The passage of time stops for no one. The sun and the moon rise and set on the horizon day after day, endlessly. Trees blossom and then wither, only to blossom again.
Time, however, does not pass all at once. It slips away slowly but surely, like sand slipping through the crevices of one's fist.
For Serin, it crept forward quietly, marked not by dates or seasons, but by repetition and routine.
He began waking before the bell rang and the rooster screeched.
At first, it was accidental—he was still too alert, too unfamiliar with the world around him. He was too… on edge.
Then, eventually, time began healing his insecurities. Memories from Earth still lurked deep within his soul, but they no longer consumed his new life. Slowly but surely, he loosened up.
Dawn light would spill through the narrow window of his chamber, pale and cool, and he would lie still for a moment, listening. Waves far below. Footsteps in the corridors. The distant clang of metal from the training yard. The ever-present sound of seagulls and the rising wind.
The world no longer startled him awake. Nightmares no longer haunted his sleep.
That alone was something to celebrate.
By the time the sun cleared the eastern cliffs, Serin would already be dressed, his hair tied back clumsily at first, then with growing familiarity. The servants stopped hovering as much, their gazes no longer lingering on him for more than a moment.
Unbearably awkward at first, Serin slowly grew fond of having breakfast with everyone. Though he still felt distant, the earnest smile of his cousin Ellis made him feel warm and included.
It reminded him of his time on Earth, having breakfast with his real family. Regrettably, he had to suppress these feelings and memories and look forward to the day ahead.
Unfortunately, the day ahead would be slow… and torturous.
Serin was anything but a snowflake in his past life. Chess demanded focus, stamina, and grit, and a healthy body was essential for excellence.
While giving interviews, it would always surprise the other party to hear the extent of his exercise routine—one would think he was an athlete, not a chess grandmaster.
But in this new world, he wasn't training to stay fit and healthy. It was about survival. About life and death.
Mornings were reserved for the body. The training yard became a familiar sight—the packed earth underfoot, the smell of sweat and steel, the sharp bark of instructors who did not care who he was, only whether he could keep up.
He was not alone in the suffering. Alaric and Eldric trained alongside him, but they were already accustomed to it.
Alaric at least made attempts to motivate him, but that bastard Eldric would always smirk gleefully and make faces, completely immature.
To get back at him, Serin would flaunt the mark on his hand, making the poor lad's face turn red like a pig's liver from envy.
Alaric would simply enjoy the entertainment from afar and let the chaos unfold.
The commander of the Castle Watch was their physical instructor. His name was Ralf Hudd.
Serin was especially aggrieved, as the commander seemed to have some grudge against him. Commander Ralf did not care about Serin's identity like the others did. On the contrary, he was full of disdain toward the Bastard Prince.
You can't keep up? Punishment.
Whining? Punishment.
Made a mistake? Punishment.
Serin was pushed to the point of rage and tears at the same time, but his pride would not allow him to show such weakness—especially in front of the Eldric brat. The young man certainly had the ego of a chess grandmaster.
Moreover, the Anchor blessing would swoop in to neutralize his emotions. Serin barely pushed through each day, gritting his teeth.
Even the commander was surprised by his endurance.
One day, Serin lay on the ground out of exhaustion like a dead dog, immediately prompting Eldric to chuckle under his breath.
Suddenly, Commander Ralf couldn't help but feel a flicker of compassion for the Prince, and the tables turned.
"What are you laughing at?!" the commander roared abruptly.
The color drained from Eldric's face as the towering shadow of the commander shrouded his smaller figure. Then—there were two beaten, dead dogs lying on the ground.
Fortunately, the intensity of the training lessened for a while. Serin shed tears of relief in secret, only to find out the next day that he had been "promoted" and would soon be taught by the infamous military advisor of the family.
Then he shed even more tears—tears of sadness. In secret, of course.
After physical training, Serin would wipe his body, wash his face with cold water, and treat himself to refreshments. Then it was time for horse riding.
