Sirens rose from below, muffled by the noise of the helicopter hovering overhead. Its white searchlight cut through the darkness, drawing a circle around the man standing at the edge of the building.
"Surrender! You're surrounded from all sides!"
The man's voice from the helicopter was sharp, almost panicked, yet it felt very far from Arthur. Distant—as if it came from behind thick glass that sealed everything away.
Arthur looked up with empty eyes.
The man in the helicopter was waving his arm, pointing at him, shouting something Arthur could no longer hear. The wind lashed around him like invisible blades, cutting into his severe wounds, deepening them with each sting. Raindrops fell from a gray sky, mixing with his blood—and with the blood of the others he had left behind on the rooftop. Beneath him, the blood formed a slow stream, stretching toward the edge before spilling into the void.
He stood at the edge of that towering building, the city beneath his feet blurred, unclear. His face was completely empty—a mask of flesh and skin that expressed nothing. No fear. No regret. No victory.
There was nothing in his mind except one truth: the mission was completed. The debt to that old man had been repaid.
His lips moved slowly, and he whispered a single word no one heard:
"Boring."
Then he opened his arms.
The wind played with his short black hair and the fabric of his bloodstained shirt. For a moment, he seemed to float, as if gravity itself was giving him one last chance to reconsider.
But Arthur was not the type to change his mind.
The man in the helicopter shouted, his voice rising in panic. "No! Wai—"
Then... he jumped.
The air whistled in his ears like the scream of a speeding train, mixed with the wail of sirens growing sharper as he drew closer to the ground. The fall was fast—faster than he expected—yet he felt no fear. Only a cold curiosity. How long would it take? Would he feel the pain at the moment of impact? Or would it be too fast for his mind to register?
His body struck the ground with a dull sound, swallowed by the noise of the city.
Blood spread across the cold pavement, and the rain slowly washed it away, as if the sky were trying to erase what remained.
Then... the sounds were gone.
Exactly as he wanted.
But nothing in this world goes the way anyone wants.
A new sound slipped into his mind. Footsteps—faint at first, then closer. Pain burrowed into his bones, heavy, deep, as if his entire body had been torn into thousands of pieces.
He opened his eyes slowly.
It was difficult, as though his eyelids were weighed down. A bright light came from above, from a massive chandelier hanging from a high ceiling. The light stabbed into his eyes like fine needles, but it was not worse than the strange heaviness filling his body.
He tried to move his fingers. They responded, but with difficulty, as if they had just remembered how to move after a century of sleep.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to catch the details of the place.
It wasn't a hospital.
That was the first thing that settled in his mind. There was no smell of antiseptics, no metal beds, no plastic curtains. The place was... luxurious. A high ceiling carved with golden patterns, a massive crystal chandelier casting a light unlike ordinary lamps. Heavy velvet curtains hung over large windows, beyond which he could see a clear blue sky—and below it... wide gardens, marble towers, white walls.
The silk covering his body felt unnaturally soft.
None of this was familiar.
He rose slowly. The pain was persistent, pricking at every joint, trying to force him back down. But Arthur was not someone who yielded to pain. He ignored it, as always, and stood on trembling legs, walking toward the large mirror on the opposite wall.
His reflection made him stop.
A young man.
A pale face—paler than it should be. Cold, sharp, empty features. Messy black hair falling over his forehead. A jaw carved like stone. A small black mole beneath his left eye, subtle but clear.
And most of all... the eyes.
They were striking, sharp—but their color... crimson. A deep red, glowing like embers under the light, as if a faint fire burned within.
Arthur's eyes widened slightly—the first real reaction to appear on his face in a long time—as a dull headache buzzed in his skull.
This reflection... wasn't him.
Before he could fully grasp what was happening, a voice came from behind him.
"Your Highness! You've finally awakened!"
He turned slowly. An elderly man stood near the large wooden door, dressed in an elegant formal uniform—white with golden buttons. His eyes carried a strange mix: clear worry, deep relief, and a trace of disbelief, as if he were witnessing a miracle.
