"Richard… my boy, go. Get out of this city, get out of this country. The army of the rebel Jutian has entered our capital and is rushing toward the palace. The royal guards can hardly hold back their advance. Go, my child, go—you are the only hope of the Winster Kingdom, and the only hope of our Stuart family…"
"No! Father, I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave here!"
"Silly boy. Use the secret passage. Go south, to the Ravana Kingdom. Find your grandfather and seek refuge with him. For your mother's sake, he will take you in."
"What about you? Come with me!"
"No. I will stand with my kingdom to the end. Richard, you are the only heir to the throne, my only child. Remember—you must live. And when you are grown, you will return to Jutian for revenge…"
Boom!
Just then, a high tower outside the palace collapsed, followed by endless cheers and cries of slaughter, as if countless men were rushing toward the palace.
"Kill! Enter the palace and capture King Alfonso! End the corrupt Stuart dynasty!"
"…"
"Go! Go! Magnus, my friend—take him away, send him to Ravana!"
"…"
Boom!
"King Alfonso is dead! Long live the new king Julian! Long live the Philip dynasty!"
…
"No!"
In the darkness, a slender young man suddenly woke from his sleep. Cold sweat drenched his forehead and soaked through his robe.
"Why… why do I always see that scene?"
The young man clutched his long, smooth golden hair in anguish. The memory of that night a month ago remained vivid, seared into his soul like a brand he could never forget.
What a terrifying scene—the burning palace, the collapsed buildings, and the black eagle flag fluttering in the air. The screams and wails before impending death still echoed faintly in the young man's ears, mingled with desperate curses and cries.
Days of nightmares had drained him, body and spirit alike. If not for the imperial guards who had loyally protected him, he might have collapsed along the way.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, feeling the clammy touch of wet clothes clinging to his back, the young man drew a deep breath. Slowly, he rose, pulled aside the curtain of the tent, and stepped softly outside. Silence greeted him, broken only by the faint crackle of the bonfire. By its light, he could see a few heavily armed soldiers slumped against tree trunks, half-asleep.
He did not intend to wake them. Instead, he stood at the doorway, letting the cold wind wash over him. The clean air—so unlike the suffocating air of his former world—filled his lungs. The chill against his back cleared his restless thoughts.
Yes, he was no native of this world. His body was the rightful heir of the prosperous Winster Kingdom, but his soul belonged to an ordinary college student from another life.
He did not know how he had crossed over. The only thing he remembered was boarding a Malaysia Airlines flight with his parents, leaving Kuala Lumpur to return to China. He had fallen asleep on the plane, and when he awoke, his consciousness had taken control of this body—while fully inheriting the memories of the boy named Richard.
And with him had come something else: a so‑called Total War System, which had revealed itself only once.
Richard had no understanding of the so‑called Total War System. From the moment he had possessed the young prince until now—more than half a month later—he had heard nothing from it beyond its businesslike welcome and self-important introduction. After that, silence. No matter how he called, it was in vain.
The system, which had appeared inexplicably, claimed to be adapted from the game Medieval II: Total War on the laptop Richard had carried aboard the plane. Its mission, it declared, was to assist him in this strange world, to help him build a powerful kingdom of his own.
Yet, as mentioned, after that single introduction the system had fallen mute. No matter how often Richard tried to summon it, there was never a reply. After countless unanswered calls, his frustration turned to anger, and at last he abandoned the system with its empty promises. Instead, he placed all his hopes in the loyal Guards.
After all, compared to an unreliable phantom, heavily armed and steadfast soldiers inspired true confidence.
A gust of cold wind swept past, and Richard shivered. It was already late autumn, the air growing colder with each passing day. The poor, clad in rags, froze in the streets.
This was reality—a harsh, unyielding reality.
From Richard's memory, it was clear that the level of technology in this world was roughly equivalent to the eleventh century on Earth—the Middle Ages. As far as he could tell, the customs here differed little from those of medieval Europe. The only true distinction lay in religion: faiths were diverse, and there was no such thing as the Catholic Church.
Although Richard carried with him the knowledge of someone who had lived a thousand years beyond this era, much of it was useless. The basic tools of civilization already existed, and the only practical advantage he possessed was a vague familiarity with gunpowder recipes.
In other words, aside from the potential of introducing gunpowder, Richard had no means of altering the technological path of this world. Even then, he did not know the precise ratios of the raw materials. If he attempted to mix them blindly, he feared he might blow himself apart.
Shaking his head, Richard let out a low, self-mocking laugh. When he thought about it carefully, he seemed to be the most useless time traveler in history. In his previous life, he had been nothing more than a freshman in the art department, with no skills beyond painting. If he had been reborn as an ordinary man, perhaps he could have survived by selling his art. But as a prince in exile, such a talent was utterly meaningless.
After all, no one would ever ask a prince to paint for coin.
"Ah! Your Highness, are you awake?"
At that moment, a young voice sounded from ahead. Richard turned toward it and saw two heavily armed Praetorian Guards standing respectfully before him.
"Yes, yes. Since I cannot sleep, I thought I might come out for some air," Richard said, his gaze drifting to the simple wooden fence lit by the fire. Then he asked, "Is everything normal? Have Julian's lackeys caught up?"
"At present, none," one of the soldiers replied. He glanced at the sky, gauging the hour, and added, "Your Highness, we must depart very early tomorrow. If you return to rest now, you can regain your strength."
"I understand." Richard nodded. "Stand your watch. I will rest again."
As the two soldiers withdrew, Richard let out a long sigh. He returned to the tent, lay down upon the sweat‑stained sheets, closed his eyes, and once more sank into that terrible memory…