Oddly enough, horse riding was not as difficult as he had imagined. Perhaps his body still retained memories from childhood, because once he began, it grew easier and easier.
Of course, gathering the courage to begin was the most difficult part. Alaric and Eldric—even Ellis—were well-trained riders. Alaric was especially good at it, and he became Serin's instructor.
Once again, Serin realized how useful the divine blessing was. Not wanting to embarrass himself, his pride and the Anchor blessing helped him overcome his fear. Thus, he would go on rides with Alaric on his pony.
Even though Serin's body retained some memory of the activity, it was not easy to overcome the mental hurdle. And even with the blessing's help, he messed up often, resulting in numerous nasty falls.
But time flows on, and it is also the best teacher. And so—slowly, painfully, but surely—Serin got better.
It must be said that Alaric was a good teacher and an excellent rider, which helped tremendously.
This, however, was only the beginning of the day, and there was much more to come.
By midday, his muscles screamed, and that was when the lessons began.
History, politics, culture—endless hours spent listening, questioning, memorizing. Serin could memorize hundreds of chess moves and positions, and he still remembered every chess game he had ever played. His memory was exceptionally strong, but somehow it felt even stronger now.
Before, he couldn't remember much beyond chess. Now, he could recall even the smallest details, not just moves on a board.
Once again, Serin surprised his teachers immensely. The Count was especially satisfied with his progress. Serin did not see the Count often anymore, as he grew increasingly busy, but reports reached the Count's desk every day.
All the physical torture from the morning was not as draining as the mental torture of etiquette lessons.
Learning how to sit, how to speak, when to remain silent. How to smile without warmth, how to bow without yielding. It felt like learning a different kind of language—one where every gesture carried weight. He failed often at first, earning sharp corrections and amused glances, but gradually, even this settled into habit.
Still, Serin could never fully get used to it. Some things were simply too strange.
During these lessons, Serin finally understood the full weight of his status as he was taught how to treat nobles, royals, commoners, servants, young ladies, noblewomen—and slaves.
This was when Serin learned that slavery existed in this world. In fact, it was perfectly normal. He could not come to terms with this for a long time, and he felt that he never truly would. He could only numb himself to the miseries of the waking world, having no power to change anything.
In the afternoons, when his mind grew dull from instruction, Serin was allowed to leave the keep.
Alaric, as the heir of the house, was often busy helping his father. Eldric and Serin had come to be like fire and water.
Thus, only sweet Ellis remained as his companion for outings—both dressed plainly, with guards secretly following them.
At first, Serin found the town overwhelming.
The path from the keep descended toward the town in slow curves, stone steps worn smooth by countless feet. From above, the city had always looked distant to Serin, nestled between cliffs and sea. Up close, it felt entirely different.
Alive.
The harbor bustled with movement. Fishermen hauled in nets heavy with the morning's catch, sailors shouted directions as crates scraped across stone, and merchants argued loudly over prices that seemed to change by the minute. The scent of salt clung to everything, thick and inescapable, carried by the sea breeze brushing against Serin's face.
He slowed without realizing it, his gaze drifting from one scene to the next.
Ellis walked beside him, unhurried, hands folded neatly in front of her, her pace perfectly matched to his.
"You don't need to look so tense," she said lightly, glancing at him. "No one here bites. Not unless you provoke them."
Serin exhaled slowly, realizing how stiff his shoulders were. "I'm not used to… this many people," he admitted.
"That much is obvious," she replied with a faint smile. "You look like you expect someone to challenge you to a duel."
They walked along the harbor, watching ships come and go. Serin learned to distinguish merchant vessels from fishing boats, foreign banners from local ones, rival ports from friendly traders. Ellis spoke casually as they walked, pointing things out naturally—customs, rumors, quiet tensions beneath daily life.
It was here that Serin truly began to understand this new world.
