Pain gripped him before breath returned.
It crawled through him like a slow-burning curse—deep, full-bodied, and strange. Not the sharp, precise agony of gunshot wounds. Not the fire that tore through his thighs in his final moment.
That pain was gone.
His legs didn't scream anymore. No shattered bone. No pulsing blood.
Just… ache. A dull, unrelenting heaviness that settled in his muscles, his chest, even his teeth. As though this body had been dragged back from somewhere far too deep.
Red stirred beneath unfamiliar sheets. Sleep peeled away like damp silk. The air was still, steeped in lavender, beeswax, and polished stone. No hum of drones. No scent of smoke or blood.
A chamber loomed around him—vaulted ceilings, carved marble, velvet drapes bound in gold cord. The chandelier above cast soft crystalline light across walls that had never known war.
Not a bunker. Not a cell. Not the scorched edge of a battlefield.
A throne's breath away from royalty.
He didn't move right away. Just breathed—and listened.
One door. Heavy wood. No wind. Curtains drawn. Stone thick enough to bury screams.
He shifted beneath the blankets, testing limbs that were slower than usual. His muscles didn't protest as they should have—but everything ached. Like the body had forgotten how to live.
He raised his hand into the light.
Pale. Smooth. No scar on the knuckle. No calluses from the hilt of a blade. Fingers—longer. Slender. Untouched.
Red frowned.
He brought the hand to his face.
No broken nose. No split brow. The jaw was slimmer. Skin unmarred by years of war.
Then—the hair.
Longer. Silken. Cold-white, like moonlight spun into silk. He tugged a lock into view.
White. Not black. Not Red.
He froze.
Not a disguise. Not a coma dream.
Someone else's body.
He sat up slowly, ignoring the dull protest in his spine. The tunic he wore shimmered with threads of gold. The sheets beneath him were silk—finer than any uniform he had ever worn.
He moved like a man wearing a stranger's skin.
Because that's what he was now.
The door creaked.
A maid stepped in, arms full of linen. Her eyes lifted—met his—and widened.
Her breath caught. "P-Prince Alzein…?"
Red said nothing.
The linens slipped from her hands.
She turned and fled, slippers pounding against stone. "He's awake! The prince is alive!"
Red exhaled.
Alzein. That was the name, then. The one carved into this face. The one sewn into these bones.
He looked down at his hands again. Ran one slowly across his arm, his collarbone, his chest.
No scars. No bullet wounds.
They brought me back. But not as myself.
The door slammed open.
Two men entered.
Red met them without flinching—expression still, posture straight. But behind his gaze, thoughts moved. Fast. Measured.
The first man moved with quiet command. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A leather sling held his left arm; bruises darkened his jaw and temple. Chestnut hair hung loose, damp from travel or battle. His tabard bore a silver hawk.
He stood like someone who'd braced for grief—and feared its absence more.
The second moved like judgment.
Robes of pristine white trailed behind him, lined in silver threading. His hair was iron-grey, drawn tightly back. His eyes were sharp, pale, and sunken. No sword—none needed. His presence alone struck like steel.
"Your Highness," the elder said, voice clipped, formal, cold. "Do you feel pain?"
Red turned to him. "Not much."
The sound of his voice startled him.
It wasn't his.
Smoother. Richer. Regal. Like water over polished glass.
Gone was the gruff edge of the spy. In its place—something noble. Something not his.
He did not let it show.
The old man's lip curled.
"We should never have allowed that sorceress to defile the sanctity of death with her cursed rites."
Red said nothing. But he noted it.
Religious authority. Deep conviction. Dangerous.
The younger man stepped forward.
"Prince Alzein," he said softly. "Do you… remember us?"
Red studied him.
Despite injury, the man stood like a shield. Not from duty—from loyalty. There was grief in his eyes.
"No," Red said. "I don't."
The man's shoulders sagged.
"Then it is true…"
"A side effect of the rite," the elder snapped. "Brilliant. A prince returned without his mind."
