The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, weary shadows across the deserted road. Dust swirled lazily in the hot afternoon breeze, clinging to everything it touched. Draven trudged along the cracked pavement, his worn sneakers kicking up small clouds with each step. At twenty-five, life had already worn him down to a shadow of what he could have been. No family, no roots—just an orphan bouncing from one foster home to another until he aged out of the system. Jobs came and went, but none stuck. He was invisible, a ghost in a world that didn't care.
He paused at a rundown roadside shop, its faded sign creaking in the wind. The shopkeeper, an old man with a grizzled beard, barely looked up from his newspaper as Draven fished out a crumpled note from his pocket. "One cold drink," he muttered, handing over the money. The bottle was icy against his palm, a brief respite from the oppressive heat. He twisted off the cap and took a long swig, the fizzy liquid bubbling down his throat.
"Man, life is so damn boring," Draven said aloud to no one, leaning against the shop's rusted wall. "No money, no respect, no family. What's the point? Might as well just end it all." The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for so long. He stared at the horizon, where the road blurred into nothingness. Orphaned as a baby, he'd grown up in the cold embrace of institutions, always wondering about the parents he'd never know. No warm meals, no bedtime stories—just survival. And now, even that felt futile. Job interviews turned into rejections, friends faded away, and the world kept spinning without him.
He pushed off the wall and started walking again, bottle in hand, sipping absentmindedly. His mind wandered to darker places. What do I even do? No purpose, no direction. If I had a family... The thought trailed off as his eyes caught sight of something ahead. A young woman sat on a low bench by the roadside, cradling a small child in her arms. She was feeding the boy—maybe two years old—a piece of fruit, her face lit with a gentle smile. The child giggled, reaching up with chubby hands to touch her cheek.
Draven stopped, a pang twisting in his chest. Happiness bloomed in him for a fleeting moment, seeing that pure bond. But it was quickly overshadowed by sorrow. If I had a mother like that... Would she have fed me the same way? Held me close? He shook his head, forcing a bitter smile. Dream on, Draven. That's not your life.
The ground trembled suddenly, a low rumble building beneath his feet. At first, he thought it was a passing truck, but the vibration intensified, shaking the very air. "Earthquake!" someone shouted from afar. Panic erupted as the world convulsed. Nearby, an old building groaned, its weakened structure cracking under the strain. A massive chunk of concrete and rebar broke free from the upper floors, plummeting toward the woman and her child.
Time slowed. Draven's heart pounded. The woman looked up in horror, clutching her son tighter, but with the child in her arms, she couldn't move fast enough. "Run!" Draven yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos. She tried to scramble away, but the debris was already hurtling down.
Without thinking, Draven sprinted forward. Adrenaline surged through him, propelling his legs faster than he'd ever run. He reached them just as the shadow of the falling mass engulfed them. With a desperate shove, he pushed the woman and child out of harm's way. She stumbled, falling safely to the side, her scream piercing the air.
But Draven wasn't so lucky. The impact was instantaneous—a crushing weight slamming into him, pain exploding through his body like fire. The world blurred, sounds muffled into a distant roar. Darkness closed in, cold and absolute. Is this it? he thought, a strange calm washing over him. At least I did something right for once.
Everything went black.
A soft, luxurious warmth enveloped him. Draven's eyelids fluttered open, his vision hazy at first. He was lying on a massive bed, the sheets silk-smooth against his skin, embroidered with intricate gold patterns. The room around him was opulent—high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, walls lined with tapestries depicting epic battles and mythical creatures. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, filtering in the soft glow of dawn. He sat up slowly, his body feeling strangely light and unfamiliar. Glancing down, he saw he was clad in regal attire: a finely tailored tunic of deep crimson, embroidered with silver threads, and soft leather boots that looked like they'd never touched dirt.
"What the hell is this?" Draven muttered, rubbing his temples. His voice echoed slightly in the vast chamber. Was this a dream? Heaven? Or some bizarre hallucination from the brink of death?
Before he could process it, a translucent window materialized in the air before him, glowing with an ethereal blue light. It hovered like a holographic display, text scrolling across its surface:
[System Notification: Welcome, Host. Reincarnation Complete.]
Draven stared at it, blinking in disbelief. For a few seconds, he just gawked, his mouth agape. Then, a chuckle escaped him, building into full laughter. "Haha, okay, this is hilarious. I must've read too many of those web novels. System windows? Reincarnation? Yeah, right."
A voice emanated from the window—clear, slightly sarcastic, and very much alive. "Idiot host, you're not dreaming. You died back there. Lucky for you, your karma was good enough for a second chance. You've been reincarnated into the body of the first prince of the Berakh Kingdom in another world."
