When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was… a stone ceiling.
Yeah. A ceiling. Gray, cold, and dotted with mold. Definitely not mine. Unless the university had decided to replace the cracked plaster of my student dorm room with some medieval dungeon style... Something was off.
I blinked... The stone stayed. Great...
I tried lifting a hand. It felt like trying to move a mountain. My muscles squeaked like a rusty door, every fiber screaming in protest. When my hand slid at least into view, I almost screamed.
That was a thin hand, almost translucent, with blue veins running beneath the skin. Long, elegant fingers... but definitely not mine!
Normally my fingers was short, my hands dry and blotched with eczema from stress. Not this! Not this pale, aristocratic thing, looking like it belonged to a depressed vampire who hadn't seen the sun in centuries!
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
Where was I? What happened to me? Why my hand changed so much?
The room around me looked like it had been pulled straight from a dusty illustrated history book… the "decrepit ruins" edition.
I was lying in a canopy bed, its curtains sagging in dusty tatters. The fabric was so old it shredded at the edges. The ceiling of the canopy had collapsed entirely, becoming like a frame for the oozing, cracked ceiling above me. Moisture beaded in the stone fissures, droplets trembling, ready to fall on me at any moment.
No windows. Just bare stone walls. The air stank of mildew, mixed with boiled herbs and melted wax. Like an old grandma's wardrobe forgotten in a damp cellar.
I tried sitting up. Nope. My body nailed me to the bed... Stiff, heavy, and screaming with pain.
So, I waited.
And, naturally, my mind began to drift.
If I had died… well, it wasn't that tragic.
My "life" before already felt like a slow death.
Trapped in a ten-square-meter studio, crushed under studies that devoured my days and nights, enslaved to dreams that weren't mine…
My parents had never loved me for who I was:they loved me for what I could bring to their reputation, their social standing. "You'll be a lawyer." "You'll be brilliant." "You'll be our pride."
I wasn't their son—I was their project.
Childhood friends? Long gone. Who has time to bond when every days are spent swallowed by cramming until collapse?
I had no social life. No desires. No freedom.
So yeah, strangely enough, waking up in a moldy medieval bedroom with a hand that wasn't mine… was kind of thrilling.
For the first time in years, I felt like everything was possible.
Someone knocked at the door.
Panic shot through me. I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep. eeking through a slit, I caught sight of her entering quietly.
Not waiting for a reply, a small woman, head bowed in respect, come in. She wore a worn-out brown tunic, far too big for her, and went barefoot. Light brown skin, long black hair braided cascading down her shoulders, framing her round face.But most of all… she had cat ears twitching on top of her head.
I blinked, dumbfounded. Seriously? Cat ears? I reincarnated in another world, and the very first person I meet is a half-cat maid?
It looked like an overused anime "cliché". Yet she felt… real.
She sat on a rickety chair beside the bed, picked up a thick book from the nightstand carefully. Her timid voice filled the room:
"Your Majesty, to help you sleep, I shall continue reading today from the History of Almaris from the Book of the Suspended Realms, hoping these tales reach you and bring you comfort."
Opening the book, she went on:
At the beginning, when the dragon gods shattered the earth to divide the world from the heavens, colossal fragments were torn from the ancient ground and left to drift in eternal mist.Thus were the floating realms born, some blessed by the celestial whales, others nourished by magic, allowing them to journey between realms.But Almaris, a small isle drowned in mist, never touched by direct sunlight, received little favor. Its once fertile lands withered under endless drought. It relied on other realms for survival, doubly so, for Almaris bore neither tamers nor mages. Where others prospered, it decayed.The ancients said: "The gods deprive out of love, for a better life in the afterworld."The kings of Almaris ruled as best they could, forced to accept the burden of becoming the prison of the skies. For neighboring empires, eager to rid themselves of the irredeemable, chose to cast their lifetime convicts here—too dangerous even to enslave. Thus Almaris endured, fed not on riches, but on chains and suffering.The punishment did not end there. King Dragobert II and Queen Athilde perished of a strange, devastating plague. Their only child, Prince Dragobert III, was stricken as well, but survived—locked since the age of ten in eternal slumber.The ministers were forced to bear the kingdom's burden, hoping their faithful service would be rewarded by the gods with the prince's awakening, so that he might wed, take the crown, and revive their fading empire.
