Kain's breath came in shallow gasps as the reality of his situation crashed over him like a wave.
It's real. All of it. The game, the world, the people—real.
His mind raced back to the café, to the conversations he'd overheard during his two years of scraping by. Players huddled over laptops, discussing strategies, complaining about the impossible difficulty. He'd never paid much attention—couldn't afford a gaming setup, couldn't afford anything—but their words had seeped into his consciousness anyway.
"Game of Crown is impossible to beat."
"The Demon side always wins, no matter what you do."
"The story starts when the hero draws his sword. Everything before that is just backstory."
Kain's blood ran cold.
Backstory.
The hero's journey hadn't started yet. The protagonist—whoever they were, wherever they were—hadn't even picked up a sword. Which meant Kain was living in the prologue. The part of the story that players skipped through, reading hastily before the "real" game began.
And in that prologue, the Fifth Prince died.
Executed by his own family. A footnote. A cautionary tale. A corpse that existed solely to show how ruthless the royal family could be.
I'm going to die, Kain realized. Not from pills. Not from debt collectors. From my own brother's sword, in front of a crowd, and there's nothing I can do because I don't know this world, I don't know these people, I don't know—
"My brother."
The voice cut through his panic like a knife through silk.
Kain's head snapped up. Cassian stood at the foot of the bed, golden hair gleaming, blue eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made Kain's skin crawl. He'd been so lost in thought that he'd forgotten—actually forgotten—that the Second Prince was standing right there.
"It's not a good sign," Cassian continued, his smile never wavering, "to be spacing out when your brother is worried about you."
Kain's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"M-my apologies, brother." The words felt foreign in his mouth—brother, directed at this golden predator. "I was... thinking about my condition. The coma. It's left my mind... scattered."
Cassian's smile widened, but his eyes didn't change. They remained sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
"Condition?" He stepped closer, and Kain had to resist the urge to lean away. "You don't need to worry about your condition, little brother. I will help you personally."
The words were kind. The tone was warm. Everything about Cassian's presentation screamed concerned older brother.
But Kain felt it.
A chill that started at the base of his spine and crawled upward, raising goosebumps on his arms. It wasn't cold—the room was warm, the fire crackling merrily—but something in the air had changed.
And then he saw it.
Behind Cassian—no, emanating from Cassian—a golden light. Faint at first, like heat haze on a summer road. But as Kain watched, it grew stronger, resolving into something that looked almost like lightning, crackling silently in the air around the Second Prince.
An aura.
Kain had read about this. In the game, powerful characters had auras—manifestations of their mana, their status, their very presence. And Cassian's aura was... terrifying.
It wasn't aggressive. Not yet. But it was there, a silent declaration of power, a reminder that the man standing before him was not just a politician or a schemer. He was a prince of Astravia, and he carried the weight of that bloodline in every cell of his body.
He's powerful, Kain thought. Really, truly powerful. If he wanted to kill me right now, I couldn't stop him. I couldn't even run.
His survival instincts—honed through years of avoiding dangerous people in dangerous places—screamed at him to get away. To hide. To do something.
But there was nowhere to go. And the body he now inhabited was too weak to run even if there was.
So Kain did the only thing he could think of.
He looked down at his own hands—pale, thin, trembling slightly—and made his voice as weak as possible.
"Brother, I... I find myself tired. The physicians said rest is important for my recovery." He risked a glance up at Cassian's face. "Could we... speak more tomorrow? I would be grateful for the chance to continue our conversation when my mind is clearer."
For a long, horrible moment, Cassian didn't respond. He simply stood there, golden aura flickering, eyes boring into Kain's soul.
Then he smiled.
It was a beautiful smile. Genuine-looking. Warm.
And it made Kain want to run screaming into the night.
"Very well, little brother." Cassian inclined his head—a graceful movement, perfectly controlled. "Rest well. I am truly happy to see you open your eyes."
He turned and walked toward the door, each step measured and deliberate. At the threshold, he paused.
"Oh, and Aldric?"
Kain's heart stopped.
"Tomorrow, we'll talk about the assassination attempt. The one that put you in that coma." Cassian glanced back over his shoulder, golden hair catching the light. "I've been investigating it while you slept. I have... theories."
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Kain sat frozen in his bed, barely breathing, until the sound of Cassian's footsteps faded completely.
