A loud, terrifying scream suddenly bellowed out from within Halsby Castle, originating from a decrepit, lonely, and quiet room. It coursed through the nearby corridors—once serene, now disturbed—and echoed through the eastern wing of the castle.
Nearby guards widened their eyes, arms immediately moving toward their scabbards as they went on alert, their gazes darting left and right in search of the source.
In a nearby corridor, an innocent young boy was treading carefully, sweat dripping from his hair onto his face as he carried a pot filled with hot soup. The ghostly scream reached his ears, and in that exact moment, all the color drained from his face. His hands jerked instinctively—unfortunately, a little too hard.
The hot soup splashed out, scalding his hand and sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body. He grit his teeth, desperately trying to salvage the situation, but before he realized it, the entire pot had already shattered on the floor. Then—another horrible scream echoed out.
Deep within the castle, a maidservant burst out of a chamber, her eyes wide, panic etched clearly on her face as if she had seen a ghost in broad daylight. She ran blindly, chaotic thoughts swirling in her mind, until—like colliding with an invisible wall—she fell to the floor in a rather undignified heap.
The impact jolted her back to her senses.
She rubbed her head vigorously, wincing, before suddenly feeling a firm grip on her shoulders. In the blink of an eye, she was back on her feet.
Steadying herself, the maid finally focused on the 'wall' she had collided with. Seeing the tall elderly man with a white beard standing before her, his face completely expressionless, she froze. Words tumbled incoherently from her lips as she tried to explain herself, but none came out properly.
"That… Steward… I mean—Steward Bartley… well, you see—" she mumbled, her voice low and trembling. She glanced around like a headless chicken, tears pooling in her eyes.
The old man, Steward Bartley, smiled gently.
"There, there. Calm yourself, lass," he said reassuringly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes creasing slightly.
Her labored breathing gradually slowed, her clenched fists loosening. Seeing this, Steward Bartley's smile widened.
"You were running like an untamed pony. What happened? Was it related to that odd scream just now?"
As he spoke, realization dawned on him. The smile faded from his face.
"I know you. Did something happen to the Prince?"
At those words, the young maid's pupils contracted. Then, as if struck by divine revelation, she blurted out urgently, "Oh no! It—it was the Prince! The Prince suddenly woke up!"
Steward Bartley froze for a brief moment, as though doubting his own hearing. Then his expression hardened.
"Go—quickly. Ask Brian to fetch the physician and the priest at once. Tell him exactly what you told me. Go!"
"Yes!" The maid sprang into action, sprinting off with clarity and purpose this time.
Steward Bartley's expression returned to calm. Without delay, he changed direction and began trotting toward the eastern wing.
Meanwhile, inside the room, another maidservant stood nearby, her wrinkled hands trembling visibly as she watched the Prince. Her eyes were clouded with fear, yet behind it lay a trace of warmth.
The 'Prince' in question was twitching violently, his hands partially covering his face, which was twisted in agony. His eyes were blank, and low, almost beast-like growls escaped his throat from time to time, draining even more color from the maidservant's face.
Eventually, she noticed that he was beginning to calm down. His body no longer convulsed unnaturally, and the growling ceased. Swallowing nervously, she gathered her courage and approached him hesitantly, the terror in her eyes softening into concern.
"Prince Hainar… is it—is it you? Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice shaking.
There was no response. He only stared blankly at his own hands.
What she did not know was that the 'Prince' was far more confused than she was—perhaps more confused than anyone alive, or in two worlds.
"Prince Hainar… who is that? Wait— isn't that me? No… what's happening? Is this a dream? Ah— the pain! No, this can't be…" his thoughts spiraled chaotically as pain and confusion twisted together.
Time passed in silence. With each passing moment, his thoughts began to clear, like threads slowly weaving themselves into a coherent image.
Flashes of memories clashed violently in his mind—memories belonging to two lives, in two different worlds.
Lives that both felt undeniably his.
He shook his head weakly, the clarity only making the confusion worse. The contradiction drove him nearly mad. And amid the throbbing pain and relentless memories, he cried out instinctively,
"Leave me alone!"
Hearing his voice at last, the maidservant's eyes filled with tears, as if an immense weight had been lifted from her heart. The fear that had gripped her moments earlier vanished completely.
"Oh, Holy Mother… thank goodness, Prince Serin, you're finally awake!" she exclaimed, stepping forward and clasping his hands, examining his face anxiously.
The vacant look in his eyes had disappeared. Clear, almond-shaped eyes now gazed back at her, filled with innocence and bewilderment.
"Those words… I understand them. Serin Hainar… is that my name in this world?" he thought as tears rolled down his cheeks unbidden.
Despite feeling as though he had awakened after a thousand years, his entire body aching unbearably, Serin could finally think coherently. His mind remained full of fragmented, conflicting memories, but slowly—almost instinctively—he began piecing them together.
"I am a Chess Grandmaster from a world called Earth… but somehow, I am also Serin Hainar. And I'm called a prince. For now… this will do," he thought inwardly.
His tears continued to fall, as though his soul itself were grieving.
As he looked at the kind, wrinkled face of the elderly maid, two other faces briefly overlapped in his vision—a middle-aged woman, and a smiling man whose expression was filled with quiet pride.
Something within him broke.
"Mother… Father…" he muttered, his voice cracking as sorrow surged uncontrollably.
Cruelly, he was not allowed to linger in his grief. Frantic footsteps echoed from beyond the room. Instinctively, Serin forced himself to calm down. He leaned back, wiped away his tears, and fixed his gaze on the dark oak door.
Moments later, a group of people entered. There was a man draped in white robes with gentle eyes, an elderly man with a white beard, and another man with calm, almost carefree eyes dressed in a luxurious suit.
Serin's gaze lingered briefly on the latter—and their eyes met.
His heart raced.
"He's familiar…" Serin thought. Then, like lightning striking his mind, a name surfaced.
Count Roule Heinar.
He quickly averted his gaze, unease crawling up his spine, and instead looked past a woman in an elegant, equally luxurious dress standing slightly behind the Count. "Could that be the Countess?" He mused, feeling uncertain.
The small room felt suddenly cramped. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, Serin leaned back subconsciously, suspicion and bewilderment filling his eyes. While most seemed mystified looking back at him, only the Count and the robed man observed him calmly.
Sweat trickled down Serin's face. The silence became unbearable.
Desperately, he searched his memories for anything—any thread to grasp. Then, an idea struck him. Like a blade cutting through tension, his words rang out,
"Who… who are you all? Where… where is my mother? Where am I?"