The first thing he felt was pain.
A pounding headache, a dry throat, and a heavy weight on his chest—as if the world itself had collapsed on him. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a cracked ceiling of carved stone, lit dimly by a flickering chandelier.
"where am I ?"
The memories hit him like a crashing wave.
He was no longer Jace Karter, overworked trauma doctor from modern-day Earth.
He was kieran Blake, the second prince of the mighty Valerian Empire. A royal failure, branded a drunk and a fool, sent in disgrace to govern a failing border city named Redveil.
He closed his eyes again and exhaled.
his city wasn't in ruins, but it wasn't thriving either.
It sat at the Empire's frontier, too far from the capital to be protected, and too exposed to survive alone. Every year, bandits raided the outer farmlands, pillaging what little wealth the city produced. And every three years, like clockwork, a rift opened in the Blightlands, spilling out monsters the locals called demons.
Half the population had already fled.
Some were resettled in nearby cities, becoming permanent refugees. Others never returned.
Those who stayed behind did so out of fear, poverty, or stubborn loyalty to a fallen prince who hadn't left the castle in months.
The city wasn't broken yet—but it was cracking.
And nobody believed it could be saved.
Arnobal—the original one—had been part of the problem.
He drank himself into oblivion. Partied while the city starved. Turned a blind eye to corruption. To the Empire, Redveil was a punishment post. To him, it was an excuse to disappear.
But now… someone else lived in his body.
And that someone had a very different mind.
Jace stood at the castle balcony and looked out at the city. No walls had fallen. No plague stalked the streets. But the people had no fire left in their eyes.
They weren't living. They were waiting to be swallowed.
> "You don't need a savior," he muttered.
"You need a plan.
His first days were spent quietly exploring the castle, trying to piece together what the original Arnobal had left behind.
The answer? Very little.
The treasury was nearly empty. The army was down to a handful of disorganized guards. No recent letters from the capital. No maps. No council.
Second day the prince wandered deeper into the shadowed halls of his inherited castle, a strange chill crept into the air. His steps halted before a rusted iron gate, half-buried in cobwebs, leading down to a hidden basement.
"Open it," he ordered his butler.
The butler's face went pale. "Your Highness… I strongly advise against it. That door was sealed for a reason."
The prince narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"There are… witches and beastkin trapped below," he whispered. "Dangerous creatures."
Despite the warning, curiosity gnawed at him. After pressing again with a firmer tone, the butler reluctantly obeyed.
With a creak of ancient hinges, the iron door groaned open—revealing a damp, dark dungeon. Inside were iron cages, and within them… he saw a witch and several beastkin—dirty, wounded, and barely conscious. Their eyes flickered open at the sound of footsteps.
He stepped closer to the largest cage. "Why are they here?" he asked, voice low.
His butler didn't answer.
"Open the cages," the prince ordered.
"They might attack," the butler warned, panic rising in his voice.
"Open them," the prince repeated coldly.
Once freed, the captives collapsed, weak from hunger. The prince ordered a guard to bring water and food. After eating, he asked, "Show me your powers."