A small group of women was passing by, heading toward the same stall as Ryan. His eyes met those of one girl who looked a little younger than the rest, and the recognition was immediate—reflexive, undeniable. In that single glance they both knew.
It was the Third Princess—Serenya.
Her eyes flew wide. She had recognized him too. The women were disguised as commoners: faces half-hidden beneath scarves and hoods, fine gowns concealed under plain cloaks. No one would have taken them for royals. They stopped directly in front of Ryan; there were only a few of them, but together they blocked the way.
Before Serenya could speak, one of Ryan's guards barked from behind him,
"Move aside! Make way for our lord!"
The princess and her entourage shifted quickly, still keeping up the guise of townsfolk. Ryan stepped forward and walked past them without so much as a glance, giving them no acknowledgment. Inside, though, his chest tightened. What if she pointed at him? What if she shouted that he was the intruder who had been in the bathhouse?
He refused to look back. He reached the stall, took a steaming dumpling, and ate in silence. The savory filling was good—good enough that he considered taking another—
Thunnnnn!
A thunderous roar split the air, a shockwave tearing through the market like an invisible beast. Stalls shuddered violently, wooden frames groaning before toppling; baskets of fruit burst apart, scattering their contents across the cobblestones. Dust cascaded from the awnings in choking clouds as a ripple of screams erupted in every direction.
Ryan's head snapped around. Smoke billowed upward, thick and black, twisting in the sky like a living thing. The blast hadn't razed the city to the ground, but its force had ripped the heartbeat from the marketplace, plunging it into pure chaos.
And then—he saw her.
The Third Princess—Serenya—was in the midst of a violent storm of steel and fury. Several men swarmed her disguised guards, blades catching the sunlight in savage arcs. Serenya's hands moved with startling precision, her sword meeting each strike with a ringing clash. But a lucky blow had ripped back her hood, spilling her identity into the open for all to see.
Gasps rose from the crowd before dissolving into a stampede. Civilians fled in every direction, the tide of their panic crashing outward. The air filled with the clang of steel, the grunt of exertion, and the high, keening wail of the terrified. Panic didn't just spread—it roared through the market like wildfire.
Ryan's guards closed in to shield him, but he ignored them.
"Protect the princess!" he ordered.
They hesitated for a heartbeat—startled to see her here—then obeyed and rushed to engage.
The attackers moved with unnatural precision. Their strikes carried a strange force, and their footwork left silvered afterimages in the air. Even at a distance, Ryan could see the faint glow of their auras. These were cultivators—fighters tempered by years of training in power ordinary people could hardly comprehend.
The guards' intervention drew the attackers away from Serenya. Ryan seized the opening, stepped in, and caught her by the arm.
"This way!"
She followed without protest, and they ran. Ryan led, though he knew nothing of the city's layout; he chose turns at random, desperate to put distance between them and the fight.
"Faster," Serenya gasped, her words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "Two Foundation Stage cultivators… and two Core cultivators. If they catch us—"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to. The fear in her voice painted the rest.
They tore around a corner—
—and the world snapped shut.
A weighted net plummeted from above, glowing with runic light that flared like lightning across its threads. It struck them with bone-jarring force, cinching tight before either could even raise a hand. The magic burned cold against their skin, humming with the cruel precision of a predator's snare.
Figures emerged from the shadows—calm, unhurried, their thin smiles curling with satisfaction.
Ryan's fists clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to fight. But before he could move, Serenya's body went slack—her head lolling, consciousness gone in an instant. Something had struck her down, unseen.
Ryan froze, heart pounding, and let himself collapse into the same stillness, feigning defeat while keeping every sense sharp.
An invisible force gripped them both. It was not hands, not ropes—just raw, crushing power. They were lifted effortlessly, as if their weight meant nothing, and thrust into a wooden container that reeked faintly of old incense and dust. The walls closed around them.
The lid slammed shut.
A talisman slapped against the outside with a decisive crack. Its lines burned white-hot for a heartbeat, then dimmed into a steady, suffocating hum that seemed to drain the air from the box. The seal's power pressed down on him like a deep ocean, heavy and cold, whispering in a language he could almost—but not quite—understand.
They had been taken. Caged.
Ryan's jaw tightened. He wished—desperately—that he knew the truth of his own strength. Could he break free if he tried? Or would the effort crush him before he even touched the walls? He had no measure of himself in this world's brutal hierarchy. Without it, a single gamble could mean victory—or the end.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself cramped inside the box. The air was warm and stale, and only a few hairline gaps admitted thin slivers of light—never enough to see clearly.
Ryan shook Serenya's shoulder, urgency sharp in his touch. Her lashes fluttered, eyes cloudy with disorientation—then they snapped into focus, narrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut.
"You tricked me," she accused, her voice low and venomous.
"If I did," Ryan said evenly, "why would I be trapped in here with you?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. Silence fell heavy between them, broken only by the faint hum of the talisman sealing their prison. Then, without warning, she straightened, her jaw tightening with royal defiance.
Golden light burst to life along her arms, crawling over her skin like liquid fire. She placed both palms against the wall of their wooden cage, her movements fluid and deliberate—each strike a seamless blend of elegance and deadly force, like a warrior's ritual passed down through bloodlines. The air inside the box trembled with each blow, the wood groaning, the runes flaring in answer.
But the box did not break.
The symbols carved into the walls pulsed greedily, drinking in her attacks as though her power was nothing more than rain on parched earth. Her strikes grew sharper, faster, the light around her blazing like a miniature sun. Finally, she drew in every last spark of her energy, channeled it into her palms, and drove it forward with the force of a collapsing star.
The golden blaze struck the wall—and was swallowed whole. No scorch marks. No cracks. Nothing. It was as if her power had never existed at all.
Her body went still. Slowly, Serenya lowered herself to the floor beside him. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes shimmered with the unspoken weight of failure. She made no sound, but tears welled and slipped free, tracing quiet, glistening paths down her cheeks in the dim, suffocating light.
"Don't worry," Ryan said softly. "Your father will come. We just have to endure until reinforcements arrive."
"I know," she whispered, "but when he does, I'll be grounded for months—just like last time. How could I be so foolish? Leaving the castle without guards, without telling anyone…"
Ryan gave her a sideways look. No wonder people call her spoiled, he thought.
She studied him.
"Who are you? And why were the Royal Guards protecting you?"
"Ask your father," he said. "Until then, consider me a friend."
She couldn't help it—she giggled.
"No one talks to me like that. You'd better be important, or I'll blame everything on you."
Ryan only smiled.
Her curiosity deepened.
"Where are you from? What do you do beside taking baths?"
"I'm a student," Ryan said. "I study with my whole heart. As for where I'm from… in this world, you could say the White Palace of the Monks."
She arched a brow.
"So you've met the Old Sleeping Monk? Lived with him, perhaps?" Serenya teased .
"What do you know about him?" Ryan asked.
Her eyes softened with reverence.
"The Old Sleeping Monk is a god among the universe. His home is the White Palace of the Monks—though no one knows where it lies. For centuries he has protected our world. People pray to him not only for safety but because his presence keeps the balance. There are countless legends—why he sleeps, what trials he endured, what vows bind him. They say the legend of the Old Sleeping Monk is still being written… by his own hand, as time passes."
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I know I messed up the first chapter,
Therefore, I am dropping the novel.
Thanks for reading.