"I'll spend my last hours as a prince. However long that is—an hour, a day, a week before the pills catch up—I'll live like I've never lived before."
He walked to the window, pushing it open. Fresh air washed over his face, sweet and clean in a way city air never was. Below him, he could see gardens. Actual gardens, with fountains and flowers and people walking in fine clothes.
"I'll eat their food. Sleep in their beds. Spend their money." He laughed again, lighter this time. "It's not like I have to kill a demon queen within the hour. What's the worst that could happen?"
Behind him, the chamber door burst open.
Three men in armor stormed in, swords drawn, their faces a mix of fear and determination. Behind them peered the maid from before, still pale, pointing a trembling finger at Kain.
A silence then,
The guard's scream echoed through the chamber like a war horn.
"PRINCE ALDRIC HAS AWAKENED! SOMEONE FETCH THE ROYAL PHYSICIAN! TELL THE KING! TELL EVERYONE!"
The man moved with such explosive speed that he nearly knocked over two other guards in his rush to escape the room. His footsteps thundered down the stone hallway, his voice still bellowing the news at the top of his lungs.
Kain watched him go, a bemused expression on his gaunt face. Dramatic, he thought. These NPCs are programmed well.
He turned back to the window, intending to enjoy more of the view, when his legs simply... gave out.
It happened without warning. One moment he was standing, the next his knees buckled like wet paper, and he was falling, the world tilting sideways. He hit the floor hard, pain shooting through his hip, his shoulder, his already battered body.
What the—
"The Prince!" The remaining guards surged forward, but the maid was faster.
She crossed the distance in a blur of gray fabric and concern, dropping to her knees beside him. Her hands were surprisingly strong as she hooked them under his arms and helped him sit up against the base of the window.
"Your Highness, you shouldn't be standing! You've been bedridden for over a year! Your muscles..." She trailed off, her eyes scanning him with professional worry. "Here, drink this. Slowly."
A silver goblet appeared before his lips. Kain drank without thinking—sweet juice, cold and refreshing, unlike anything he'd ever tasted. It was like someone had captured liquid sunlight and poured it into a cup.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Pain, he thought, his eyes wide. Actual pain. Real pain. This isn't—this can't be—
He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from fear, but from the effort of holding himself upright. Muscles he hadn't used in a year screamed in protest. His hip throbbed where he'd hit the floor. Even his teeth ached from the impact.
No, his mind rebelled. No, this is wrong. This is too real.
In all his years of gaming—and he'd played hundreds of games, thousands of hours—he had never experienced anything like this. Games had feedback. Controllers vibrated. Screens displayed damage indicators. But this? This was sensation. This was his nerves firing, his brain processing, his body feeling.
"What the hell is this pill made of?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "It's giving me way too real of an experience! I can feel everything—the pain, the cold floor, even the juice going down my throat! This is insane!"
The maid's face appeared above him, etched with confusion.
"My Prince? Are you alright? Why are you talking about pills?"
Kain froze.
He stared at her. Really stared. At the fine lines around her eyes. At the way her brow furrowed with genuine concern. At the slight trembling of her lower lip as she waited for his response.
She reacted, his mind whispered. She heard what I said about pills, and she reacted like a real person would—with confusion, with concern. That's not—NPCs don't—
And then he remembered. Game of Crown. The reviews he'd read years ago. The thing that made this game unique, that made it impossible to beat, that made it both brilliant and terrible.
Advanced AI integration. Every NPC has a learning algorithm. They remember conversations. They adapt. They feel real because they're designed to.
He smiled—a shaky, relieved smile.
"Of course," he muttered. "This game is so awesome. No wonder it's one of the toughest to beat. They use AI characters for the NPCs too. Top-tier development."
The maid exchanged glances with the guards. Their faces communicated something Kain couldn't read—worry, perhaps, or pity.
"His Highness has lost his senses," one guard whispered.
"Quickly," the maid said, her voice firm despite her concern. "Help me get him back to bed. The Royal Physician will be here soon."
Strong hands lifted him. Kain didn't resist. He was too weak, too confused, too overwhelmed by the impossible reality of his situation. They carried him across the chamber—him, a failure from a filthy apartment, being carried like royalty—and laid him gently on the bed.