As she read that last part, the cat-woman's voice faltered, her expression shifting into a mixture of disgust and sorrow. It was as though the words hurt her to speak. Beneath her tone, I sensed a spark of anger. Her ears folded back, and from beneath her tunic I glimpsed a cat's tail flicking nervously like a taut metronome. She pressed on:
Almaris is a ghost kingdom, with a ghost prince, both lost in the mists—neither truly dead, nor fully alive.Yet the elders still whisper, clinging to hope:"The prince sleeps, but the day will come when he awakens. Then the mists will part, and the fate of Almaris will change."
Suddenly, I understood: I was that sleeping prince. Somehow, I had reincarnated into this body, in this world. I was no longer the hollowed-out student trapped in a concrete cage, waiting to maybe, someday, live for myself. I was… this sleeping prince. A scorned prince, yes—but a prince nonetheless. With a kingdom to save.And, against all odds… I liked it.
The cat-woman must have been here for a long time, "keeping me company" during my coma. Her voice was soft, hesitant, yet diligent. She stumbled on certain words, whispered apologies, blushed faintly, then continued.
I let my eyelids sink lower, listening curiously to her calm voice and this fantasy world straight out of a video game. I was a prince, in a kingdom despised by others, lying in a room that looked like a dungeon—but I had been given a new life, in a world of floating realms in the sky! No matter how grim the setting, the thought thrilled me.
She kept reading about the floating realms. When a droplet that had been hanging from the ceiling finally splashed onto my face, I barely managed to suppress my reflex to flinch. She lifted her head, and I quickly closed my eyes tight.
"My poor prince, what they put you through…" she murmured, voice trembling with emotion.
I heard the chair creak as she stood. A cloth dabbed at my forehead. Then—another drop, but warm this time. She was crying.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, forgive me… I do all I can, but it will never be enough. You deserve so much more!"
A small silence. She stepped back, lowering her head again, biting her lip as if ashamed of letting her feelings slip. Then, more softly, almost like a secret confession:
"… I believe you will wake. Someday."
My chest tightened. She had no idea I was here, trapped in this body—but that the prince she longed for was gone…
She busied herself cleaning, using only her hands and apron, lacking broom or brush.
Then—the door groaned open with a dreadful creak. My heart leapt. Instinctively, I shut my eyes fully, forcing myself to breathe slow and steady.
"Slave!" a deep voice barked. "Still loitering here? Go do real chores instead of hovering over that half-corpse!"
"Yes, Duke Veynard!" she replied at once, contrite.
I heard her light, quick steps retreat. Heavier ones replaced them, slow and deliberate, approaching me.I kept still. My heart hammered.
"Hmph. Still breathing, that vegetable?" sneered the same deep voice that had scolded the cat-girl.
"What does it matter?" another man replied. "As long as we have his finger, he's useful enough. Better like this than dead—it makes things simpler."
A hand seized mine. They pressed my thumb against a parchment, hard and careless, then let my limp arm drop like garbage.
"His Majesty Dragobert III has signed the new decree," one of them mocked in an exaggeratedly formal tone.
Fat laughter echoed.
"The old man will be delighted! And to think we're the ones doing the dirty work, coming down to this crypt to see a cadaver," one said, chuckling then snarling.
"You don't want him moved back into the castle, do you? A corpse would be out of place there. I wouldn't sleep well knowing it was so close," answered another.
"That's not what I meant—I just wish the old man weren't so stiff about protocol. No need for this fingerprint nonsense, and even less for us to fetch it in person."
Not a word to me. Not a glance.As if I wasn't there. As if I were… an object. A piece of furniture. A walking signature.
When they finally left, I cracked open my eyes. Two plump men, one shorter and in his fifties, the other even older, both draped in velvet and silk embroidered with gold thread, glittering with as much jewelry as a body could carry.
The door slammed behind them, snuffing out one of the only two candles in the room, leaving me in near darkness. They left behind a cloud of suffocating perfume, more nauseating than the musty air of this so-called "room."
Despite the shock, an ironic smile tugged at my lips. Outwardly I remained motionless, but inside, I burned.
So… I'm "His Majesty." But to them I'm just a potted plant. Perfect. This is going to be fun.A new world. Corrupt ministers. A half-cat maid. A terrible name. A kingdom on the edge of ruin… doesn't sound great.But honestly? I've never been more excited. If this were the plot of a video game, I'd buy it instantly.
Prince DragoAwakening
Chapter 1: The Awakening of the Statue
Author: Léonardo de Deuille