When the sharp chirping of birds pierced his ears, he opened his eyes to a blurry world. Blinking rapidly, the rough stone wall came into focus, sunlight filtering through the crack above. He sat slumped against the cold surface, the sharp scent of damp earth pricking at his nose.
He frowned, voice hoarse. "A cave?"
It sounded wrong, like they belonged to someone else—probably because of his parched throat.
But why'd he be in a cave?
He'd been on a plane, reading a novel… then, nothing.
He couldn't remember anything; his mind was blank.
Brushing the thoughts off, he straightened up—only for pain to explode in his abdomen, slamming him back down with a groan. He clutched his stomach but yanked his hand away as the contact worsened the agony.
His gaze dropped, and an open wound stuffed with blood-crusted fabric met his eyes. The skin around it was swollen and inflamed, but that wasn't what shocked him.
"This… isn't my body…"
A teenager's slender build replaced his toned adult frame. Even his clothes changed, resembling those of an adventurer from a game.
A chill ran down his spine.
"What is… happening?"
He hoped it was a dream, yet the pain, the strange voice, and the unfamiliar body said otherwise.
Had the plane exploded or something?
If he'd died… why was he in someone else's body?
Panic bubbled in his chest, but he shoved it down with a deep breath. He could panic later. Right now, he needed to survive.
He scanned the cave's interior. No one else was there, and no clue about who this body belonged to—just a small stack of firewood beside the dying embers.
Outside, a faint veil of mist hung in the air, obscuring the tree line beyond. The scent of petrichor clung to the breeze; it must have rained last night.
But at this rate, he'd die from starvation or infection. Either way, he needed to find a river to drink from and clean his wound before the fever set in.
He snatched a long stick from the firewood pile and forced himself upright. Dizziness crashed over him, driving him stumbling against the wall. Gritting his teeth, he pushed into the mist.
Trudging forward, his eyes darted around, searching for signs of wild animals or clues that might lead to a water source. Nevertheless, the deeper he pushed into the forest, the more his body rebelled. His muscles screamed in protest, sweat soaked through his clothes, and each breath came in harsh, ragged pulls.
When a massive trunk entered his sight, he staggered toward it, desperate for a respite. But his walking stick skidded in the mud, pitching him forward into a thicket.
"Ah—!"
He shut his eyes, bracing for the impact. Yet as his body hit the foliage, the blow never came. For a heartbeat, he felt weightless. He opened his eyes, only for the world to spin as his body tumbled downward, rocks and branches clawing at his limbs. Each jolt sent fresh agony through his abdomen. Mud clung to his skin, dirt and leaves filling his mouth.
Only after crashing into something soft at the base did he finally stop. Groaning, he clutched his stomach and raised a hand. Blood mixed with mud stained his palm. The wound had reopened.
He dropped his hand with a frustrated sigh and stared blankly at the pale blue sky, breathing shallowly. "Great."
His limbs trembled uncontrollably. Pain pulsed through him as though a horse had trampled him. Maybe… he should've just stayed in that cave and rot to death.
Speaking of death—
A foul stench stung his nostrils. He turned his head and found clouded eyes glaring at him. Jerking up with a gasp, pain flared in his abdomen.
"Urg!" He clutched his stomach, vision blurring from the strain.
As his sight sharpened, a corpse lying inches away—half-covered in mud—came into view. Its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. A dried trail of blood crusted its temple, though the rain washed most of it.
Shifting his eyes forward, pale bodies littered the clearing—some in black robes, others in Renaissance-style armor—half-buried in the sludge. Weapons, shields, and severed limbs were strewn around.
"What is this place…?"
What century had he woken up in? No one used swords or wore armor anymore!
Was that why he dressed so strangely, too?
A stabbing pain tore through his skull. He groaned, grasping his head as a blinding light burst behind his eyes. A vision surged: a knight in the same armor as the corpse shoved him aside, shouting desperately.
"Your Highness, run! I'll stall them!"
Behind them, black-robed figures closed in.
