The steady hum of the infirmary greeted Caden as his senses sharpened. Crystalline devices pulsed with faint blue light, casting fractured patterns across the ceiling. Strange language scrolled across the glass dome of the pod, symbols he didn't recognize but somehow felt directed at him.
He lay on a slab of polished obsidian, its surface cool against his skin, while bands of light traced slow, deliberate sweeps along his body. Caden opened his eyes fully, flexing his fingers, then pushed himself upright. The medical pod shifted seamlessly, reshaping into a reclining bed for his comfort. The technology was astonishing.
Oddly, no one was beside him. Honestly, that suited him perfectly—he didn't want anyone breathing down his neck with questions just yet. He scanned the chamber: racks of tubes in every color, all feeding into the bed; a mirror propped against the far wall; a narrow table; and just enough space to move.
Testing his body, Caden stepped away from the pod. He stretched, dropped into push-ups, then sit-ups, neck rolls, shoulder rotations, balancing on one leg, even squats. Fifteen minutes passed before he stopped.
"If I did that at home, I'd be huffing and puffing on the floor. Weird," he muttered. "There's definitely something different about this body. Did this guy… exercise regularly?"
Then he noticed something—panic spiked.
"Where the fuck is my goti—shit!" The words burst out in his mother tongue before he caught himself. Strictly speaking, he meant a ball-and-socket joint. (Which, in hindsight, was hilarious.)
Meanwhile, Emil and Doctor Greed watched everything unfold through the viewing panel. Relief softened their faces when the prince stood, but confusion quickly followed as he launched into random calisthenics.
Emil frowned at the doctor. "Did the prince just… do a workout? Like some basic exercise routine?"
Doctor Greed adjusted his spectacles, expression unreadable. "Hmm. That means he's good to go. No abnormalities, no backlash, no mutation. All clear."
Emil stared at him, unimpressed. He had asked one thing and received an entirely different answer. With a resigned sigh, he let it go and pressed the small brass button beside him. The bell echoed inside the chamber.
Caden froze, startled. He glanced at the door and spotted two figures peering in through the window.
"Damn it. No privacy, huh? Guess I'd better answer." He muttered under his breath, though part of him wanted to stay silent and keep to himself.
Still, he needed time. Those alien memories—memories that weren't his—were pressing against his mind. He raised a hand, gesturing for them to wait, and returned to the bed. Closing his eyes, he began parsing the flood of information.
"This guy's definitely a noble," he whispered. "Wait… what? His name is Caden too? Caden de Aurelius Titanheart…"
The name hit him like a hammer. A prince. He was inside a prince's body. His chest tightened, a suffocating weight pressing down. His emotions started to stir a little. He was not an emotionless psycho. Even he felt bad for this guy, especially when he saw the scenes during the exam. Although he took the paper, the answers he prepared did not come at all. It was announced, but he didn't get the update. only him. Still, he barely passed. Leaving a bad taste.
Why does this feel so heavy?
But he kept going. Five minutes—that was all it took to run through the prince's entire life. Twenty-three years, digested like scenes from a film. A depressing one at that. He didn't even like watching movies unless they were action or adventure, but this was something else entirely.
The most depressing part? Now he was supposed to keep living as this person.
"Nah. Definitely not. No way I'm gonna keep living like this," he muttered, though the words felt hollow even to himself.
The bell chimed again. With a groan, he stood and trudged to the door.
The moment it slid open, Emil and Doctor Greed burst inside, frantic. They moved like raiders storming a barricade, making Caden jump back. Emil was quicker—he caught his young master in a firm grip and guided him back onto the bed.
"Young master," Doctor Greed said, voice clipped but uneasy, "you have been inside the medical pod for six months and fifteen days. Allow me to perform a final examination for the record."
The words stunned Caden. Six months? He'd been unconscious for half a year?
Emil's voice cut sharper. "Master, your cultivation… what happened to your cultivation? I can't sense a speck of energy from you."
Doctor Greed froze mid-motion, his eyes widening as he confirmed the same result. His instruments showed no trace of the prince's once-powerful aura.
Emil's gaze turned to Caden, sharp and anxious. "Young master—what happened?"
Caden's mind raced. Thankfully, the prince's memories lent him context. He steadied his breath and replied smoothly, "It metamorphosed. Such things have happened before in our family. I know the side effects, the risks. I was fortunate. Luck was on my side."
"Luck?" Emil's voice cracked with exasperation. "Young master, if this is your idea of luck, then you've claimed first place in misfortune."
Doctor Greed nodded silently, lips pressed tight.
Caden forced himself not to bristle. The servant was far too free with his words, but perhaps that freedom came from loyalty. Still, inwardly, irritation stirred.
This guy talks too much.
But beneath the irritation, truth lingered. He had lost the cultivation known as Vitalforce. The knowledge of its techniques still lingered in his mind, but without the energy itself, they were empty tricks. Third Realm. If he was right, he should have reached the realm of Spirit Condensation. Where his awareness and senses would have extended outwards like a radar. Specifically, like LiDAR Technology. Well, he articulated that way without feeling it.
Vitalforce—an energy bound to vitality itself. Unlike lifeforce, which passively determines how long one lives like 60-100 years, Vitalforce could be actively cultivated. Felt. Strengthened. Harnessed. It was the Empire's most widely taught path, the standard upon which nobles built their strength. It was especially good for the bloodline holders. Although named somewhat aggressively. Its name aptly.
And his had vanished.