The cold bath was a baptism of ice. I lowered myself into the ornate marble tub, a monstrosity of a thing carved with a thousand intricate, swirling patterns, and the shock was immediate and profound. My skin went numb, a wave of shivering seized me, and the air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. This wasn't just a bath; it was an act of war against the body I now inhabited. The old prince would have drowned in his own tears at the thought of such discomfort. The new me, the ghost of Arjun, saw it as a necessary purification.
The water was a physical assault, but it was also a mental one. My old life had been one of academic rigor, not physical endurance. My brain was a supercomputer; this body was a rusted, broken hulk. The cold was a way to force my mind to assert dominance over matter. I focused on my breathing, the deep, measured rhythm of a freediver. I felt the mana inside me, a wild and chaotic river, react to the external shock. The cold was like a dam, forcing the energy to slow, to flow more deliberately, to calm. It was a crude form of mana harmony training, but it was the only tool I had.
When I finally emerged, my skin was red and tingling, my muscles screaming in protest. Alya was waiting, her face a mask of neutrality as she held a towel. She said nothing as I dried myself, but I felt her eyes on me, a mixture of baffled curiosity and professional detachment. I was no longer the prince she knew. I was a problem she didn't know how to solve.
My first task after the bath was exercise. The simple act of moving across the room was a struggle, but my engineering mind was already at work. My body was a complex machine, and it needed to be re-calibrated. I started with simple calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, squats. It was humiliating. My arms, huge and soft, buckled under the weight of my torso. My stomach, a mountain of flesh, prevented me from completing a single sit-up. I could barely manage a half-squat before my knees threatened to give out.
My frustration was a hot, burning coal in my gut, but I used it. I turned it into fuel. I didn't see the fat; I saw inefficient mass. I didn't see the weakness; I saw an unstable structure. My old life's mantra had been "analyze, innovate, execute." I would apply it here. I would start small. I started with planks. I held the position for ten seconds, shaking violently, sweat pouring down my face, before collapsing in a heap. Then I did it again. And again. And again.
My mana, once a wild torrent, began to respond to the strain. The chaotic energy, forced into my straining muscles, began to find a rhythm. It was a painful, agonizing process, but with every moment of exertion, I felt the raw power inside me become a little more organized, a little more mine.
Hours passed in this brutal, repetitive cycle. I didn't stop until my muscles had turned to a jelly-like substance and the room was a blur of exhaustion. Alya, who had come in to retrieve the towel, watched from the corner of the room. Her expression, once one of open disdain, was now a mixture of concern and a new, tentative respect. She saw the sweat, the shaking, the grim determination in my eyes. She saw a man, not a boy, fighting a battle no one else could see.
The next morning, the soreness was a living, breathing entity. Every muscle, every joint, every tendon screamed in protest. Alya brought my breakfast—plain bread and water—and her movements were a little softer, her eyes a little less cold.
"Are you... well, my Prince?" she asked, her voice cautious.
I was hunched over, breathing heavily, trying to stand without collapsing. "I am... re-engineering myself," I said, my voice a strained whisper.
She blinked, confused, but didn't press. She left the room, and I saw a flicker of something in her eyes as she turned away: not just surprise, but a nascent curiosity. The contempt was beginning to chip away.
That afternoon, a messenger arrived from my eldest brother, Prince Julian. A tall, sallow man with a cruel smile, he delivered a letter that was more an insult than an inquiry. It spoke of my "recent illness" and hoped that I would soon be "well enough to attend court and not disgrace our family further." It was a message of ridicule, a probing jab to see if the shame had broken me yet.
The old prince would have crumpled, would have hidden away and drank himself into a stupor. I, however, simply took the letter, read it with a detached air, and handed it back to the messenger.
"Tell Prince Julian that his concern is appreciated," I said, my voice calm. "And tell him that his brother has been reborn."
The messenger's smile faltered. He looked at me, at the sweat on my brow and the trembling in my hands, and saw something he couldn't comprehend: not weakness, but a strange, terrifying strength.
That night, as I lay in bed, my body aching with a pain that felt like a reward, my mind turned to a different kind of problem. The royal family's political games were a problem, but they were a symptom, not the cause. The cause was my own powerlessness, my lack of influence. I needed a foundation, a source of power that was mine alone. The company, "Reborn," was my answer.
I began to analyze the world around me. The court was a place of opulence, but a place of filth as well. The stench of unwashed bodies and sour wine hung in the air. The hygiene was primitive, the soap made of coarse lye that left the skin dry and irritated. My engineering mind saw a market, a need, a simple solution to a complex problem. The soap.
I would create a superior soap, something that would not only clean but also nourish the skin. My knowledge of basic chemistry, the properties of glycerin, and the science of surfactants were the tools I had. I needed to find a way to make it.
The next morning, I called for Alya. She came with a look of resigned wariness.
"Alya," I began, and her name felt strange on my tongue, but I said it with purpose. "I have a task for you. I need you to acquire some ingredients for me. Discreetly."
She hesitated, her eyes narrow with suspicion. "Ingredients, my Prince? For what?"
"For a new business venture," I said, a small, wry smile on my face. "I am going to make soap. Better soap."
She stared at me, a blank look on her face, before a flicker of a smile, quickly suppressed, crossed her lips. "Soap? My Prince is now a candlemaker?" The old disdain was back, but there was a teasing edge to it now.
"I am a businessman," I corrected her. "And you, Alya, are my first and most trusted associate. I will need lye, rendered animal fat, and a variety of fragrant herbs and oils. The purer, the better. Can you do this without drawing attention?"
Her mind, I could tell, was racing. The old prince would never have trusted her with such a task. The old prince would have never had such an idea in the first place. She saw the logic of it, the simple brilliance, and she saw the potential. She was still a servant, but for the first time, she was being treated like an equal.
"I can," she said, a hint of something new and fierce in her voice. "I will need coin."
I reached into my purse, a heavy thing filled with a surprisingly large amount of gold, and handed her a handful. She looked at the gold, then back at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. This was more money than she likely earned in a year.
"Keep the change," I said, a small flicker of my old world's humor crossing my face. "It's your investment in our new company. We'll call it 'Reborn'."
She left the room, her footsteps quick and purposeful. She was no longer just a maid. She was a partner, a spy, and a part of the nascent empire I was building. The first steps had been taken. My body was on the path to becoming a weapon. My mind was on the path to becoming an empire. The war had begun. And the first battle, I knew, was won not with swords, but with soap.
This chapter sets the stage for the rest of your story. It establishes the physical and political challenges, but more importantly, it shows the beginning of the crucial psychological shift for both the prince and Alya.
How does this chapter feel to you?