Draven's laughter died in his throat. "Wait, what? You... talk? Systems in those stories are just silent interfaces. And you're kinda rude."
The system huffed, the window flickering as if annoyed. "Don't compare me to those basic systems! I'm different—superior. You've got no idea."
"Different how?" Draven pressed, leaning forward curiously.
The window pulsed. "You're not at a high enough level to know that yet. Focus on the basics."
"Level?" Draven echoed, his mind racing. This was straight out of the isekai tropes he'd binge-read during his unemployed nights.
"Yes, level," the system replied patiently. "You start at Level 1 with 0 points. To level up, you need to collect points by completing quests. Points can also be used to purchase items from the shop."
"Items? Like what?" Draven's eyes lit up. Weapons? Skills? Potions? The possibilities were endless.
"You'll unlock the item shop at Level 5. Until then, focus on grinding. No shortcuts."
Draven grinned despite himself. "Alright, fair enough. But first things first—tell me about this body. Who am I now?"
The system let out a dramatic sigh, its voice shifting to a comically forgetful tone. "Oh, right, I almost forgot. Host, close your eyes and concentrate. The memories will integrate."
Draven obeyed, shutting his eyes and focusing inward. A rush of images and sensations flooded his mind, like a dam breaking. He saw flashes of a childhood in this world: a grand palace, laughter echoing through marble halls. The original owner of this body was named Draven Eryndor—wait, Draven? The coincidence hit him like a brick.
The boy had been extraordinarily talented from a young age, outshining his peers in swordplay, magic studies, and strategy. Always energetic, always smiling, he was the pride of the kingdom. But happiness is fleeting. One fateful day, his mother—the first empress—vanished without a trace. Whispers of foul play circulated, but nothing was proven. Devastated, young Draven withdrew into himself, his vibrancy dimming. Unbeknownst to anyone, a mysterious curse had been placed on him, sapping his strength and clouding his mind, turning the once-promising prince into a reclusive shadow.
As the memories settled, Draven opened his eyes, a profound shock washing over him. Not just from the tragedy, but the name. My real name was Draven too. Is this fate? Or something more?
The system window reappeared. "Looks like you've got all the memories now, host. Impressed?"
Draven narrowed his eyes. "You knew about the name coincidence, didn't you? Is this just random, or is there a bigger picture?"
The system chuckled. "Host, you're not ready for the universal truths yet. Level up first."
Before Draven could argue, a soft knock echoed through the room. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a young woman entered, carrying a silver tray with a steaming cup. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant maid's uniform—black dress with white apron, her auburn hair tied back in a neat bun. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Your Highness! You're awake."
Draven turned, the memories supplying her identity: Liora, his personal maid since childhood. Loyal, kind-hearted, and one of the few who hadn't abandoned him during his decline. She set the tray down on a nearby table, the aroma of rich coffee filling the air.
"Yes, I'm up," Draven replied, his voice steadier than he felt. He accepted the cup, taking a sip. It was perfect—strong and slightly sweetened, just as the memories indicated he liked it.
Liora hesitated, her hands fidgeting with her apron. "Forgive me if I overstep, Your Highness, but... you shouldn't attend tonight's dinner gathering. The second empress will be there."
Draven's mind flashed to more memories. The second empress, Aurelisse Eryndor, hailed from the powerful House Virenorh. She had married his father, King Eldric, after his mother's disappearance, bringing her own children into the fold: a son, Thorne, and a daughter, Elara. Aurelisse despised Draven, viewing him as an obstacle to her children's claim on the throne. As the first prince and rightful heir, he was a constant threat.
Vivid scenes replayed: Thorne mocking him in the training grounds, calling him "the cursed weakling." Elara spreading rumors among the courtiers, her laughter like daggers. They bullied him relentlessly, exploiting his depression and the hidden curse to isolate him further. Aurelisse orchestrated it all, her ambition burning like a forge. She wanted Thorne on the throne, not the "broken" first prince.
Draven set the cup down, a slow smile spreading across his face. For the first time in either life, he felt a spark of purpose. "I'm sorry, Liora, but I have to go. In fact, now more than ever."
Liora's eyes widened in concern. "But Your Highness, they've been plotting against you. The gathering is a trap—rumors say they're pushing for a formal challenge to your succession."
He stood, feeling the strength in this new body—a far cry from his frail earthly form. The curse still lingered, a subtle drain on his energy, but with the system, he could overcome it. "Let them plot. Things are different now."
As Liora bowed and left, Draven turned back to the system window, which had silently reappeared. "Alright, system. What's my first quest?"
