The Royal Physician swept into the room like a man on a mission—which, Kain supposed, he was. Three of them, all in long robes with gold-threaded hems, carrying leather bags bulging with mysterious instruments. Behind them trailed two assistants, a nervous-looking page boy, and what appeared to be a priest of some kind, swinging a smoking censer.
Dramatic much? Kain thought, biting into another apple slice.
The lead physician—an older man with a silver beard and eyes that had probably seen every ailment a royal body could suffer—stopped at the bedside. His colleagues fanned out behind him like a medical army preparing for battle.
"By the gods," the old man breathed. "It's true. The Fifth Prince truly has awakened."
He reached for Kain's wrist before waiting for permission. His fingers pressed against the pulse point, his eyes going distant as he counted. After a moment, he grunted.
"Pulse is weak but steady. Remarkable, given the circumstances."
Another physician stepped forward, this one younger, with the intense look of a man who took his work too seriously. He produced a small device—some kind of crystal on a chain—and held it before Kain's face.
"Your Highness, follow this with your eyes. Do not look away."
Kain followed it for approximately two seconds before getting bored. "What is this, a hypnotism class? I'm not a dog."
The physician's eye twitched, but he continued. Then he placed his hand on Kain's temple, closing his eyes in concentration.
A warmth spread through Kain's skull. Not unpleasant, but definitely strange. Like someone was running a warm finger through his brain.
What the—
"Remarkable," the physician murmured, opening his eyes. "His mana channels are recovering. Slowly, but recovering. I would not have believed it possible after a year of dormancy."
Kain had had enough.
"Why are all you NPCs acting so weird?" he burst out. "I'm trying to enjoy my last hours here, and you're poking and prodding like I'm a lab rat!"
The room went silent.
The lead physician lowered his hand from Kain's wrist. His expression shifted from professional detachment to something more personal—concern, perhaps, or suspicion.
"My Prince," he said carefully, "do you know who I am?"
Kain stared at him. How the hell would he know who this guy was? He'd been in this world for maybe an hour, most of which he'd spent either collapsing or having apple slices fed to him by a crying maid.
"No," he said flatly. "I don't know you. Who the fuck are you, and why are you bothering me?"
Gasps rippled through the assembled medical staff. The priest stopped swinging his censer. The page boy's jaw dropped.
The lead physician's face aged ten years in five seconds. He turned to his colleagues, his voice low and grave.
"The Prince has severe brain damage. The coma... it must have affected his mind. We must inform the King immediately."
Kain sat up straighter—or tried to; his body still moved like it was wading through molasses.
"What do you mean, brain damage?" he demanded. "And why do you want to tell that greedy emperor about my condition? The same emperor who'll send nations to die sooner rather than later?"
More gasps. Louder this time. One of the assistants actually dropped her bag.
The physicians exchanged looks of pure horror. This was not their prince. Their prince was quiet, fearful, a boy who barely spoke above a whisper. This person in the bed—this arrogant, foul-mouthed stranger—could not be the same person.
But he was. And they had no idea what to do about it.
Kain watched their confusion with growing irritation. He was dying. He had maybe hours left, if the pills hadn't already started their final work. And instead of spending those hours enjoying silk sheets and roasted meats, he was being stared at by a bunch of overgrown crows in robes.
Fine, he thought. If I'm going out, I'm going out on my terms.
"I'm hungry," he announced, loud enough to cut through their whispered consultations. He turned to the maids huddled by the door—Maria among them, her finger now bandaged. "You. Bring me meat. Roasted meat. Now."
The maids jumped as if shocked. They looked at each other, then at the physicians, then back at Kain.
"NOW!" he barked.
They fled.
The physicians stood in stunned silence. This prince—this fifth prince, the useless one, the one everyone ignored—was ordering people around like he owned the place. Which, technically, he did. But he'd never acted like it before.
The lead physician recovered first. He cleared his throat, straightened his robes, and adopted his most professional demeanor.
"Your Highness, with your permission, we will compile a report on your condition. For the King. It is... required."
Kain waved a hand dismissively. "Report whatever you want. Just do it somewhere else. You're giving me a headache."
The physicians retreated in good order, their whispers following them out the door. Within minutes, the room was empty except for Kain and the fading scent of the priest's incense.
Kain leaned back against his pillows, exhausted by the effort of being assertive. His body was a wreck—years of poor nutrition in his real life, plus a year of coma in this one, had left him with the physical strength of a wet noodle.
But he smiled anyway.
Roasted meat, he thought. I'm about to eat roasted meat in a real castle. Well, fake real. Game real. Whatever.
He looked down at his hands—pale, thin, but unmistakably here. He flexed his fingers. They moved.
Please, he prayed to no god in particular, let me have this. Let me eat the meat before the pills take me. Just one good meal. That's all I ask.
Outside his window, the sun continued to shine on the kingdom of Astravia, unaware that a dying boy from another world sat in its prince's body, bargaining with death for one last taste of life.
And somewhere deep in the game's code—or perhaps in the fabric of this impossible reality—something watched. Something waited.
The Game of Crown had only just begun.
The Royal Physician's Chamber was a room of quiet authority. Shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls and tomes documenting centuries of royal ailments, treatments, and the occasional death. A long oak table dominated the center, its surface buried under papers, charts, and the scattered notes of three very confused physicians.
