The universe was silent.
Silent, but never still.
In the endless darkness of outer space—where even the stars looked like dying embers—a lone starship drifted like a phantom. Its surface shimmered faintly, cloaked in stealth, its destination unknown.
Beneath its alloy hull, deep within the vessel's heart, machines whirred in restless rhythm. Colored solutions pulsed through glass tubes, converging upon a single structure: a coffin-like chamber.
Not quite a coffin—yet close.
Inside lay a man of distinguished origin, his body motionless, his mind locked in a battle unseen. For six months he had remained like this, unconscious, trapped between life and death.
The crew was right to be afraid.
A breakthrough of this stage—the Third Realm, the Realm of Spirit Opening (or Spirit Condensation, as some named it)—never took this long. This realm was meant for awakening the spirit, expanding perception to a full circle, seeing the currents of the world, and wielding strength through understanding. Ordinarily, the process was swift. Never six months.
And so, as they did each month, the ship's leaders convened in the grand hall. They studied the Prince's vital signs, argued in frustration, their voices shaking even the soundproofed walls.
Yes—Prince. That single word was the storm's heart.
Because of it, every debate burned louder, sharper, as though their arguments alone might shatter fate.
Then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound cut through the chaos like a blade. Silence fell instantly. All eyes turned to the source, and then to the man whose presence outweighed all others.
Without hesitation, he accepted the call.
A hologram flared into existence above the table, so vivid it was as if the figure herself stood among them.
At once, every man in the hall rose to his feet, a hand pressed against his chest.
"Lady Grace!" they intoned.
She was ethereal—hair flowing like liquid midnight, eyes blacker than the void itself. Radiant. Untouchable. And yet, her gaze ignored them all, fastening only upon the man who had answered.
"Emil," she said, her voice a velvet command. "Report."
The armored man bowed his head. His battle-suit was so sleek it resembled ceremonial regalia more than war-gear.
"Lady Grace, our apologies. We still do not understand the reason for the Young Master's delay. It is… disturbing. Unrealistic. Doctor Greed is investigating even now. We will have answers soon."
Her eyes narrowed."Six months. If I am not mistaken?"
The words were edged with steel."I will not ask again. Report directly when the truth is found."
"Yes, my Lady," Emil said firmly.
Her gaze swept the others briefly, dismissively, before she ended with a single word:
"Gentlemen."
The hologram dissolved into nothingness.
Not a single man had dared to breathe while she spoke. Compared to her, they were shadows before a blazing star.
Emil exhaled quietly, then spoke.
"Return to your duties."
"Yes, Sir Emil," the others echoed. One by one, the commanders withdrew, their footsteps echoing into silence. Within moments, the hall stood empty.
Empty, save Emil.
He remained, staring at the fading shimmer where she had stood. His thoughts weighed heavy.
As I feared… the Young Master's standing slips further with every passing day. For the family to send the Vice-Head Maid—rather than a blood relative—to confirm his condition… this cannot be a good sign.
His jaw tightened.
To treat a Prince of the Empire as though a servant's report is enough… they no longer see him as heir. Only as burden.
The thought pierced his chest like a blade. His oath as Royal Guard was clear: to protect his master's life. Yet what use was protection, when the boy's own family eroded his honor piece by piece?
----
Meanwhile, within the chamber—
The Prince was lost in madness. This was supposed to be a simple breakthrough in his soul space. A Dimension only accessible to him. But the situation has turned upside down.
For he did not know how that thing arrived in my dimension, only that the presence above him was relentless.
Its voice scraped across his mind like chalk on a board:
[Survive.]
Distorted. Broken. But always the same command.
And so he fought. Again and again. Every failure. Every death. Rising only to be cast down, thrown into the trial once more.
But in that endless torment, he found something new. A spark. A strength he had never known.
His brothers and sisters had always been ahead. He had lived in their shadow, every effort of his crushed beneath ridicule. A tsunami of scorn and expectations. They hadn't even spared him mockery during exams.
But here—here he discovered power.
This time… I'll survive. Just wait, bastards. I'll be back.
The tattoos along his body flared blood-red, feeding strength into his limbs. He lunged, blade in hand.
"Tyrant Body Technique—First Form: Thunder Slash!"
He shot forward, faster than sound, cleaving his prey with a single diagonal strike. Seamless. Perfect. A technique honed a thousand times, flowing like art.
A crooked smirk curled his lips. No one could withstand that.
And yet—his body froze.
"What…? What's happening? What did you do to me?!" Panic tore at his voice. His limbs slowed. His thoughts dulled. His breath faltered.
So this is it? After all that fighting… is this how I die?
The voice returned. Clear. Absolute.
[Prime Contesting Soul Status: Deceased.]
[Challenged Party: You are now the Prime Soul of this body.]
[This game is now over.]
[Prime Soul — as victor, you may choose one of the following:]
[1. Inner Talent | 2. Sacred Heavenly Body | 3. Primordial Battleship | 4. True Spirit Source | 5. Bloodline]
The Prince understood. The words were not for him. He was dying. His body, his identity, his very existence—stolen.
Yet even as the darkness claimed him, a smirk lingered in his mind.
Take my body. Take my name. But know this—you'll inherit every curse, every burden, every shred of hell that comes with it.
And with that thought, the weight upon his heart lifted. His soul unraveled, light and unshackled.
The Prince died. Peacefully.
Unburdened.
----
The man who had been slashed stood frozen, flabbergasted. Not at the strange world around him, but at the sudden, suffocating weight of death pressing against his mind and body. He tried to scream—only to realize there was no mouth on his face. His skin was smooth, featureless. Faceless.
It felt like a dream. Unreal.
Perhaps it was. He couldn't even recall the last time he had dreamed. Sleep had always come late to him—so late that when others stirred awake, he was only just collapsing into bed. That was why this felt so wrong, so impossible.
Then it came.
A voice—if it could be called that—scraped against his ear like broken chalk dragged across a board.
[Prime Contesting Soul: Status — Deceased.]
[Challenged Party: You are now the Prime Soul of this body.]
[This game is now over.]
[Prime Soul — as victor, you may choose one of the following:]