The window shimmered. [Quest Unlocked: Attend the Royal Dinner. Objective: Survive the evening and uncover one hidden plot. Reward: 50 points.]
Draven smirked. "Game on."
The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of preparation. Draven explored his chambers, marveling at the blend of medieval grandeur and subtle magic. Enchanted lanterns floated gently, casting a warm glow without flame. A massive wardrobe revealed outfits fit for a king—silks from distant lands, armor etched with protective runes. He practiced moving in this body, testing its limits. The original Draven had been a prodigy, but the curse had eroded that potential. Now, with his modern knowledge and the system's aid, he could reclaim it.
He summoned the system again. "Show me my status."
The window expanded:
[Host: Draven Eryndor]
[Level: 1]
[Points: 0]
[Skills: Basic Swordsmanship (Curse-Affected), Elemental Affinity (Dormant)]
[Curse: Shadow Veil – Reduces vitality by 20%. Origin: Unknown.]
"Curse removal?" Draven asked.
"Requires Level 10 or a special item," the system replied. "Earn it."
Frustration bubbled, but excitement overrode it. This world—Elyria, as memories named it—was vast and perilous. Berakh Kingdom nestled in rolling hills, bordered by enchanted forests to the north and rival empires to the south. Magic flowed like blood: mages wielded elements, knights bonded with mythical beasts. Politics were a deadly game, with houses like Virenorh scheming for power.
Draven's mother, Empress Isolde, had been a beacon of light, her disappearance shattering the royal family. King Eldric, once a mighty warrior, had grown distant, drowning in grief and state affairs. Aurelisse filled the void, her influence spreading like poison ivy.
As midday approached, Draven delved deeper into memories. The original prince's talents: at age five, he'd summoned his first flame spark; at ten, outmaneuvered tutors in chess-like war simulations. But post-disappearance, depression set in. The curse amplified it—whispers in his mind, fatigue that no rest cured. No one knew of the curse; healers dismissed it as melancholy.
Why me? Draven pondered. Similar names, similar losses. Is this reincarnation targeted?
The system remained silent on that front.
Liora returned with lunch: roasted pheasant, fresh breads, exotic fruits. "Eat well, Your Highness. You'll need strength."
He nodded gratefully. "Tell me about the gathering. Who's attending?"
"All the court: nobles, advisors, the empress's entourage. It's to discuss the border skirmishes with the Drakorian Empire."
Perfect cover for intrigue, Draven thought.
Afternoon training followed. In the palace courtyard, he sparred lightly with a guard, feeling the curse's drag. His movements were sluggish, but muscle memory guided him. "System, any beginner boosts?"
[Daily Quest: Train for 1 Hour. Reward: 10 points.]
He pushed through, sweat beading despite the cool air. By end, points ticked to 10.
As evening fell, Draven dressed in formal attire: a black velvet doublet with the Eryndor crest—a soaring eagle. He stared at his reflection—sharp features, raven hair, emerald eyes. Handsome, regal, yet haunted.
Descending to the grand hall, murmurs hushed. Eyes followed him—surprise at his attendance. King Eldric sat at the head, aged but imposing. Aurelisse beside him, her beauty cold as ice, flanked by Thorne (arrogant, muscular) and Elara (sly, elegant).
"Welcome, son," Eldric said, voice gruff.
Aurelisse smiled thinly. "Indeed. We thought you'd rest."
Draven took his seat, smiling back. "I wouldn't miss it."
Under the table, his fist clenched. The game had begun.
The dinner unfolded with tense pleasantries. Dishes arrived—spiced meats, enchanted wines that shimmered. Conversation turned to politics: Drakorian incursions, alliance needs.
Thorne sneered across the table. "Brother, any thoughts? Or are you still... unwell?"
Elara giggled. "Yes, do share your wisdom."
Draven met their gazes calmly. Memories of bullying fueled his resolve. "The borders need reinforcing with mage wards. And perhaps a diplomatic envoy."
Aurelisse's eyes narrowed. "Bold from one so absent."
Eldric nodded approvingly. "Sound idea."
As dessert came, Draven excused himself briefly. In the corridor, he overheard whispers: Thorne and a guard plotting to sabotage his chambers—poison in his wine?
Hidden plot uncovered, he thought. System pinged: [Quest Complete. +50 points.]
Returning, he feigned ignorance, but inside, plans brewed.
The night ended with toasts. As he retired, Liora waited. "You survived."
"Better than that," Draven said. "I thrived."
In bed, system updated: [Level Up Available. Use 50 points?]
"Yes."
Power surged. Level 2. The curse weakened slightly.