Location: St. Delara Medical Center – Front Gate
The doors of the hospital slid open with a mechanical sigh, releasing Marcus into the warm dusk air. He paused for a moment at the threshold, letting the outside world greet him again.
The sky was painted in streaks of gold and violet, the heat of the day finally giving way to a softer breeze. The city hummed with traffic, voices, and distant sirens—alive, indifferent, loud.
He stood still for a second, breathing it in. His grip on the suitcase handle was loose, casual, but his eyes were sharp beneath the shadow of his hood.
Near the curb stood a familiar figure—sharp, orderly, and watching the door like a sentry.
Lucy.
She was as composed as ever, dressed in a neatly pressed blue pantsuit, tablet in one hand, a small travel suitcase and phone box in the other. Paul Wembley's personal secretary, always efficient, always expressionless. She looked like someone who didn't blink unless instructed to.
Marcus approached her at a measured pace. She extended his belongings without hesitation.
"Your suitcase, your phone, and a transfer of twenty thousand dollars has been made to your bank account," she said, tone neutral and professional. "As per Mr. Paul's final instruction."
It was all so clean. So procedural. So… impersonal.
Marcus accepted the items with a faint smile. "Thank you, Ms. Lucy."
He turned slightly, about to walk off, when a thought struck him. He pivoted slowly back.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes," he said calmly. "One more thing."
"If you're about to request a meeting with your father, I'll remind you that it's not going to happen. Mr. Paul was very clear."
"Oh no," Marcus replied, smiling faintly. "Not that."
Her brow furrowed. "Then what?"
He stepped in slightly closer. Not enough to breach etiquette, but enough to make her posture subtly shift.
"I want you to deliver a message," he said, voice low but steady. "Not for reconciliation—just something for him to think about."
She crossed her arms. "Go on."
Marcus met her gaze. "Tell him this: There's nothing wrong with making mistakes… as long as you survive them."
He held her gaze a moment longer, eyes calm, expression unreadable. Then he turned and walked away, his suitcase rolling behind him over the tile with soft, rhythmic clicks.
Lucy remained where she stood, her eyes fixed on his back until he disappeared around the corner.
Something wasn't right.
She'd met Leonard many times. Timid. Avoidant. Always slouched. Avoided eye contact like it would burn him. She remembered how he flinched when spoken to in a loud voice, how his hands trembled even when signing simple papers.
But this version of Leonard?
He walked tall.
He looked people in the eye.
He spoke with intention—like someone who weighed every word, and delivered it like a blade.
A chill crept along the back of her neck.
bzzzt
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She answered.
"Yes, sir."
Paul Wembley's voice came through, brisk and cold.
"Did he leave?"
"Yes. He took his things without complaint."
"Good. I trust everything was delivered exactly as instructed?"
"Yes. He didn't resist. But… he left a message for you."
She hesitated.
Paul exhaled. "Let's hear it."
Lucy repeated the line carefully.
"There's nothing wrong with making mistakes… as long as you survive them."
Paul was silent for a second.
Then he laughed.
A dry, cynical laugh.
"He's threatening me now?" Paul muttered with amusement. "That little bastard always had an imagination. I just hope he learns not to play games he can't win."
The line went dead.
Lucy lowered her phone.
But the unease lingered.
Location: Web-Link Internet Café
Time: 10:45 PM
The bell above the café door gave a dull ring as Marcus stepped inside.
Dim lights, old fans, the hum of computers, the scent of ramen and cheap soda. Neon posters of online games littered the walls, some curling at the edges from age.
Behind the counter, the manager barely looked up from his screen.
"Private cabin?" Marcus asked quietly.
The guy was maybe twenty-three. Framed glasses, spiky hair, slightly hunched over in his hoodie. He didn't bother glancing away from his match.
"Twenty bucks an hour. Hundred for six. No refunds."
"I'll take six."
"Gimme a sec, man." The guy clicked furiously, then suddenly yelled, "YES! Victory!"
Only then did he spin around, grinning. "Sorry, bro. That was a crucial rank-up. If I'd lost, I'd have been demoted for real."
He chuckled, then eyed Marcus's hoodie and shadowed face. "New here?"
Marcus didn't answer.
The guy took the cash and processed the access card. "Cabin 12. All the way in the back. Enjoy."
Marcus gave a nod and disappeared down the corridor.
The door to cabin 12 shut softly behind him. The space was cramped—desk, chair, fan—but it was private.
He plugged in the access card.
The screen blinked to life.
He typed quickly, searching what mattered most.
"Crown Prince Marcus Roland – Albion Kingdom"
Headlines loaded in seconds.
"Prince Missing After Sacred Pilgrimage""Prince Albert Assumes Temporary Leadership""No Word From Albion's Heir—Where Is Marcus Roland?"
So the official story held. Missing. Not dead.
Smart. If they declared me dead too early, the wrong factions would make a move. Albert knows that. He's keeping the illusion alive—buying time.
Marcus leaned back, brows knitting.
He wasn't sure who he could trust in Albion anymore. The betrayal had come from inside. The mercenaries were just blades—someone gave the order to spill his blood.
Whoever you are… you knew what that book could do.
The Black Book was still missing in the public story. No word about Cymry. No word about the leak.
Which means the book is still a threat to someone powerful. Someone willing to silence a prince.
He shifted tabs.
Time to learn about his present world.
Using Leo's knowledge, he accessed hidden forums, encrypted archives, and burner accounts. The screen filled with usernames and hidden threads.
Spyder.
Leo's alias in the dark web.
Marcus was no programmer, but Leo's memory still lingered—and with it, instincts. Muscle memory. Code familiarity. Enough to awaken the arsenal Leo built in silence.
Banking trails. Internal files. Surveillance software. Even tools to access deleted phone records.
You built this to hide, Leo.But I'll use it to strike.
A new plan was forming.
He didn't just need to uncover the truth—he needed proof. Names. Motives. Connections.
And once he had that?
He wouldn't ask for justice.He'd deliver it himself.
Location: Back Alley – 12:15 AM
A man in a long coat leaned into the shadows, phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes, sir. He's rented a villa near the school district. Small, quiet. No staff."
Pause.
"He spent the last few hours at Web-Link Café. Cabin 12. No signs of contact with anyone else."
The voice on the other end murmured something inaudible.
"Understood. I'll keep tracking."
He hung up.
The alley returned to silence, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the buzz of a nearby street lamp.