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## Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening and the First Rule of Survival
The silken embrace was luxurious, undeniably so, yet it felt more like a silken trap. Sunlight, bold and unapologetic, streamed through towering, arched windows, painting the unfamiliar room in hues of gold. It was a far cry from the muted, comfortable clutter of his old life, where the morning light filtered through slightly dusty blinds. This place… this reeked of old money and suffocating grandeur.
He tried to sit up, and the unfamiliar lightness of his limbs startled him. His hands, when they rose to brace himself, were slender and pale, with the delicate, unblemished skin of a child, yet somehow refined beyond their years. The nails, instead of being slightly gnawed from anxious game-watching, were impeccably manicured. The calloused, slightly ink-stained fingers that knew the precise feel of a controller were gone. Panic, sharp and cold, pierced through the lingering fog of sleep.
"Young Master is awake!" The voice, soft and laced with deference, echoed from somewhere to his left.
He flinched, pulling the ridiculously smooth and heavy sheets up to his chin. Two figures, clad in the formal, flowing attire of maids – dark blue and white, precise and unnervingly quiet – stood by the enormous four-poster bed. Their expressions were polite, almost serene, their hair meticulously braided and adorned with small, sparkling pins that caught the light. *Maids*. Right. He definitely didn't have maids.
"Allow us to assist you, Young Master," the first maid offered, her tone as smooth as the silk surrounding him. Her partner was already moving, a silent shadow gliding towards the wardrobe.
**"Who… who is the Young Master?"** he croaked, his voice a reedy, unfamiliar treble. It was the voice of a boy, perhaps barely a teenager. Not his own. Not the deeper, slightly cracking voice of a high-schooler who spent too much time yelling at pixels.
The maids paused, their serene expressions shifting to mild surprise. "Why, you are, Young Master," the second maid replied gently, a faint smile touching her lips. "Young Master Caspian. Is your head aching, perhaps?"
*Caspian*. The name struck him with a jolt, not just as a name, but as a recognition. A spark of memory, vivid and unsettling, ignited in his mind. His sister. Her console, humming late into the night. Her frustrated sighs and thrilled squeals as she navigated the intricate love routes of *Aethelgard's Embrace*. He'd seen every cutscene, memorized every character arc, scoffed at every cliché.
*Caspian Alderon.* The handsome side character. The Duke's son. The one who...
He swallowed hard, the implications crashing down on him. This wasn't just a strange room. This was a direct, terrifying transference. He was *in* the game.
"No, thank you. Just… a touch disoriented," he mumbled, trying to keep his composure. He had to think. He had to figure out what was happening without giving himself away.
As the maids moved with practiced efficiency, laying out ridiculously ornate clothes – silks and velvets in shades he wouldn't have dared to wear in his previous life – his gaze snagged on the reflection in a vast, gilded mirror. His breath caught in his throat.
The face staring back was undeniably his, a template he recognized, but refined to an almost inhuman degree of beauty. It was the face of a **twelve-year-old**, yet sculpted with the promise of breathtaking allure. His **cheekbones** were already subtly defined, hinting at the sharp, aristocratic contours they would soon achieve. His **jawline**, though still softened by youth, had a clean, elegant curve. But it was his **eyes** that truly startled him – large, deep pools of **emerald green** that seemed to possess an inner luminescence, drawing the light. They were framed by long, dark lashes, thick and naturally curled. His **hair**, the color of spun gold, fell artfully over his brow, catching the light with a soft sheen. Even his **lips**, still possessing the slight fullness of childhood, were perfectly bowed and a natural rose color. He was, without a doubt, **breathtakingly beautiful**, even at this young age. He looked at himself, and for a terrifying moment, understood exactly why the game had said Caspian was "very handsome." This was beyond that; this was... almost ethereal.
Then, it shimmered into existence. A faint, translucent blue rectangle, hanging just at the edge of his vision, visible only to him. His heart hammered against his ribs.
**[STATUS]**
He blinked, and it remained. He focused on it, and the text within it sharpened, glowing faintly.
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**Name:** Caspian Alderon
**Age:** 12
**Magic Talent:** Exalted (A++)
**Charm:** Max
**Health:** Excellent
**Mana:** Full
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His eyes locked onto **Magic Talent: Exalted (A++)**. This was a profound shock, a jarring contradiction to the game's lore he remembered. The original Caspian's magical aptitude was so unremarkable he hadn't even qualified for the Grand Luminaris Academy. This sudden, immense power was an anomaly, a wrench thrown into the gears of the plot he *thought* he knew. It was a wild card, and wild cards were dangerous. Especially in a game where he was supposed to be a minor character. His "survival guide" instincts screamed that sudden power attracts unwanted attention, and in his case, that likely meant the attention of a certain volatile princess.
And then there was **Charm: Max**. He let out a silent, strained groan. His face felt warm. So the "two times more handsome" wasn't just physical, it was a literal stat. Great. He was a walking, breathing, overpowered charm bomb, even at the tender age of twelve.
"Young Master?" The maid's gentle prompting pulled him back from the terrifying rabbit hole of his thoughts. He offered a small nod, forcing a semblance of normalcy. "The room is... quite impressive." Understatement of the millennium.
He swung his legs over the edge of the high bed, his bare feet sinking into a carpet so thick it felt like walking on clouds. This was the Volkovian Imperial Palace. He knew that from his sister's playthrough. And today was the Magic Awakening Ceremony. He remembered his sister mentioning a major event for magic awakenings around this age, and a significant revelation regarding Seraphina's power. He just hadn't expected to be a *part* of it, let alone a central figure.
Dressed in the outrageously lavish clothes, he felt like an actor in a play he hadn't rehearsed for. The emerald silk of his tunic shimmered as he moved, and the soft leather of his new boots felt alien. He followed the maids down a staircase that seemed to stretch into infinity, the marble cold and smooth beneath his feet. The grandeur of the palace pressed in on him, a constant reminder of his potential insignificance in this world of power and magic, even with his new gifts.
As they approached the massive doors, the muffled roar of a crowd spilled through the cracks. This was it. The hall where his fate would be… well, not sealed yet, but certainly pointed in a very alarming direction. He remembered enough of the game's initial setup to dread this day: the awakening, the Emperor's recognition of talent, the push for political marriages. He just hadn't expected his name to be on the Emperor's lips for *this* particular arrangement.
He took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic. His "accidental prince consort" status was currently just a looming threat, a future he desperately needed to rewrite. Rule number two of his impromptu survival guide: be adaptable. He couldn't rely on the old script. Everything had changed.
The maids opened the doors, revealing a breathtaking spectacle of wealth and anticipation. Hundreds of nobles, their jewels flashing in the sunlight, their voices a low hum. At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat a stern-faced man with a magnificent beard and piercing eyes – the Volkovian Emperor. Beside him, radiating a quiet pride, was a young girl with sharp features and a regal bearing, dressed in pristine white.
Seraphina Volkov.
Caspian's stomach dropped. *She's the key*, his mind screamed. He remembered her original arc: the proud princess, her heartbreak over Lysander, her descent into villainy, and his own character's tragic end as her final, discarded pawn. He didn't know the exact steps to prevent that, but he knew the general direction: he had to change *her*. He had to become her friend.
He stepped forward, his new handsome face fixed into a mask of polite composure, his mind racing. The game had begun. And he was already playing for his life.