"Who...?"
Arthur stopped speaking the moment he heard his own voice.
It was different. Sharper. Clearer. As if someone had smoothed out its roughness and reshaped it. It was the voice of a young man—not the voice he had known his entire life.
The old man stepped forward, his voice trembling slightly. "Your Highness, you were in a coma for three months! Everyone believed you wouldn't wake again! The doctors said... said your chances of regaining consciousness were slim. But here you are... thank God!"
A coma? Three months?
Arthur tried to remember. The last thing in his mind was the fall—the rushing wind, the brief moment of absolute freedom... then nothing. Darkness. Emptiness.
He looked at the old man deeply, his mind searching for an explanation. He couldn't believe he was still alive. That impact should have shattered every bone in his body, crushed his skull beyond survival. There was no way.
And this reflection...?
He moved his hand slightly, and the reflection did the same. The red eyes stared back at him from the mirror.
Then suddenly, a voice surfaced in his mind. Not a real voice—but a memory. A distant one. Long days spent lying beside the old man Alexander, while he read that cliché novel in his calm voice...
Something inside Arthur tightened. Tightened in a very uncomfortable way.
He looked at the old man and spoke in a dry voice:
"What is my name?"
The old man stared at him in complete shock. For a moment, the question seemed meaningless—as if someone had asked about the color of the sky on a clear day. Then he shook his head lightly, trying to process that the prince might have forgotten his own name.
"Your Highness... you are the second prince of the Valdrin Empire. Niklaus von Valdrin Theodore Oblivion Azura."
Cold swept through Arthur.
No—not ordinary cold. A deep cold that seeped into his bones... into his soul. That name... felt familiar. Familiar in a disturbing way, one that made the headache in his head grow worse.
Niklaus.
The second prince.
The villain from that trivial novel Alexander always read beside him.
Arthur stood in silence for several seconds, pain throbbing in his head like a second heartbeat. Slowly, he raised his hand, touching his face, his hair, his eyes. He felt the mole beneath his left eye, the sharp jaw, the pale skin.
He looked at the mirror again.
Crimson eyes stared back.
He took a deep breath. Details gradually sharpened in his mind, like an image slowly developing on photographic film.
This world... had its own rules. And Niklaus existed within it as a despised figure, the second prince, unlike anyone else in the imperial family.
But the real question wasn't how this had happened.
It was why.
In the Valdrin Empire, kings and princes were known for their shining golden hair and deep blue eyes. Those were the visible marks of the light coursing through their blood, the power that had made them invincible rulers across generations. Gold and blue were the colors of imperial purity, the sacred blood that set them apart from the rest of humanity.
But Niklaus?
He was something else entirely.
Black as a starless night, hair like midnight; eyes like glowing embers, a curse incarnate within this sacred family. He bore no light, no skill in swordsmanship like his elder brother, no strength that could earn the emperor's pride. He was merely a shadow of the woman the emperor had lost years ago.
His father, Emperor Leonard, could not look at him without remembering the pain. Losing his wife, Empress Elisia, had ripped a piece of his soul. And the cause was known to all: the unknown magic dwelling within Niklaus, the mysterious thing that made his birth a tragedy. Instead of a blessing like his older brother, he was the moment of loss that had taken the only woman the emperor truly loved.
From that moment, the second prince had been nothing but a painful memory. Someone the emperor could not accept—not as a son, not even as a potential heir. He was a cosmic mistake, a wandering specter among the living.
His elder brother, the first prince Adrian, carried the same sorrow. Strong, the perfect heir, a leader who would one day become a great emperor. His golden hair gleamed like sunlight, his blue eyes as deep as the sea. Yet he could not look at his younger brother without feeling grief. To him, Niklaus was merely the cause of their mother's death, the source of the torment he endured.
Thus, their relationship remained cold, superficial, devoid of brotherly warmth. Only mutual neglect united them, two souls bound by blood but not by love.
Whispers followed Niklaus everywhere: a prince without purpose, without strength, without talent, without a clear future... not even a single trace of the grandeur of the imperial family.