Silk sheets. Feather pillows. A mattress that conformed to his body like a cloud.
Kain sank into it with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his soul.
This, he thought. This is what I wanted. Even if it's just a game. Even if it's just hallucinations from expired pills. This is what I wanted.
He looked at the maid, who was arranging his pillows with careful attention. Another servant had appeared with a tray of cut fruit. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting everything in gold.
"I'm hungry," he announced. "Feed me an apple. And peel it first. And cut it into shapes. Fancy shapes."
The maid blinked. The other servants exchanged glances. But they moved to obey, because that's what servants did for princes.
Within minutes, a plate appeared beside him, loaded with apple slices carved into delicate flowers and crescent moons. The maid picked one up, holding it to his lips.
Kain bit into it.
The flavor exploded across his tongue—sweet, crisp, perfect. Nothing like the mealy, bruised apples he sometimes stole from grocery store dumpsters. This was an apple that had been grown in sunlight, picked at the perfect moment, served to a prince.
"This," he said around the bite, "is the life I want. A royal life."
Tears slid down his cheeks.
Not sad tears. Not the tears of Room 307, the ones soaked in despair and loneliness. These were different. These were the tears of a boy who had never been given anything, finally receiving something. Of a hungry child, finally fed. Of a forgotten soul, finally seen.
The maid noticed immediately. Her face crumpled with concern.
"My Prince!" She leaned forward, dabbing at his cheeks with a soft cloth. "Did you not like the apple? Are you in pain? Please, tell us what's wrong!"
Kain looked at her—this AI character, this programmed servant, this collection of code that somehow felt more human than half the people he'd known in his real life.
"I'm fine," he said, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he meant it. "I'm more than fine. I'm... happy."
The maid didn't understand. He could see it in her eyes. But she smiled anyway, because he was her prince, and he was awake, and he was happy.
"Then we are happy too, Your Highness."
Kain closed his eyes, letting the silk sheets cradle him, letting the sunlight warm his face, letting the taste of apple linger on his tongue.
The pills would kill him soon. The debt collectors would find an empty room. His old life would end without ceremony or mourning.
Then,
The thought hit Kain like a physical blow, stopping mid-chew on an apple slice shaped like a crescent moon.
The story. The game's story.
He remembered now—fragments from reviews he'd read years ago, from forum posts dissecting every detail of this impossible game. The plot always followed the same path: a hero rises to stop the demon invasion. The kingdoms unite. Sacrifices are made. And no matter what you do, no matter how clever your choices, the story bends toward its predetermined end.
But there was something else. Something about Astravia.
Five heirs, he thought, chewing slowly. The game barely mentions them, but they exist. Four sons and one princess.
The First Prince: a war maniac, the strongest swordsman on the continent. Battle-hungry, glory-seeking, the kind of man who probably smiled when armies marched.
The Second Prince: a manipulator, a schemer who believed humans were superior to all other races. He'd burn his own country to save it, if the math worked out.
The Princess: arrogant, cruel, a student of dark arts. They said she could curse you with a smile and a wave of her perfectly manicured hand.
The Fourth Prince: the only decent one. He joins the hero's journey, fights alongside the protagonist, helps stop the demon invasion. A supporting character, but a noble one.
And then...
The Fifth Prince.
Kain's stomach turned.
Useless, they called him. Weak. A disgrace to the royal bloodline. And in the game's backstory—the lore that players barely paid attention to because it happened before the main plot—the Fifth Prince met a specific end.
Executed. By his own elder brother. The King himself would drag him before the crowd and take his head, all because he used... what was it? Zani power?
Kain couldn't remember the details. Only the outcome. The Fifth Prince was a footnote, a cautionary tale, a corpse before the hero's journey even began.
Which prince am I?
The question burned in his chest. He'd been so caught up in the luxury, the silk sheets, the apple slices carved into flowers, that he hadn't asked the most basic question of all.
He looked around the room. At the tapestries. At the guards by the door. At the maid with her gentle hands and worried eyes.
"Maid," he called.
