London, 1888.
Fog hung thick like a ghostly cloak, covering the narrow alleys and wet cobbled streets. The gas lamps flickered weakly in the shadows, afraid to light the darkness.
At the edge of the Thames River, an old building stood—falling apart from time and past sins.
Behind a cracked window, a man stood with his back to the room. He was tall, wearing a long black coat that brushed the rotting wooden floor. His hair was messy but elegant—like everything about him: chaos made to look like order.
"Ravenmore..." whispered a policeman from a distance. "He's in there."
Royal soldiers, elite police, and secret agents surrounded the building. Guns aimed. Torches lit. Tension thick as the air before a storm.
"Ravenmore! By order of Queen Victoria and the British Empire, surrender now!"
But the man only chuckled. A soft laugh, like a devil's whisper—mocking, daring.
"The Queen, huh?" he muttered. "So she finally got serious. Funny..."
A loud voice from a megaphone rang out again.
"We've got you surrounded! There's no way out, Ravenmore. Surrender now, and maybe we'll give you a quick death."
Ravenmore slowly turned around, his dark eyes sharp and cold.
"Quick or slow, I'll die either way. But not before you see what I've brought."
His hand reached into his coat… and touched something cold and hard.
"Well then," he said, looking at the window, "I'll give you one last show."
BOOM!
An explosion shook the city. Flames swallowed the old building in red and orange. Glass shattered. Debris flew. The ground shook. Everyone nearby was thrown to the ground, frozen in shock.
Ravenmore had blown himself up.
"...Is he dead?" whispered a trembling soldier.
"His body… burned to nothing."
Scotland Yard closed the case with one conclusion:
The most dangerous criminal in England's history… was gone.
But the truth was…
This was only the beginning.
---
Darkness.
Empty.
Cold.
No body. No sound. Just pure nothingness.
Then—light. Soft, warm, blinding.
A voice came from the light, speaking straight into Ravenmore's mind.
"You chose death. Now, you shall live again... in a world that needs your darkness."
"A new world?" he thought. "Reincarnation? Heh... finally something more interesting than that boring old place."
The light entered him, burning his soul with sweet pain.
Then… the sound of a baby crying.
---
"He's born! The fourth prince is born!" a maid shouted.
"But Lady Anne… she didn't survive…" said the midwife.
In a grand white-and-gold palace, servants rushed around. A baby had just been born to a woman in simple clothes—clearly not a noble.
"The son of a commoner…" one maid whispered.
"A prince, but with no right to the throne…" said another.
"Poor thing… they'll throw him away like the others."
But the baby had stopped crying.
His eyes opened—black, deep—and stared at the ceiling with a gaze too sharp for a newborn.
"…Kuh? Gaga!"
Inside, Elric cursed.
"I'm... a baby? This is my body now?"
SLAM!
The door opened.
A tall man in his 40s entered, with silver hair, a neat mustache, and a powerful presence. Knights followed behind him.
"So, Anne is gone? Hmph… Elric. Elric Von Aldia. That will be his name."
Then he turned and left without even a glance.
The maids whispered again.
"The Emperor didn't care about her or the child…"
Elric blinked.
"So this is how it is? Interesting," he muttered.
---
Months passed.
In a small room far from the royal chambers, Elric lived quietly. It wasn't grand, but comfortable. He watched. He listened. He learned.
Silent—but always thinking.
"Your Highness, it's lunchtime," said a young maid, carrying a bowl of porridge.
"Just put it on the table," Elric said calmly—his baby voice still strangely clear.
The maid froze. "Did… did you just talk?"
Elric stared at her. "Gugu?"
She blinked, confused, then shook her head.
"I must be hearing things… no way a baby can talk…"
BANG!
The door slammed open.
A noblewoman stepped in with a smug smile. A five-year-old boy stood behind her, looking arrogant.
"Welcome, Lady Eyla," said the servants.
"So this is the lowborn brat?" she said.
"Yes, Mother. He looks dumb," said the boy.
She walked over and stared at the baby on the bed with disgust.
"You're just the son of a peasant. Don't dream of becoming a noble. I'll make sure you're gone before you can even walk."
Elric looked back with a calm, insulting smile—a smile no baby should ever have.
The woman flinched. "What… what kind of face is that?"
The boy tugged at her dress. "Let's go, Mom. He's creepy."
"Remember, you're nothing," she muttered before walking out.
When they were gone, Elric sighed softly.
"So this is the battlefield now… the palace. Lies. Fake bloodlines."
He looked out the small window.
"And they think I'll stay quiet?"
He smirked.
"This world…
A new story has just begun."