Only then did he let out the breath he'd been holding.
The assassination attempt, he thought wildly. Someone tried to kill the Fifth Prince. That's how he ended up in a coma. That's why he—I—almost died before the execution even became relevant.
He looked down at his hands again. Still trembling. Still pale. Still alive.
Someone tried to kill me. Maybe the same someone who will eventually execute me. Or maybe someone else entirely. And now Cassian is investigating, and he's going to want to talk about it tomorrow, and I don't know ANYTHING about what happened, about who attacked me, about ANY of it.
Panic clawed at his chest. He forced it down, breathing slowly, the way he'd learned to do in his worst moments on the street.
Okay. Okay. Think.
He had information the real Prince Aldric never had. He knew the broad strokes of the game's plot. He knew that the Fifth Prince was doomed—but he also knew that doom wasn't written in stone. The game's description said the Demon side always won, but that was the main plot. The hero's journey. The war against darkness.
The Fifth Prince's death was just... backstory. A detail. Something that happened before the real story began.
Which meant maybe—just maybe—it could be changed.
Kain looked at the system screen, still floating at the edge of his vision.
WARNING: Host body's original fate remains in motion. Events leading to execution still active. Player intervention required to alter destiny.
Player intervention, he thought. That's me. I'm the player now. And if this game has taught me anything, it's that players can change things.
He didn't know how to fight. Didn't know magic. Didn't know politics or intrigue or any of the things that might save him in this world.
But he knew how to survive. He'd been doing it his whole life.
And tomorrow, when Cassian came back with his questions and his theories and his golden aura of power, Kain would need every survival instinct he possessed.
He lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing through possibilities.
I need information. I need allies. I need to understand this world before it kills me.
Outside the window, the sun was setting over Astravia, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Somewhere in the castle, a golden-haired prince was making plans. Somewhere in the kingdom, a future hero was living an ordinary life, unaware of the destiny waiting for them.
And in the chamber of the Fifth Prince, a dead boy from another world closed his eyes and prepared for the most dangerous game of his life.
The Game of Crown had only just begun.
NEXT MORNING..
The first light of dawn crept through the arched windows, painting golden stripes across the stone floor. Somewhere in the castle, a bell tolled softly, marking the hour. Birds sang in the gardens below—real birds, with real songs, not digital simulations.
Kain's eyes opened to find Mary standing over him, her hand gently shaking his shoulder.
"Your Highness, please wake up. It's morning now."
Her voice was soft, patient, as if she'd done this a thousand times. Maybe she had. For the real Prince Aldric, anyway.
Kain blinked, groaned, and stretched—arms first, then legs, feeling his joints pop in protest. The silk sheets slid against his skin, impossibly smooth. For a moment, floating in that space between sleep and waking, he almost believed he was back in Room 307, that the castle and the maids and the impossible situation were all just a vivid dream.
Then his eyes focused on the chamber around him.
The tapestries. The high ceiling. The golden light. The luxury that screamed royalty in every possible way.
He sighed.
"So it wasn't a dream," he muttered, sitting up slowly. "I'm really trapped in this game."
Mary paused in her work—she was drawing back the heavy curtains, letting more light flood the room, and gathering clothes into a basket for washing. She glanced at him with a puzzled expression.
"Did you say something, my Prince?"
Kain waved a hand. "Nothing. Just... talking to myself."
He looked around the room, noting the absence of the other maids who had been present yesterday. Four of them, at least, had hovered around him during his first confusing hours in this body. Now there was only Mary.
"Where are the other maids?" he asked.
Mary's hands paused for just a fraction of a second over the laundry basket—so brief that Kain almost missed it. Almost.
"The other maids are busy with work, my Prince," she said smoothly. "They couldn't tend to you this morning."
Busy, Kain thought. All of them. Simultaneously busy. On the second morning after the coma patient wakes up.
His eyes drifted to the chamber door. Through the gap beneath it, he could see shadows moving. More than yesterday. Many more.
And what's with the guards? There must be a dozen out there. It's like they're trying to lock me in, not protect me.
He thought about the political situation—what little he understood of it. Was this his father's doing? Protection from another assassination attempt? Or was it something darker? A brother positioning pieces on the board? A faction within the palace making their move?
I don't know, he realized. I don't know anything about these people, these politics, these dangers.
