The banquet hall shimmered with gold and arrogance.
Crystal chandeliers hung high above, casting warm light over rows of nobles dressed in luxury. Laughter echoed across the vast hall as wine glasses clinked, celebrating a night meant for reconciliation.
At least… that's what he was told.
At the center of the hall—
The Seventeenth Prince knelt.
His breathing was uneven.
A sharp pain twisted deep inside his chest, spreading like burning poison through his veins. His fingers trembled as the glass slipped from his hand, shattering loudly against the marble floor.
"…What… is this…?"
No one reacted.
Not a single noble stood.
Not a single servant moved.
Slowly, he raised his head.
And what he saw—
Confirmed everything.
His brothers were watching him.
Smiling.
Not with warmth… but with quiet amusement.
"…Poison…"
The word barely escaped his lips.
His gaze shifted toward the throne.
The Emperor sat there, unmoving.
His father.
Watching him die.
Without a single trace of emotion.
"…You called me back…" the prince spoke, his voice shaking—not from fear, but from disbelief. "…just to kill me?"
Silence.
Cold.
Absolute.
That silence was the answer.
Memories surged through his fading mind.
A younger version of himself stood in the palace courtyard, gripping a wooden sword with blistered hands.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No matter how many times he swung—
Nothing happened.
No aura.
No power.
Nothing.
"The Royal Sword rejects him."
"He's a disgrace to the imperial bloodline."
"A useless prince…"
Their voices echoed endlessly.
He had no talent.
No support.
No place.
Even within his own family—
He was nothing.
So he ran.
Not out of ambition.
Not out of pride.
But to survive.
Because deep down—
He knew.
One day, they would kill him.
The world beyond the empire was cruel.
But it was honest.
And for the first time—
He began to grow.
In the ancient forests, he met the Elves.
Their queen stood before him, her presence overwhelming, her gaze piercing through his very soul.
"You are not weak," she said softly, placing her hand over his chest. "You were simply never guided."
A surge of pure mana flooded into him.
Wild. Powerful. Alive.
For the first time—
He felt strength respond to him.
In the blazing halls of the Dwarves, steel clashed and flames roared.
The Dwarf King laughed as he struck his hammer down.
"Strength isn't inherited!" he declared. "It's forged!"
The prince trained until his body broke—
Then rebuilt it stronger.
Again.
And again.
And then—
He stood before a Dragon.
An existence beyond kings.
Its massive form towered over him, its eyes glowing with ancient power.
"You seek strength," the Dragon's voice echoed like thunder. "For what purpose?"
The prince didn't hesitate.
"…Vengeance."
A long silence followed.
Then—
The Dragon laughed.
And granted him its power.
"Elves gave me mana."
"Dwarves gave me strength."
"Dragons gave me dominion."
He crossed the world.
Endured countless trials.
Became something far beyond the empire that cast him aside.
And yet—
Here he was.
Dying.
Like a fool.
His body collapsed fully onto the cold marble floor.
His vision blurred.
His strength faded.
"…I believed you…"
A weak laugh escaped his lips.
Not at them—
But at himself.
All that power.
All that struggle.
And still—
He returned.
Hoping.
For what?
Recognition?
Family?
"…Pathetic…"
His fingers clenched weakly.
Then—
His eyes changed.
The last trace of warmth disappeared.
Replaced by something far colder.
Far darker.
"If I get another chance…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
But it carried a terrifying weight.
"I won't beg…"
A faint, dark aura flickered around him.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
"I'll build my own empire."
His breathing slowed.
Stopping.
"And I'll destroy you…"
A final breath.
"…with every race you feared."
Silence.
The Seventeenth Prince was dead.
…
Darkness.
Endless.
Cold.
Then—
A crack.
Light seeped through the void.
Time trembled.
Reality shattered.
A voice echoed—
Not from outside…
But from within.
"Return."
[End of Chapter 1]