Meanwhile, the hero of that novel was his cousin, Ryan Carcellus.
Ryan, heir to the grand duke, was gifted beyond measure in magic and swordsmanship. Belonging to the imperial family, adored by all, his radiant smile drew people like magnets, and his warm voice put everyone at ease. He had the uncanny ability to win hearts effortlessly, as if born with keys to every soul.
By his side was the heroine, Eliana de Valrose, daughter of the marquis. Green-eyed like forests, with long red hair. Strong-willed, yet tender, she had always been close to Ryan since childhood. Always by his side, laughing, supporting him. Their bond was obvious from the start: she loved him, and he loved her.
Niklaus's fiancée, Celine Valdemir, daughter of the northern duke, had been connected to him since childhood. An engagement imposed by the emperor to strengthen political alliances between the noble houses, she remained an innocent girl with a pure heart, seeing good even in one who did not believe in himself. She loved Niklaus in her own way—but her feelings found no echo in him.
At first, they had all been close friends.
Yes, there had been days, in a distant childhood, when they played together in the palace gardens. Ryan, Eliana, Kyle, Celine, and young Niklaus. No rivalry, no hatred, only children in a world they did not yet understand.
But as time passed, Niklaus realized something unpleasant.
All the warmth he craved from his father was never meant for him. Every attention he hoped to earn from his brother was given to Ryan. Every feeling he sought existed somewhere he did not belong.
Ryan was the one seated beside the emperor at banquets. Ryan received Adrian's guidance in swordsmanship.
Finally, he understood the truth: he was nothing but a shadow within this palace.
Jealousy crept into his heart like a wild plant splitting stone. He could not stop it. By the age of twelve, his relationships with everyone changed.
Ryan was strong, beloved, skilled in both sword and magic. Niklaus... was nothing.
No, worse than nothing. A constant reminder that imperial blood could fail, produce something malformed, something unworthy.
Everyone saw him as the second prince without talent, a person of no real significance.
At fourteen, the real struggle began between him and Ryan. It was no longer hidden feelings or jealous glances; it became open hatred, fierce rivalry, a desire to prove he still existed. He challenged Ryan at everything—chivalry, studies, any field he could claim—but he always lost. Always.
By sixteen, the actual story began.
The Imperial Academy, where nobles and the powerful honed their skills, where kingdoms' fates were decided. Niklaus entered with top marks in theory exams but was useless in magic or combat. On the training grounds, he sweated under the sun while others advanced confidently. Their swords danced in their hands; his felt as heavy as stone.
He had no strength, no skill to match others. He was mocked, nicknamed "The Empty Prince." A title without power.
Ryan, by contrast, shone from the very first moment. Extraordinary strength, unmatched swordsmanship, everyone saw him as the empire's true future. On the training grounds, he stood like living sculpture, sword an extension of his arm.
In that moment, Niklaus felt everything collapse.
Thus began his descent into darkness.
Then came the great war between humans and demons, the moment that defined everything. Amid chaos and destruction, Niklaus found himself in the midst, choosing what he believed was salvation—but it was only the path to the end. He fell into the demons' embrace, selling himself not for power, but for revenge against a world that had never acknowledged him.
In the end, it was Ryan who ended him. Killed him with his own hands, saving the world from the second prince's evil. Yet the story did not end; after the second prince's death, demons spread across the continent, destroying it entirely.
But... did any of this matter to Arthur?
Of course not.
A trivial, meaningless story. Boring, as he expected. A repetitive cliché of the perfect hero prince, adored by everyone, while the villain lurked in shadows—only to be removed so the hero could flourish.
Empty story.
Everything designed to make the hero shine, the villain fall into nothingness, insignificant, a mere tool for the plot—supposedly reaching a happy ending. But here, it ended differently. Predictably unexpected, yet the novel remained banal to Arthur.
Why, then, did Alexander read it?
Arthur asked himself this repeatedly, dredging up distant memories. Alexander was not a man drawn to stories, especially not cliché ones. He was a veteran killer, having seen the world's dark side more than anyone. So why this novel?