The younger man placed a fist to his chest. "I am Glade. Your retainer. Since boyhood. We trained together. Rode together. Fought together. At Sylph's Valley. Do you recall it?"
"I do not," Red replied.
His expression held steady. Not cold. Not confused. Blank—just enough to invite answers.
Glade's jaw tensed. "You were found half-dead. Brayl brought you home. She carried you from the valley alone. Refused to leave your side. Even as your breath… faded."
"Brayl," Red echoed.
"Another of your retainers," Glade said. "Fierce. Loyal. She has saved your life more times than I can count."
Red lowered his gaze. "Then she is loyal."
"Utterly."
Count Ardent exhaled sharply. "Loyalty means nothing if it serves madness. Astral sorcery is no miracle. It is heresy dressed in gold."
From his sleeve, he drew a black stone—smooth, palm-sized, etched with faint runes.
"The shard," Glade said. "To prove you are whole."
Red narrowed his eyes. "What does it do?"
"If your soul is gone—if something else wears your face—it will glow red. If you are whole, it glows blue."
Red nodded.
Count Ardent pressed the shard to his chest.
It pulsed.
Blue.
Silence.
"So the soul remains," the count muttered. "For now. But if that changes, I will act."
"Count Ardent—"
He turned and left, robes sweeping behind him like a blade.
At the door, he paused.
"The council will not suffer a broken prince on sacred bloodlines."
Then he was gone.
Red turned to Glade. "He despises me."
Glade gave a tired smile. "He despises what he cannot understand. But yes—especially you now."
"You said this Brayl saved me?"
Glade nodded. "Dragged you from the valley. Smoke on her cloak. Blood on her hands. She screamed your name until her voice broke."
"Why?"
"Because you are Prince Alzein," Glade said. "Because she would rather follow you into blasphemy than serve another into safety."
Red closed his eyes.
"I see. I must have been important."
"Of course you are," Glade said softly.
Red fell asleep quickly.
And in his dream, a vision of the past. Not his new body's past. His past.
Steel scaffolding. Fluorescent lights. A flickering security cam. His first mission.
The girl was tied to a chair. Hands trembling. Blood on the floor.
The handler's voice rang in his ear: "No hesitation. No exceptions."
But when he stepped into the light, no weapon. No answers.
Just a girl. Bruised. Crying. Human.
Red had the blade.
He didn't use it.
He cut the binds. Walked away.
And when the extraction team reviewed the footage, they said nothing.
They didn't need to.
He had failed.
Because he still had a heart.
But the dream did not end.
The girl looked up again. Her sobs had stilled. Her eyes were white—glowing.
She rose. Not by rope. Not by force.
By something unseen.
Her limbs hung weightless. The air thickened. Her voice came in layers.
"Find me, Red."
"Find the statue."
The wind howled.
"Before the Maou King does."
And then she vanished.
Red woke up.
His breath caught. Sweat clung to his skin.
That voice...
He sat up—then stilled.
Warmth pulsed against his chest. Healing.
Soft gold light radiated through the fabric of his night tunic.
A girl knelt beside the bed.
Pale hands hovered just above him. Her robe was simple, black with silver trim. Blonde hair pulled into a neat updo. A black ribbon tied it back.
Her eyes were closed in quiet focus.
Magic. Real. Alive.
Two knights stood at attention. And behind them, Glade.
Red said nothing.
The light dimmed.
The girl lowered her hands. Her eyes opened.
Blue. Wet with tears.
She saw him awake—and breathed.
"I'm glad you're back, Prince Alzein."
Red didn't answer.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he didn't know how.
The name still felt like a stranger in his mouth.
But he watched her.
And in her tears, he saw no lie. No angle.
Just relief.
He sank back into the pillows.
His muscles still ached.
But the body—this body—felt a degree more his than it had an hour ago.
He exhaled.
Find me, Red. Find the statue...
Whatever that vision had been—memory, warning, or curse—it wasn't done with him.
And neither was this world.