The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and quiet despair.
Machines hummed softly in the dim light. A steady beep… beep… beep… filled the silence — calm, rhythmic, merciless.
Mike hated that sound.
It reminded him he was still alive.
Barely.
His body felt like a prison cell built of needles and exhaustion. Every breath scratched his throat. Every heartbeat felt like a reminder that time was running out.
Across the bed, his mother clutched his hand so tightly her knuckles had turned white. She had been crying for hours now, even though she tried to hide it. His father stood beside her, jaw tight, eyes red but refusing to let tears fall. His little sister sat quietly in the corner, hugging her knees, as if afraid that if she moved too much, something irreversible would happen.
It would.
Mike knew.
Terminal illness. Rare. Untreatable. Months of pain.
He had read every paper. Studied every experimental therapy. Tried to calculate odds, solutions, probabilities. He was a genius, after all — top of his university, praised by professors, predicted to revolutionize several fields.
And yet…
None of it mattered.
A weak, bitter smile formed on his lips.
"So this is how it ends," he thought.
All those plans.All those inventions he never got to finish.All the ambition boiling inside him with nowhere to go.
His mother leaned closer. "Mike… sweetheart… we're here."
Of course you are.
He wanted to tell them not to cry. That it was inefficient. That death was natural. That statistically speaking—
But his voice came out as a whisper.
"Sorry."
It surprised them.
His father frowned. "For what?"
"For… not doing more."
Silence filled the room.
His mother shook her head violently. "Don't say that. You've done enough. You've done more than enough."
No.
He hadn't.
He had potential. Potential was worthless without time.
His sister suddenly stood up and ran to him, burying her face into the blanket near his chest. "Don't go," she whispered, voice trembling.
That was the first time his chest hurt for a reason other than illness.
Not pain.
Emotion.
He slowly lifted his trembling hand and rested it on her head.
"I'm not scared," he lied softly.
He was.
Not of death.
Of nothingness.
The monitor's rhythm began to falter.
Beep…
…beep…
…be—
His vision blurred. Sounds faded. The room grew distant.
His last thought was simple.
"If there's another chance… I won't waste it."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
—
Light returned.
It was warm.
Soft.
And… golden?
Mike's eyes fluttered open.
The first thing he saw was a ceiling.
But not a hospital ceiling.
It was carved with intricate patterns — dragons entwined around pillars, constellations embedded in gold leaf, chandeliers made of crystal the size of small suns.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The air smelled different. Not sterile. Instead, it carried faint hints of incense and something floral.
He tried to move.
His body responded easily.
Too easily.
No pain.
No weakness.
His heart beat strong. Powerful. Like a war drum.
He sat up abruptly.
Silk sheets slid down his chest.
Wait.
Silk?
He looked down.
Broad shoulders. Lean, toned muscle. Hands calloused not from typing or laboratory work — but from weapon training.
His breathing quickened.
"What…?"
The door opened instantly.
Several maids rushed in — five of them — all dropping to their knees simultaneously.
"Your Highness!"
The words echoed in the vast room.
Mike froze.
Your… what?
One maid trembled slightly. "Did you require anything, Crown Prince?"
Crown Prince?
He stared at her.
She kept her head lowered. None of them dared to look him directly in the eye.
He swallowed.
"Stand up."
His voice.
It wasn't his.
It was deeper. Calm. Commanding. It vibrated with something heavy — authority.
The maids flinched but obeyed.
One of them dared to glance up — and immediately stiffened.
Her eyes widened.
"Your Highness… you seem… different today."
Different?
What was that supposed to mean?
Footsteps approached rapidly.
The door opened again.
This time, several figures entered.
A tall woman with icy silver hair and piercing violet eyes.
A young man with sharp features and military posture.
A girl clutching a book nervously.
Another woman with an amused smirk.
They stopped a few meters away.
All of them bowed.
Not casually.
Deeply.
Respectfully.
Fearfully.
"Brother," the silver-haired woman spoke carefully. "We heard you were awake."
Brother.
His mind raced.
Fragments flickered in the back of his head — flashes of memory not his own.
A battlefield.
A dragon's roar.
Mana surging through veins.
A throne room drenched in tension.
A name.
Arthur.
Arthur Valerius Drakenhart.
Crown Prince of the Drakenhart Empire.
Dragon Slayer at ten.
The strongest being in the empire.
God's chosen vessel.
Mike — no, Arthur — felt the weight of that identity settle over him like a crown made of iron.
He stood slowly from the bed.
The siblings instinctively stepped back.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of instinct.
They were afraid.
Of him.
Arthur studied their expressions carefully.
Admiration. Reverence. Fear.
Interesting.
One of the younger sisters spoke hesitantly. "Brother… are you feeling unwell?"
He turned his gaze toward her.
She immediately went silent.
The room temperature seemed to drop.
He hadn't done anything.
Yet the pressure — the sheer presence of this body — was overwhelming.
His mind worked rapidly.
If this was real…
If this wasn't a dream…
Then—
The door burst open again.
Without announcement.
A young woman strode in confidently, auburn hair bouncing behind her, blue eyes bright with concern.
She didn't kneel.
Didn't bow deeply.
She simply walked straight toward him.
"Arthur! I came as soon as I heard—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
Her eyes widened.
"Why are you looking at me like I'm a stranger?"
Silence.
The siblings stiffened.
The maids looked horrified.
Arthur's brain worked at terrifying speed.
He didn't know her.
But everyone's reaction said she was important.
Very important.
He tilted his head slightly.
"…Remind me," he said calmly.
Gasps filled the room.
The auburn-haired girl blinked.
"Remind you? It's me. Emily."
Emily.
Grand Duke's daughter, the foreign memories whispered.
His lover.
The only noble who spoke to him casually.
Ah.
This was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Arthur let out a slow breath.
Then he stepped closer to her.
Close enough that the others instinctively lowered their heads.
He gently touched his temple.
"There was a moment," he said evenly, voice steady and controlled, "when my consciousness felt… distant. A brief disorientation."
Not a lie.
Just selective truth.
"I wished to confirm your reaction."
He looked directly into her eyes.
"You passed."
Silence.
The tension snapped.
Emily stared at him for three long seconds.
Then—
She smacked his arm.
"You absolute jerk! Don't scare me like that!"
The maids looked like they might faint.
His siblings looked stunned.
No one touched the Crown Prince.
No one.
Arthur blinked.
Then, unexpectedly—
He laughed.
The sound surprised even him.
It was deep. Smooth. Real.
For the first time since waking up, he felt something close to excitement.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Opportunity.
He was no longer dying.
He was standing at the peak of a world.
Power.
Wealth.
Influence.
Mana thrummed beneath his skin like a living storm.
And unlike before…
He had time.
Arthur's gaze drifted toward the enormous window overlooking the capital city. Towers of marble and gold stretched toward the horizon. Banners bearing the Drakenhart crest fluttered proudly.
An empire that feared him.
An empire that worshipped him.
An empire that could be shaped.
He smiled faintly.
"If this is a second life…"
His eyes sharpened.
"I will not waste it."
Outside, somewhere far beyond the palace walls, something ancient stirred.
And in the deepest layer of Arthur's new soul…
A faint, whispering void lingered.
As if something that once belonged here…
Was missing