They passed children weaving between carts, laughter ringing as they narrowly avoided scolding. A pair of sailors leaned against a warehouse wall, sharing a drink, jeering drunkenly. No one bowed. No one lingered on them for more than a glance.
Here, they were simply another pair passing through.
Ellis gestured casually as they walked, pointing out the market square where ships unloaded rare goods, the narrow streets that flooded easily, the old watchtower near the docks that had stood long before the keep was built.
Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Serin was surprised by how knowledgeable she was.
At some point, he realized he was listening intently—not out of politeness, but genuine interest.
"You seem to know this place well. Do you visit often?" he asked.
"When I can," she replied. "It reminds me that the world doesn't stop at the keep's gates." Her gaze lowered slightly, her expression touched by something quieter.
Serin didn't know how to comfort her, so he remained silent.
They stopped near the edge of the pier, watching a merchant vessel drift slowly toward the docks. The sea stretched endlessly beyond it, shimmering under the afternoon sun.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Serin felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Comfort.
"I don't remember much of this," he admitted quietly. "From before."
Ellis didn't rush to fill the silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle.
"Don't worry," she said. "You never got the chance to visit five years ago. And when you did… you were unconscious for five years."
Serin looked at her, surprised.
Then he realized—until the age of nine, Serin had lived in the capital with his mother.
She met his gaze evenly, without pity or expectation. "You're here now. That's what matters."
As they turned back toward the city, the harbor's noise rose once more—voices, footsteps, gulls crying overhead. Serin found the sound no longer overwhelming.
For the first time since waking in this world, the place around him felt less like a cage and more like somewhere he might belong.
And walking beside Ellis, that thought didn't feel so strange anymore.
The days were like this—some sweetness, mostly bitterness and pain.
On another quiet evening, after following the same routine, Serin and Ellis returned to the castle as the sky darkened.
An excruciating medicinal bath awaited Serin.
The Count wanted to prepare him for what was to come. For that, Serin needed raw strength. Despite his imperial blood, he had no talent for magic. The only available path to power was to draw out the hidden potential of the human body.
The infamous military advisor supervised and guided him through it. The initial stages, however, were pure torture—of both mind and body.
Night fell quietly over the keep.
By the time Serin returned to his quarters, the corridors had emptied, torches burning low and steady. The distant sounds of the castle faded one by one—footsteps, voices, the clatter of arms—until only silence remained.
Serin shut the door behind him and leaned against it for longer than necessary.
Only then did the exhaustion truly catch up.
He crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders sagging. When he loosened the bindings around his wrists and palms, a sharp sting shot through his fingers. He winced and looked down.
His hands were rough now.
Calluses layered over calluses, skin cracked where blisters had torn and healed poorly. These were hands shaped by ropes, weapons, and reins—no longer the hands of someone who had once moved wooden pieces across a board.
Serin flexed his fingers once, then let them fall limply into his lap.
His body wasn't much better.
Dark bruises bloomed beneath his tunic, older ones fading into yellow while new ones spread fresh and angry. His muscles throbbed dully, every breath tugging at soreness he could no longer ignore. When he finally stripped down, he caught sight of himself in the mirror—leaner, harder, no longer ghostly or scrawny, but exhausted and beaten down.
For the first time all day, there was no one watching.
No instructors. No cousins. No expectations.
Just him.
Serin lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The stone above felt distant, unmoving, indifferent to the struggle beneath it.
For a brief moment, the weight became too much.
His chest tightened, breath catching as his mind drifted—back to Earth, to quiet rooms and sleepless nights, to victories that had never hurt like this. Back to a life where failure cost pride, not blood.
A weak laugh escaped him.
"So this is the price," he murmured.
His eyes burned, but no tears came. Whether it was pride, exhaustion, or the Anchor quietly holding him steady, he couldn't tell.
Eventually, Serin turned onto his side and pulled the blanket over himself, curling slightly despite the ache. Outside, waves continued their endless rhythm against the cliffs, uncaring and constant.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise again.
And so would he.