The steady rhythm of hooves and the subtle creak of carriage wheels continue for what feels like an eternity. The protagonist remains perfectly still, a silent statue of internal anxiety, meticulously observing the fleeting glimpses of the unfamiliar world and the unwavering professionalism of his armed escort. Then the silence breaks. A distinct clip-clop draws closer, followed by the muffled sound of armor shifting just outside the window. The carriage slows slightly, and a voice—deep, resonant, clearly accustomed to giving orders—cuts through the ambient noise.
"Crown Prince. We are about to reach the eastern gates. We anticipate reaching the Capital of Eldrath in four days' time."
The two simple sentences act not as geographical information but as a devastating shock to his carefully maintained composure. His jaw drops in sheer astonishment. The jarring specificity of the place name overwhelms even the fact of his transmigration. Wait… Eldrath. The name resonates instantly, a powerful chord struck deep within his memory. Eldrath isn't just a name—it's the geographically and politically significant Eastern Kingdom featured prominently in the low-graphics, story-rich game he'd literally died playing two days for days.
Driven by desperate need for confirmation, he leans forward sharply, pressing his face close to the latticed window to get a clear view of the mounted figure. The armor is high-quality, bearing a distinct regal crest. But it's the man's face—sharp, scarred, framed by a short severe beard—that yanks the last shred of denial from his grip. He recognizes him completely, down to the severe set of his shoulders. This is Vice Commander Hilowat, a secondary but loyal military figure of the game's primary faction, the Great Empire. The recognition is absolute, chilling, undeniable. He's not hallucinating. He's physically inhabiting the world of the game.
He falls back heavily onto the luxurious crimson seat, the shock forcing air from his lungs. This can't be. I'm in that game? But the horror is only beginning. Hilowat hadn't addressed him as 'Sir' or 'Mister.' The title used was unmistakable and carried the suffocating weight of political hierarchy: "Crown Prince." The inference is immediate, terrifying, deeply ironic. If he's in the Empire and he's the Crown Prince, then he's Prince Mikhail—the only son and heir to the Emperor of the Great Empire.
A groan of absolute despair escapes his lips. He clutches his temples, digging his fingers into the unfamiliar thick hair of his new body. Why did I have to be him? Am I so unlucky? Even in being granted a new life and a world of power, fate seems determined to twist the knife.
He knows Prince Mikhail intimately—not as a hero, but as a pitiful, deeply flawed construct of the game's narrative. Mikhail was the perfect example of wasted potential, the classic secondary villain whose existence served primarily to highlight the virtues of the incoming protagonist, the Hero. The game had painted him as spoiled, entitled, utterly useless—endowed with every imaginable advantage: boundless wealth, undisputed political power, influential connections, even formidable innate skills. All of which he'd squandered. His days were spent wallowing in the palace, drowning his boredom in wine, neglecting his duties, making him a symbol of the Empire's slow internal rot.
The thought of his current journey clicks into terrifying focus, synchronized perfectly with the established lore. Wait, if I'm going to Eldrath, that means… According to the game, he's on his way to meet his fiancée. The purpose of this grand, escorted procession is the state marriage—the diplomatic union between the Empire and the Eastern Kingdom of Eldrath, meant to solidify their alliance. The woman he's destined to meet is Princess Meilin, a character known for her keen intellect and striking beauty.
And then comes the defining, inevitable plot point that had sealed Mikhail's fictional fate. It always happened at the capital of Eldrath. The true Hero of the game—a commoner with extraordinary latent powers and a moral compass of absolute conviction—would make a dramatic appearance at court, publicly humiliating the pathetic, drunken Prince Mikhail and effortlessly sweeping Princess Meilin away. Mikhail's subsequent reaction in the game was a pathetic, rage-filled descent into madness that quickly led to his downfall.
The memories of his past life—the endless failures, the social misunderstandings, the feeling of being perpetually walked over—combine with the foreknowledge of this scripted humiliation. A new, potent wave of raw fury surges through him, replacing shock and fear. No! The thought is a promise of violence. I'm not gonna let that happen. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists on the silk of his trousers, his teeth grinding together so hard they ache. He'd died defeated and alone once. He won't allow this pre-written destiny of failure to claim him in this new body, in this new world of opportunity. The helplessness is gone. This time, he swears, his eyes hardening with terrifying resolve, I'm going to fucking kill everyone that stands in my way. The useless Crown Prince is dead. In his place is a desperate, informed survivor armed with the terrifying knowledge of the future.