One thing he'd learned on the streets: when you don't know who your enemies are, you trust no one.
He looked at Mary—gentle Mary, with her kind face and her bandaged finger and her patient eyes. She'd caught him when he fell. She'd cried when he threatened suicide. She'd stayed by his side when the other maids had gradually disappeared.
Even her, he thought. I can't trust anyone until I understand the game.
"Mary," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "Bring me breakfast."
She bowed gracefully—that same formal bow she'd given him yesterday, the one that reminded him he was no longer a nobody from Room 307.
"Yes, my Prince. I will prepare a delicious meal for you."
She turned to leave, but Kain's voice stopped her.
"Wait. Before you go—I need paper and pen. And ink."
Mary nodded without question and moved to the bedside table. She opened a small cabinet that Kain hadn't noticed before—cleverly built into the woodwork, nearly invisible—and withdrew a sheet of parchment, a small bottle of ink, and a feather quill. She placed them on the table beside his bed with careful precision.
Kain raised an eyebrow. "You could have just told me it was in the cabinet. Saved yourself the walk."
Mary's face registered something—shock, maybe, or hurt. It was gone before he could read it properly.
"I would never treat you like a peasant, my Lord," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Please don't insult me by suggesting I would make you fetch your own supplies."
Kain froze.
Right, he thought. Status. Hierarchy. I'm a prince. She's a servant. In this world, those words mean something.
He'd spent his whole life at the bottom of every ladder. Being at the top was going to take some serious adjustment.
"Okay," he said, softer now. "You can leave."
Mary bowed—that same formal bow—and exited, closing the door with a gentle click that seemed louder than it should have been.
Kain stared at the closed door for a long moment, then turned his attention to the parchment and quill.
I need to write things down, he thought. Everything I remember about this world. It's the only map I have.
He picked up the quill, examined it, and immediately poked himself in the finger. The ink bottle was equally mysterious—how did you dip a feather without making a mess? He spent several frustrating minutes experimenting, leaving ink blots across the corner of the parchment, before he finally achieved something resembling usable handwriting.
This is going to take practice, he thought ruefully.
He dipped the quill again, ready to begin his notes—and then stopped.
Wait. What do I actually know?
He knew the game existed. He knew it was impossibly hard. He knew players talked about continents and demons and something called the Veilborn Expanse. But specific geography? Detailed maps? He'd never played the game. He'd only overheard conversations, skimmed forum posts, absorbed fragments without context.
I don't actually know the layout of this world, he realized with growing dread. I know it exists. I know it's dangerous. I don't know where anything is.
He set down the quill, frustration building.
Then he remembered.
System.
"System," he called softly.
The blue screen materialized before his eyes, translucent and familiar. Kain navigated through the menus, searching for something—anything—that would give him geographical information.
"Map," he said. "Show me a map."
The screen flickered and displayed... shadows.
Outlines of continents, yes. Shapes that suggested coastlines and mountain ranges and rivers. But all of it was grayed out, shrouded in darkness, with no names, no labels, no identifying features whatsoever.
MAP DATA UNAVAILABLE, the system reported. EXPLORATION REQUIRED TO REVEAL REGIONS.
Kain stared at the useless display.
Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course the game won't just give me a map. I have to discover everything myself. Because this world hates me.
He dismissed the system with a wave, leaning back against his pillows.
So much for that idea.
His eyes wandered around the room, looking for anything that might help. The tapestries showed battle scenes—useful for understanding history, maybe, but not geography. The bookshelf across the room held promise, but it was too far away for his still-weak body to reach.
Then his gaze landed on something he hadn't noticed before.
A book. Small, leather-bound, tucked partially beneath the pillow on the other side of the bed. As if someone had been reading it before falling asleep—and then never woke up.
Kain's heart beat faster.
He reached across the bed, his fingers closing around the worn leather. The book was old—not ancient, but well-used, the cover soft from handling, the pages yellowed at the edges.
He pulled it into his lap and opened it.
The first page contained a single line of elegant handwriting:
This diary belongs to Aldric Valerius Astra, Fifth Prince of Astravia. If found, please return. If you are reading this without my permission, I will find out, and I will be very disappointed.
Kain almost laughed. Disappointed. The "useless" prince's idea of a threat was disappointment. It was almost endearing.
He turned the page.
To be continue....