Then he remembered...
The old man read it quietly. Not focusing on the hero's grand feats or glorious battles, but always pausing on the villain. He read Niklaus's parts carefully, in a lower tone, as if sharing something private.
"This man..." Alexander once whispered, putting the book aside to look at Arthur. "He is the only one who feels true emptiness. The only one someone like him could understand..."
Perhaps it wasn't the story itself that mattered, but the man who didn't belong, the marginalized, forgotten figure no one sees.
But it no longer mattered.
Just a trivial story and trivial characters.
And, regrettably, he had become part of it, whether he liked it or not.
He did not wish for any of this. Staying alive alone was irritating, headache-inducing, filling his mind with unanswerable questions.
Before he could plunge deeper into thought, the silence was broken by a slow, heavy knock on the massive wooden door.
The knock was an announcement, not a request.
A tall man entered.
Emperor Leonard Valdrin.
He carried authority that required no declaration, a presence that filled the room before a word was spoken. His golden hair gleamed under the chandelier like a natural crown, his blue eyes sharp and rigid, like a frozen lake in a long winter. His gaze carried no emotion, only cold assessment.
The elderly servant bowed instantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but swallowed the words when the emperor pointed a single finger toward the door. The gesture was small but sufficient. The servant bowed once more and left swiftly.
At the door, a woman remained.
Brown hair tightly tied in a bun, wide green eyes filled with worry, though her posture remained confident. Countess Eleanor Greenfell, the governess who had accompanied Niklaus since childhood. Her gaze was not like the emperor's—no coldness, no indifference—but silent concern, love restrained under layers of discipline.
She stood at the threshold.
Emperor Leonard remained silent for a moment, studying his son with unreadable eyes. No one could know what they concealed. Then his voice cut through, low and sharp as a sword drawn from its sheath:
"Finally awake."
There was no care in the words, no concern, not even relief. Just confirmation of an event meaningless to him.
Niklaus lifted his gaze to him, facing that polar cold with equal frost in his eyes. No reason to feign respect he did not feel, no need to draw emotions he did not possess. He answered plainly:
"As you see."
The emperor's face did not change. As if he expected nothing else.
The first prince, Adrian, entered.
The true heir, perfect in every way. Golden hair cascading over his shoulders, blue eyes as deep as the ocean. He stood beside his father, looking at Niklaus with eyes that held hidden pain, an old wound not yet healed.
Breaking the silence in a cold voice:
"Three months of coma... do you feel any different?"
Niklaus did not answer.
He had no mood to respond. The conversation was like a scripted scene,To him, playing Niklaus was meaningless.
His silence weighed heavier than any word.
Adrian's gaze froze for a moment. For an instant, he seemed about to say more, to breach the icy distance—but he did not. He cast one last side glance, full of unspoken words, then turned and walked out as he entered.
His footsteps were light on the marble floor, yet the echo lingered.
The emperor showed no twitch in his rigid expression. He looked at Niklaus one final moment, perhaps to affirm something, perhaps to contemplate a final word. Then he spoke, his words like stones thrown into still water:
"Your entry into the Academy will proceed as planned. Be ready."
Then he turned to the governess: "Eleanor, follow me."
He exited as he entered—cold, formal, devoid of emotion.
The governess nodded quietly, but before leaving, she quickly approached Niklaus. From the jug on the side table, she poured a glass of water and placed it within reach. Her glance lingered briefly, enough to convey: Drink, you need it. I worry for you.
Then she left, closing the door gently behind her.
Niklaus stared at the closed door. Then at the glass.
Indifferent.
That suited him. He would not have to speak to them at all.
Though he had no desire to be here—knowing this was no dream, no illusion, only reality pressing upon him—and though countless questions swirled in his mind about why he had ended up in this place, exhaustion weighed heavier than any question, heavier than any pain, heavier than all this absurdity.
Slowly, he went back to the bed, lay upon the soft silk, and closed his eyes.