Master Physician Valerius stood at the head of the table, his silver beard catching the afternoon light from the arched windows. At sixty-two years old, he had served three kings and treated every prince and princess since birth. He had seen fevers that should have killed, wounds that should have festered, and once, a case of magical exhaustion that left a royal heir unconscious for six months.
But this? This was new.
"The Viper Blood poison alone should have killed him," Valerius murmured, running a finger down his notes. "We administered the antidote within the hour, but the damage was already done. A year in coma. We all expected... well, we expected either death or permanent vegetation."
His junior colleague, Physician Theron, nodded grimly. "And yet here we are. He wakes on his own, no gradual return to consciousness, no months of rehabilitation. Just... awake. Demanding meat and cursing like a soldier."
The third physician, a woman named Helena who specialized in magical afflictions, tapped her quill against her chin. "His mana channels are recovering at an impossible rate. When I examined him yesterday, they were nearly collapsed. Today? They're showing signs of active regeneration. It shouldn't be possible."
Valerius sighed heavily. "The question is not how—the gods alone know the answer to that. The question is how do we explain this to the King?"
The three of them shared a look of mutual dread. King Aldric IV was not a man who appreciated mysteries, especially not mysteries involving his children.
"The Prince's behavior," Helena added quietly. "You both saw it. The arrogance, the language, the way he looked at us like we were insects. That is not our prince. Prince Aldric was always... quiet. Fearful. He barely met anyone's eyes."
Theron leaned forward. "Could the coma have changed his personality? Brain damage sometimes presents as behavioral shifts."
"Brain damage, yes," Valerius agreed. "But this is not a shift. This is a complete replacement. It's as if someone else is wearing his body."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication none of them wanted to voice.
Before anyone could speak further, the chamber door opened.
He entered like sunlight breaking through clouds—tall, golden-haired, radiating the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of being the favorite. His royal uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to a mirror shine, his smile perfectly calibrated to put people at ease while reminding them exactly who he was.
The physicians scrambled to their feet. Bows and curtsies filled the room like a wave.
"Your Highness," Valerius said, his hand over his heart. "Welcome. We are honored by your presence."
Prince Cassian Valerius Astra, Second Prince of the Astravia Kingdom, waved a dismissive hand. His blue eyes—sharper than they appeared—swept the room, cataloging every paper, every nervous expression, every bead of sweat on every forehead.
"At ease, all of you." His voice was warm, almost musical. "I heard my little brother has decided to rejoin the living. I came to get the details from the experts themselves."
He moved to the table, his gaze falling on the scattered reports. He didn't touch them—didn't need to. He could read everything he needed from the physicians' faces.
Valerius straightened. "Yes, Your Highness. Prince Aldric regained consciousness approximately two hours ago. Physically, he is weak but recovering. His vital signs are stable, and his mana channels show unexpected regeneration."
Cassian's eyebrow rose a fraction. "Unexpected?"
"Most unusual, Your Highness. Given the severity of the poisoning and the length of the coma, we anticipated significant permanent damage. Instead, he appears to be... healing."
"How wonderful." Cassian's smile widened, but something flickered behind his eyes—too fast to read, too controlled to trust. "And mentally? How is my dear brother's mind after his long sleep?"
The three physicians exchanged glances. A silent conversation passed between them—how much do we say, how much do we hide, how much does he already know?
Valerius chose his words carefully. "There are... some concerning signs, Your Highness. Prince Aldric seems confused about his identity and his surroundings. He did not recognize me, despite our years of acquaintance. His speech patterns have changed dramatically, and he appears to be under the impression that he is in some kind of... game."
Cassian's expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop slightly.
"A game?"
"He spoke of 'NPCs' and 'pills' and 'VR headsets.' The words make no sense to us. Additionally, his manner has become... aggressive. Demanding. He ordered the maids to bring him roasted meat with a tone we have never heard from him before."
Cassian was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—a light, charming sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"My shy little brother, ordering people about? The coma must have done more than heal him." He clasped his hands behind his back. "And what do you plan to tell my father?"
Valerius swallowed. "We were... discussing that very question, Your Highness. The truth, of course. But we wished to present it carefully, given the unusual nature of Prince Aldric's recovery."
"Carefully," Cassian repeated. He turned to look out the window, his golden hair catching the light. "Yes. Do be careful. My father is not a man who appreciates complications, especially not with his children." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Particularly not with the child he has always considered... less than the others."
The words hung in the air like a warning.
Cassian turned fully, his smile back in place. "I'll visit Aldric myself, of course. A brotherly reunion. See if I can make sense of this mysterious transformation." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Master Valerius, a question."
"Of course, Your Highness."
"When you examined him—did you sense any trace of... outside influence? Magical manipulation? Possession?"
Valerius blinked. "We detected nothing of the sort, Your Highness. His mana is his own. His body is his own. Whatever has changed about him, it comes from within."
Cassian nodded slowly. "From within. How fascinating."
He left without another word, the door closing softly behind him.
The physicians stood in silence for a long moment.
"He knows more than he's saying," Helena whispered.
Valerius sank into his chair, suddenly feeling every one of his sixty-two years. "The Second Prince always knows more than he says. That's what makes him dangerous."
Theron looked toward the door. "Do you think he'll visit the Fifth Prince?"
"Oh yes," Valerius said grimly. "He'll visit. And whatever happens during that visit, none of us will ever know the truth of it."
Outside the window, the sun continued its arc across the sky, indifferent to the games of princes. But in the Game of Crown, every player had their role—and the Second Prince had just made his first move.