She looked up from the apple she was carefully peeling. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Do you know who I am?"
The knife slipped.
Kain watched in horror as it sliced across her finger—not deep, but enough. Blood welled up, bright red against her pale skin. But she didn't look at her wound. She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears.
"You're bleeding!" Kain lurched forward, reaching for her hand. "You're hurt!"
But the maid—Mary, he would later learn—pulled back, cradling her injured finger, her face a portrait of anguish.
"My Prince," she whispered. "You've lost your memory, haven't you? The coma... it's affected your mind."
Kain's hand dropped. "No, no, that's not—I just—I'm confused about—about who I am. My name. My number in the siblings. I need to know."
Mary stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she sank to her knees beside his bed, her injured hand forgotten.
"You should have told me sooner, my Prince. You're suffering mentally, and I didn't even notice. How can I call myself your caretaker? How can I—"
"Just tell me," Kain interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. "Who am I?"
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You are Prince Aldric Valerius Astra. The Fifth Prince of the Astravia Kingdom. My Highness."
The words hung in the air between them.
Fifth Prince.
The useless one. The weak one. The one who gets executed.
Something inside Kain cracked. Not the slow, sad crack of disappointment he'd felt a thousand times before. This was different. This was the sound of hope shattering.
His eyes darted around the room, landing on the fruit knife Mary had dropped. Before he could think, before he could process, his hand shot out and grabbed it.
The blade was small but sharp. It pressed against his throat—his real throat, in this real-seeming world—and Kain felt the cold bite of steel against his skin.
"I want to die," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Please don't stop me."
Mary's scream could have woken the dead.
"NOOOOO!"
She launched herself at him, her hands clamping around his wrist, yanking the knife away with strength born of desperation. The blade clattered to the floor. She kicked it aside, then wrapped both arms around him, holding him like he might disappear.
"Are you out of your mind?!" she sobbed into his shoulder. "Highness, you cannot kill yourself! It's a heinous sin! The gods will curse your soul for eternity! Please, please, whatever is wrong, we can fix it—"
Kain sat frozen in her embrace, his mind racing.
Wait, he thought. Wait a second.
Why am I panicking?
He looked at Mary, at her tears, at her genuine terror. He looked at the knife on the floor. He touched his throat, where the blade had pressed—still felt the phantom cold.
This is all fake. The VR headset. The game graphics. The drugs. None of this is real. I'm going to die soon anyway, from the pills. So why am I acting like this matters?
But even as he thought it, his heart continued to pound. His hands continued to shake. His throat continued to feel the memory of steel.
It feels real, a small voice whispered. It all feels real.
Mary was still crying, still holding him, still murmuring prayers to gods he didn't know.
"My Prince," she choked out between sobs. "My poor Prince. You've been through so much. The assassination attempt, the year of sleep, and now this... please, I beg you, don't leave us. Don't leave me."
Kain heard her words. Assassination attempt. That was new. The Fifth Prince wasn't just weak and useless—he'd been attacked? Put in a coma on purpose?
But his mind couldn't focus on that now. Not with Mary's tears soaking through his thin sleeping tunic. Not with the weight of her arms around him, so warm, so desperate, so human.
She's an AI, he reminded himself. Just code. Just programming.
But when he looked down at her, when he saw the blood from her cut finger smeared on his sheets, when he felt her body shake with sobs against his—the word "just" didn't seem to fit anymore.
"Mary," he said quietly.
She looked up, her face a mess of tears and snot and raw emotion.
"I'm sorry," he said. And meant it.
She blinked. Then, slowly, she released him, sitting back on her heels. She wiped her face with her sleeve, wincing when she used her injured hand.
"I'll fetch the Royal Physician," she said, her voice steadier now. "He needs to examine you. Both your body and your mind."
She stood, took a step toward the door, then paused.
"My Prince," she said without turning around. "Whatever you're thinking—about death, about giving up—please remember this: you are alive. After a year of darkness, you opened your eyes. That means something. Even if you don't know what yet."
Then she was gone, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving Kain alone with a bloody knife on the floor and a question he couldn't answer.
If this is all fake, he thought, why does it feel more real than my real life ever did?