The first thing he felt was pain.
A splitting headache pulsed behind his temples. His throat burned like dry sandpaper, and a suffocating weight pressed on his chest—like the entire world had fallen on top of him.
He groaned, slowly opening his eyes. Above him was a ceiling of roughly carved stone, aged and worn. A rusted chandelier swung gently overhead, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
"Where… am I?" he whispered hoarsely.
And then — memories.
A storm of images surged through his mind. Two lives—one familiar, one foreign—colliding violently. He remembered circuit boards, lecture halls, the scent of coffee, and all-nighters.
But that life was no longer his.
He was no longer a university engineering student from the modern world.
He was Riven Caelis, the Second Prince of the Kingdom of Solmarin.
Exiled.
Disgraced.
Banished to a forgotten city at the edge of the empire—a place so far from the capital that even royal knights rarely patrolled its streets. There was no true order here, no loyal soldiers, no protection. Only ruins, bandits, and broken dreams.
This exile was not by accident. He had failed to meet the expectations of his father, the Emperor. And in return, he had been cast out like a defective cog in the imperial machine.
From this broken city, he would rise—not just to reclaim his name… But to build an empire of his own.
Suddenly, the doors creaked open. A man in a neat but worn-out suit stood frozen—his eyes widened, then welled up. It was the butler. His name was Garrick.
"Young master… you're standing?" he whispered, tears threatening to spill. Garrick had served the prince since childhood—not out of duty, but gratitude. The former prince had saved him from starvation and given him shelter when no one else would.
Garrick dropped to his knees, overcome with emotion. "Stop crying," Arnobal said softly, helping him up. "How many days have passed?"
"Two, Your Majesty. You passed out after drinking far too much…"
Arnobal nodded, brushing past him, curiosity burning in his veins. He began exploring the ancient castle, its halls echoing with silence. The garden was lifeless, trees brittle and dry. The treasury? Empty. Storage held dust-covered weapons—bows, swords, a few rusted shields.
Then, in the dim torchlight of the basement, he found it.
A massive iron door, half-buried in cobwebs, sealed shut.
He ordered his butler to open the rusted door. The air was thick with dampness as he stepped into the dim jail. Shackled to the walls were several beastkins and a frail young witch, their clothes torn, their bodies bruised.
He frowned. "Bring food and clean water," he commanded. Moments later, he personally handed bread and water to each prisoner. They flinched, stunned by his kindness. After a moment of hesitation, hunger overcame fear, and they began to eat.
He turned to his butler.
"Why are they here?"
"The witch," the butler began, "was found using magic in a rice field. She's fifteen, orphaned, and was sold as a slave to a merchant."
"And the beastkins?"
"They're from the Wolf Tribe. They attacked our northern wall to free enslaved kin. The tribe's leader—a fierce young woman—led the assault. They slaughtered fifty-six soldiers… and vanished into the wild with their freed brethren."