The atmosphere within the opulent carriage has undergone a subtle but significant transformation. Four days have bled into the fifth, and the journey has carried the convoy across the vast territories of the Great Empire and finally into the sprawling, verdant expanse of the Eastern Kingdom of Eldrath. The air now feels subtly different, scented with unfamiliar blossoms and perhaps a hint of distant sea-salt, distinct from the deep-wood scent of the Empire's roads. Mikhail knows they're only hours away from the capital, a short half-day's ride that feels like the final, agonizing countdown before an inevitable, life-or-death confrontation.
He sits, maintaining the controlled, aloof poise he's carefully cultivated over the preceding days. His public persona—the Crown Prince who's cold yet surprisingly considerate—has been an unqualified success, confirmed repeatedly by the clear, loyal, and approving thoughts of his knights. He's mastered the art of minimal effort yielding maximal respect, securing their unwavering loyalty with nothing more than a few timely nods and moments of feigned kindness.
However, the nights have become a source of unexpected, unsettling anxiety. When his consciousness finally surrenders to the demands of sleep, he's not granted the deep, empty rest of the exhausted. Instead, he's plunged into a fractured, cinematic display of memories that are simultaneously vivid and profoundly alien. These aren't the amorphous, illogical narratives of typical dreams—they're sharp, sensory fragments: a flash of a heated argument in a grand hall, the feel of a sword hilt in a practiced grip, the stunning sight of a woman's face framed by dark hair, the dizzying sensation of falling into a deep, crimson-colored wine cup.
I don't know what I keep seeing when I'm asleep, he thinks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. But these—or memories as I should say—don't feel like mine. The deepest paradox is the knowledge coupled with the absence of recall. He feels an innate, almost muscle-memory-like recognition of the events, as if he'd lived them, yet he retains absolutely no personal memory of them—no emotional imprint, no conscious context. The only logical, terrifying conclusion is that they're the past memories of the original Prince Mikhail, the man whose magnificent body he now inhabits.
This deduction leads to the far more disturbing question, one that haunts the edges of his sleep: If I got into his body, what happened to him? Did he die? According to the game's timeline, the Crown Prince wasn't supposed to meet his miserable end for years, well after his humiliation. Then is he still alive within this body? The thought is a chilling prospect—the idea of a displaced, potentially hostile consciousness co-existing with his own. He physically shakes his head, pushing the philosophical and existential horror aside. Fuck no, I shouldn't think of such weird shit. I have a Hero to capture.
His introspection is suddenly and violently interrupted. The smooth, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the carriage wheels on packed dirt road abruptly vanishes, replaced by a dull, persistent rumble against hard, dressed stone. The surrounding view through the window snaps from endless trees and rolling hills to the towering facades of tightly packed, expertly crafted timber and stucco houses. The transition is instantaneous and absolute: they've passed through the outer defenses. The Capital is upon them.
At that precise moment, Vice Commander Hilowat's horse draws alongside the window with military precision, the knight's stern face visible through the lattice. His voice is taut with controlled readiness. "Your Majesty, we have entered the Capital. The crowds are sparse at this hour, making immediate action optimal. I am ready to take action on your command."
Mikhail feels the surge of adrenaline, recognizing the moment of maximum strategic vulnerability for the Hero. This is the window before the official welcome rituals, before the Prince is settled and the Hero can make his grand, public entrance. He allows a thin, confident smirk to cross his face—a look that feels both utterly natural in this body and completely alien to his old self. He meets Hilowat's gaze and gives a single, sharp nod of assent.
Hilowat immediately reacts. He snaps his hand up and executes a swift, decisive hand motion—a non-verbal signal known only to his trusted subordinates. Immediately, without a single spoken word or wasted second, four of the most trusted knights peel away from the main convoy, blending instantly into the periphery of the city's streets. They're gone: detached, disguised, and now hunting for a commoner named Ren Takahito.
Mikhail watches them disappear, the full weight of his decision—to become the pre-emptive villain—settling upon him. He closes his eyes for a brief, internal second, savoring the feeling of having successfully derailed a destiny that was supposed to destroy him.
Now, he thinks, feeling the power of his authority and the certainty of his knowledge, let the game finally begin.