Adrian's POV
The underground fighting ring stank of blood, sweat, and desperation.
Perfect.
I'd ditched my royal guards two streets back, traded my fancy prince clothes for a merchant's cloak, and slipped into the capital's seediest district like I'd done it a thousand times before.
Because Victor Castellano had done it a thousand times.
"Ten silver on the big guy!" someone shouted beside me. The crowd pressed close, all watching two men beat each other bloody in a makeshift ring.
This was where the real criminals operated. Where information flowed like wine. Where I could find the kind of people who'd do what needed doing without asking stupid questions.
People like Marcus Chen.
In my old life, Marcus had been my first lieutenant. My best friend. The only person I'd trusted completely—unlike Tony, who put a bullet in my brain.
The memory still burned.
But Marcus here couldn't be the same person. Different world. Different life.
Still, Thomas had described him perfectly: "Mid-forties, sharp eyes, fights like a demon, runs a merchant business as cover for less legal activities."
The current fight ended—big guy won, crowd cheered. Money changed hands.
"Next fight!" the announcer bellowed. "Marcus Chen versus whoever's brave enough!"
My heart stopped.
A man climbed into the ring. Mid-forties. Dark hair with gray streaks. Lean, muscular build. And those eyes—alert, calculating, missing nothing.
It was him. Or someone who looked exactly like him.
"I'll fight," a drunk man stumbled forward, waving a knife. "I'll gut that Chen bastard for twenty silver!"
The crowd laughed. This wasn't going to be a fair fight.
It was going to be a massacre.
The drunk lunged, knife flashing.
Marcus moved like water—sidestep, grab the wrist, twist until bone cracked. The knife clattered away. One punch to the gut. Another to the jaw. The drunk hit the ground and didn't get up.
Eight seconds total.
I couldn't breathe.
That fighting style. Those movements. I'd taught them to Marcus in my old life. Taught him how to take down armed opponents without weapons. How to move efficiently, brutally, ending fights before they began.
And this Marcus fought exactly the same way.
Impossible. This is impossible.
"Anyone else?" Marcus called out, breathing easy. Not even winded.
Before I could stop myself, I raised my hand.
"I'll fight."
The crowd went silent. Then someone recognized me despite the cloak.
"That's Prince Adrian! The drunk prince wants to fight!"
Laughter erupted. Mocking, cruel laughter.
Marcus's eyes locked onto mine across the ring. For one second, I saw something flash in them—recognition? Confusion? Then it was gone.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I don't think—"
"Scared?" I interrupted, climbing into the ring. My heart pounded but my hands stayed steady. "I thought Marcus Chen fought anyone."
"I don't fight royalty. Bad for business."
"Then teach me." I dropped my voice so only he could hear. "One lesson. Show me how you fight. I'll pay a hundred gold coins."
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because I need to learn from the best. And you're the best I've seen."
For three heartbeats, Marcus studied me. Really studied me—like he was looking for something beneath my skin.
Then he smiled slightly. "One lesson. No holding back. If you can't keep up, that's your problem."
"Deal."
The crowd roared with excitement. Bets flew everywhere—most against me.
Smart money.
Marcus moved first, testing me with a quick jab. I blocked it using muscle memory from Victor's life. Countered with a low kick. He dodged, impressed.
"You've had training," he observed.
"Street training," I replied, blocking another strike. "The kind you can't learn from fancy sword masters."
"Interesting."
We circled each other. The crowd faded away. It was just us—two fighters recognizing something in each other.
Marcus attacked seriously now. Fast combinations. Brutal efficiency. The kind of fighting that left opponents broken.
But I knew this style. Had invented half these moves in my previous life.
I countered. Dodged. Struck back.
We were evenly matched.
The crowd went crazy. This wasn't what they expected. The drunk prince was actually fighting.
"You fight like you learned in back alleys," I said, breathing hard.
Marcus grinned, also breathing hard. "Takes one to know one, Your Highness."
Our eyes met.
And in that moment, I knew he felt it too—that impossible connection. That sense of knowing someone you'd never met.
The fight ended in a draw. Both of us too tired to continue.
The crowd booed, wanting blood. But I didn't care.
I'd found what I came for.
Ten minutes later, we sat in a corner tavern. Marcus drinking ale. Me drinking water, staying sharp.
"You didn't come here to learn fighting," Marcus said bluntly. "So what do you really want?"
"I need a spymaster," I replied. "Someone who knows the underground. Who can gather information, recruit people, and do the things polite society pretends don't happen."
"I'm a merchant."
"You're a criminal. A smart one. And I need smart criminals working for me instead of against me."
Marcus leaned back, studying me. "The rumors are true then. You really did change. Two weeks ago, you couldn't even stand straight. Now you're recruiting criminals like some kind of mob boss."
My blood turned cold. "What did you say?"
"Mob boss. It's slang from the eastern cities. Criminals who run—" He stopped, frowning. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Because he'd used a term that shouldn't exist in this world. A term from my world.
"Who are you?" I whispered. "Really?"
"Marcus Chen. Merchant. Sometimes fighter. Why?"
"Because..." I hesitated. This was insane. But I had to know. "Have you ever had dreams? Memories of a different life? A different world?"
His face went pale. The mug in his hand trembled slightly.
"How do you know about that?" His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
My heart raced. "You have them too?"
"Every night for the past year. Dreams of... of another place. Modern buildings. Cars. Guns." His eyes were wide with shock and fear. "I thought I was going crazy. But you're saying..."
"I'm saying we might be from the same place."
"That's impossible."
"Everything about the last three days has been impossible."
We stared at each other in shocked silence.
Then Marcus laughed—sharp and bitter. "So what? We both died somewhere else and woke up here? Why?"
"I don't know. But Marcus—" I leaned forward. "In my old life, I knew someone named Marcus. My best friend. My first lieutenant. He looked exactly like you. Fought exactly like you. And when I died, I wished more than anything that I could've saved him from what was coming."
Marcus's hands clenched into fists. "In my dreams... there's a man. My boss. My friend. He taught me everything. And then..." His voice cracked. "Then he died because I wasn't there to protect him. I've spent a year feeling guilty for something that maybe never happened."
"What was his name?" I asked quietly. "In your dreams?"
"I can't quite remember. It's always fuzzy. But it started with V. Victor? Vincent?"
"Victor," I confirmed. "Victor Castellano."
The mug shattered in Marcus's hand.
"That's impossible," he breathed. "How could you know—"
A door crashed open behind us.
Royal guards flooded the tavern, swords drawn.
And at their head stood Prince Daemon, his smile cold and vicious.
"Hello, little brother," Daemon said. "Imagine my surprise when my spies told me you were slumming with criminals. Very inappropriate behavior for a prince. Almost like you're planning something... treasonous."
My hand moved to my belt—but I had no weapon.
Marcus tensed beside me, ready to fight.
We were outnumbered ten to one. Trapped. Caught.
Daemon walked closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper only I could hear:
"Father's choosing his heir in three hours. Did you really think I'd let you live that long?"
He raised his hand, and every guard drew their sword.
"Kill them both."