tray loaded with food that smelled like heaven, roasted meat, fresh bread, and something sweet, maybe fruit. She was beautiful, with soft brown eyes and hair tied back in a neat braid, her maid's uniform crisp but simple.
She smiled, her voice gentle as she asked, "My lord, how are you feeling? We were all so worried about you."