Aurelien stood before the king, his expression unreadable—a poker face perfected with effort. But beneath that still mask, Dave's mind swirled with unrest. His thoughts raced chaotically, a storm of disbelief and unease. In the span of two days, his life had flipped on its head, thrust from the tragic reality of his family's murder to an even more surreal existence: he was now someone else—a prince.
In all the webtoons he had read, most transmigrators were summoned by gods, armed with destiny and blessed systems, trained to slay demon lords. But Dave? He got none of that. No divine tutorials, no helpful inner voice, no glowing interface giving him a map to success. He had only uncertainty and the crushing pressure of a role he didn't ask for.
At least… at least this prince, Aurelien, wasn't surrounded by hate. There were no envious siblings scheming behind tapestries, no poisonous court politics tearing him down—at least, none he could sense yet. Aurelien had a good father, a wise king. The nobles respected him. The people looked up to him. This body carried the reputation of a genius: humble, brilliant, and noble.
But genius or not, Dave was crumbling inside.
The burden of being Aurelien—of living someone else's life, of performing to someone else's impossible standards—was unbearable. Who had decided that reincarnation was a blessing? Why should Dave be grateful? He hadn't asked for this. He didn't sign some heavenly consent form. If he had a choice, he'd have stayed with his family in the afterlife—whatever form it took. He'd take a blank white void and stale coffee with his parents over this grandeur and gilded pain.
Fate had given him the finger and called it a second chance.
Now, he wasn't just expected to adapt. He was expected to fight. To carry on. And for what? What was he fighting for anymore? What meaning did life hold when his sole purpose—his family—was gone? If he gave life his all, would it only betray him again?
Even the question of where to start seemed impossible. He had a week before a royal pilgrimage—the same as being thrown into a cage with a 90% chance of death. Actually, scratch that—maybe even higher. The real Aurelien had a shot at survival. A fourth-level tri-element mage? A genius warrior? Sure. But Dave? A modern teenager with zero combat experience and a single fluke kill under his belt?
Zero knowledge of mana. Zero training. Zero memory of how this body used magic.
His odds of survival? Zero.
Unless… he could recover Aurelien's memories. Unless he could become Aurelien.
He watched his father—the king—with quiet intensity. King Caelum's voice had been calm, composed, as he issued the order for Aurelien's pilgrimage. But his eyes betrayed him. They shimmered with regret, and a father's pain. Caelum had raised his only child alone. He had watched him grow into a beacon of hope. He had seen firsthand how the title of genius was a double-edged blade—celebrated when things went well, condemned when the genius failed to live up to expectations.
And in this kingdom, expectations were everything. Aurelien wasn't just a prince. He was the Aegis—the future protector of the realm. If the kingdom were to discover that their Aegis had faltered, or worse, that he was not who they believed… the fallout would be catastrophic. Rebellion. War. Collapse.
Caelum was no fool. He sent his son to face death not out of cruelty, but out of desperate love. He bore the weight of a nation's hope on his back—and now, his son bore it too. To protect him in the long run, Caelum had to be cruel in the short. His love was not absent. It was heavy. Almost unbearable. But so was the crown.
Dave excused himself from the audience chamber, another burden freshly added to his already staggering load. Time was ticking.
The Week Before the Pilgrimage
Desperation gave Dave purpose. He didn't waste a second. Every hour was accounted for.
He spent the first day attempting to reconnect with the memories buried in Aurelien's body. They didn't come easily. Only once, when he had touched the letter on the desk, had something stirred—vague images, scattered impressions. He needed more. He had to remember.
That night, he tried a different approach. He sat cross-legged in the quiet of Aurelien's chamber, focusing on the ebb and flow of breath, trying to feel the mana that once coursed through this vessel. After hours of silence, a flicker of warmth stirred in his chest. Then it vanished.
On the second day, he pushed harder. He read through Aurelien's magical journals—thank the stars the boy had been thorough. They spoke of fire as a temperamental, primal force—dangerous, but willing to listen to a voice that spoke with conviction.
"To command fire, one must ignite the fire within."
It took until the third day for Dave to form his first spell.
He raised his hand, voice trembling, and chanted:
"Ignis Primus: Cinders."(just normal fireball)
A small flame danced at his palm. It fizzled in seconds. But he had done it. He had cast fire magic.
The next two days were grueling. Every success came with failure. He pushed his body to exhaustion, his voice raw from chanting. Every mistake seared his skin or blew out furniture. But by the fifth day, he had stabilized the first spell and unlocked the next:
"Ignis Secundus: Flammae Lance!"( second level magic flame lance)
A wave of focused heat shot from his palm, like a lance of burning air. Stronger. More precise.
The sixth day brought more memory fragments—Aurelien's childhood sparring sessions, his quiet triumphs, his pain. Dave absorbed them with fervor. He was running out of time.
On the seventh day, he broke through the third tier.
"Ignis Tertius: Blazeburst!"(third level magic firestorm)
The explosive surge knocked him back. It melted the practice dummy. It scorched the marble.
But he smiled. He was getting closer.
On the final night before departure, drenched in sweat, trembling, bruised and hollowed by desperation, he stood before a training wall, flame in his heart, and roared:
"Ignis Quartus: Vallum Ignis!"(foruth level magic:firewall)
A grand shield of swirling fire surged upward—a burning wall that hissed and roared. Defensive magic. He collapsed after casting it, but it stood strong even as he hit the ground.
He had done it. One element. Four levels. Seven days.
He wasn't ready. Not really. But he was alive. He was trying.
And now, he was going to war.
Not necessarily war but a fight for his life on this line.