Franz had slowly gotten used to this life.
No phone.
No emails.
No back-to-back meetings or 12-hour workdays.
Of course, there was no modern comfort either — no running water, no heating, no toothpaste. But strangely, the quiet days felt like a strange kind of peace after the madness of his past life.
He had worked like a beast in his last life — from a corn farm in Missouri to a high-rise in Manhattan. Paid off student loans, grinded four years in New York, finally became a banker with a six-figure salary… and still ended up dumped, cursed, and shot dead.
He still remembered that day — the new job, the marble lobby, the unread welcome email. And then, that text message:
"alex, I don't think we're right for each other.
I need more than just ambition.
Let me know when you're free — I'll return the ring."
He was too stunned to reply.
And then came the gunshot.
He never even saw the shooter.
When he woke up, he was in Schönbrunn Palace — in the body of Napoleon's only legitimate son. Now called Franz, the Duke of Reichstadt, locked away like a royal pet in the gilded cage of the Habsburg Empire.
He had been seven years old when he arrived here. His body was weak after a long fever. His mother, Marie Louise, was far away in Parma, already remarried to her lover just four months after Napoleon's death. She had three more children with him — a new family.
Franz was left behind. Forgotten.
To be fair, the Habsburg Emperor never treated him poorly. He had servants, tutors, warm rooms, and books. But freedom? Never. He was guarded, watched, silenced. A royal heir raised only to disappear quietly.
He played the role well. In history and politics classes, he stayed average. But in literature, music, painting — he excelled. He read everything he could. He kept his French weak on purpose.
Still, he knew: they feared him.
He was Napoleon's son. And that was enough.
He asked to train physically — fencing, horse riding, strength exercises. He claimed it was for his health. In truth, it was preparation.
The history books said the "King of Rome" had died of tuberculosis at twenty-one.
Franz was planning to outlive that ending.
His teacher and supervisor was Count Kaspar von Reinhardt, a tall, lean nobleman who had once been a military officer. He fought at Wagram — a battle his father had won. Though wounded in the war, the Count never showed hatred. If anything, he treated Franz with quiet respect.
He taught him swordsmanship personally. Franz trained hard. Every fall, every bruise, he got up again. Slowly, he grew taller, faster, stronger.
The Count once told him, "You're not my equal yet — but you will be."
And Franz believed him.
He didn't want to be equal.
He wanted to win.
By thirteen, he no longer dreamed of escape every day.
He waited. He studied.
He planned.
That summer, whispers started in the palace halls.
Sophie, Princess of Bavaria, was coming to Schönbrunn.
They said she might marry his uncle, Archduke Franz Karl.
Franz froze when he heard her name.
He remembered seeing her portrait once — in a Vienna museum, in his old life.
Sophie was beautiful, clever, and powerful. There were even rumors… that she and he had once shared a hidden bond. That her second son — Maximilian — was not her husband's child, but his.
Of course, that was impossible now.
Or was it?
Franz looked up at the painted ceiling above him, then out toward the garden.
This palace was not his home. It was a cage.
He would not die here.
Not quietly. Not obediently.
He would take back his life — and perhaps even history.