Gasping sharply, he jolted back to reality. His breath came ragged, sweat dampening his skin. As his eyes swept over the scattered corpses around him, a chilling realization sank in: they died protecting him.
The knight's address—Your Highness—told him he'd taken over a prince's body. But if he was the one alive now… what had become of the original owner?
Did the prince… die in that cave?
His stomach churned. A bitter taste permeated his mouth as he realized that none of them survived. Reaching toward the corpse, he gently brushed its eyes shut.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Your lord didn't make it out."
His gaze fell on a badge pinned to the corpse. He picked it up, and an emblem of a golden sun with six fiery rays gleamed in the dim light.
He stiffened, brows furrowing. "Huh?"
Wasn't it the crest of the Solairé Empire from the novel he read on the plane?
"Did I just get isekai'd?" He muttered, pressing a hand to his pounding temple.
His eyes drifted to a sword lying beside the corpse. He snatched it and angled the blade to catch his reflection.
A pale, white-haired man with cerulean eyes stared back at him.
His grip on the hilt loosened; the blade dipped toward the ground. "You've got to be kidding me…"
The revelation hit him like a slap.
The Atreilight family—the ruling house of the Solairé Empire—was known for one hereditary trait: white hair.
And now, so did he.
But something was off; he stared at the reflection again. The face was eerily familiar, though he couldn't explain why.
The distant sound of hooves snapped him out of his thoughts. He tightened his grip on the hilt and forced himself to his feet, only to stumble. Pain flared in his side, and warmth spread across his abdomen as blood seeped between his fingers.
Gritting his teeth, he staggered toward the nearest tree and pressed his back against the bark, struggling to steady his breath.
The horses halted nearby with a chorus of neighs, followed by the thud of boots on damp earth.
"Identify the bodies! Report if one matches the Second Prince!" a sharp voice barked.
"Yes, sir!"
The language was foreign, yet he understood every word.
His brows narrowed, 'Are they looking for me?'
Lowering his sword, he used the flat side to catch a blurry reflection of knights moving between the corpses, inspecting each one.
'Should I reveal myself?'
But… what if they were allied with the assassins and were here to confirm his death?
A sudden glint flickered on his blade; he ducked just in time. Metal thunked into the tree behind him. He rolled forward and swung his sword at the incoming attack. Steel clashed, but the knight's strength sent him sprawling.
"Argh!" Pain tore through him as he crashed to the ground. Blood bloomed in his mouth.
The knight raised his sword—
"Lucien?!" A shout froze the knight mid-strike.
The knight flinched and dropped to one knee, head bowed low. "Your Highness, please forgive my impertinence!"
"…what?" Still breathless and bloodied, he scrambled to his feet and took a defensive stance.
"Luce! You're safe!"
Lucien turned to the voice. A fair-skinned young man in regal attire dashed toward him, mint-green hair bouncing with each step. His emerald eyes gleamed with relief.
He stiffened at the familiar face.
"Tristan?!" Lucien blurted.
The man stopped before him, offering a reassuring smile. "Yes, it's me—your brother. I came to rescue you."
"…What in the world…" Lucien staggered back.
He recognized Tristan because his face was on the cover of the novel!
"Luce, you're bleeding." Tristan's voice pulled him to the present. Concern clouded his expression as he stepped forward.
"Stay back!" he growled, raising his sword.
Tristan lifted his hands in surrender and stepped back.
He tightened his grip around the hilt. If they claimed him to be Lucien, then trusting Tristan was out of the question.
"Prince Lucien—"
"Silence!" Lucien cut the knight off.
His vision blurred, and his body shook—whether from blood loss or shock, it didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was escaping.
He had to run.
"Luce…" Tristan's voice softened. He took a tentative step forward. "It's all right. You can trust me—"
"I said, stay back!" Lucien roared, freezing him in place.
'Trust him?'
What a joke.
How could he trust someone who was fated to kill him?!
He turned to flee—only for darkness to crash over him, drowning out Tristan's frantic shouts.