Chan Xingfan opened his eyes to soft morning light.
For a brief moment, everything felt wrong.
There were no sirens. No traffic. No noise from the modern city he knew so well. Instead, the faint sound of birds drifted into his ears, carried by a gentle breeze.
"…This isn't a hospital."
He lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Wooden beams. Simple plasterwork. The air carried a faint herbal scent—nothing like disinfectant.
Didn't I die?
His heart skipped.
He clearly remembered it. The headlights. The impact. The silence that followed.
I was hit by a car… so why am I here?
Slowly, he pushed himself up. His body felt weak—far too light, as if it didn't truly belong to him.
Confusion clouded his thoughts.
Where am I?
His eyes landed on a bronze mirror leaning against the wall. Step by step, he walked toward it, his heartbeat growing louder with each movement. Then he saw his reflection.
Chan Xingfan froze.
The person staring back at him was not him.
Long black hair fell past narrow shoulders. The face was pale and thin, almost sickly, with delicate features that spoke of frailty rather than strength. The body reflected in the mirror was slender and weak—completely different from the one he remembered.
"…This isn't my body."
No matter how he moved, the reflection followed.
This was not a dream.
Before he could process the shock, the door suddenly opened.
A young boy rushed inside and stopped short when he saw him standing there.
"Y-Your Highness!" the boy cried out, eyes wide with joy. "You're awake?!"
Your Highness?
"I'll inform the others at once!" the boy said excitedly, bowing hastily before running out.
Chan Xingfan stood in silence, his thoughts in chaos.
Moments later, several people entered the room—men dressed in robes unfamiliar to the modern world. One of them examined him carefully before nodding.
"Your condition has stabilized," the man said. "However, Your Highness still requires rest."
They all bowed respectfully and left.
The young boy lingered behind.
"I'll bring you some food, Your Highness," he said softly. "Please lie down and rest."
Chan Xingfan did not answer.
A sudden, sharp pain exploded in his head.
He grabbed the edge of the bed as memories—memories that were not his own—flooded into his mind.
An ancient empire. A royal palace.
A weak, unwanted prince. This body belonged to a prince of a great imperial dynasty. Born sickly and talentless, he had been despised by his brothers and targeted by corrupt officials. Instead of being killed outright, he had been discarded.
By order of the emperor—his own father—he was sent far from the imperial capital to govern a poor, undeveloped city. A forgotten place barely worthy of being called a city.
And then…
He had been assassinated. Poisoned.
Left in a coma, clinging to life—until now.
Chan Xingfan collapsed back onto the bed, breathing heavily.
"So that's it…"
He hadn't survived.
He had reincarnated.
From a meaningless modern life…
into the body of a discarded prince in an ancient empire.
And this time, his enemies were already watching.