Chapter 1: The Faceless Prince
Consciousness surged like a slow, cold, and inevitable tide, dragging Alfin Leontarde from a nameless void. It wasn't the piercing ring of his phone's alarm, nor was it the scent of instant coffee that always signaled the start of another monotonous day.
The first thing he felt was weight.
As if his body were wrapped in layers of expensive yet damp cloth, pressing down on his chest until every breath felt constricted and fought for.
Silk, a word surfaced in his mind. Strange. He had never owned anything made of silk.
With a great effort, he opened his eyes.
The familiar ceiling of his room, with the faint water stain in the corner he had come to regard as abstract art, was gone. In its place, a magnificent canopy of dark, carved wood loomed above him. Deep blue velvet drapes, their color slightly faded in patches, hung at its sides like the banners of a sunken ship.
The air around him was sharp and cold. Not the chill of an air conditioner set too low, but a cold that seeped into the bones. It carried the distinct scent of ancient stone, a fine layer of settled dust, and the faint fragrance of a long-extinguished hearth.
Alfin pushed the heavy blanket away. The fabric felt smooth against his skin, but there was a slight roughness to its seams, as if it had been meticulously mended time and time again. A sign of luxury struggling to survive.
He sat up, and the entire world swayed violently. A torturous dizziness stabbed at his temples. This body felt alien—lighter, more fragile, as if it weren't his own. His bones felt smaller, his muscles lacking the familiar density he was used to.
Where am I?
Driven by an instinct to understand this impossible situation, he forced himself to stand. His feet met the ice-cold stone floor, and he staggered for a moment, nearly falling, before managing to balance this strange new body.
A large mirror in a silver frame, tarnished and slightly stained at the corners, caught his eye. The frame was adorned with intricate carvings of creeping vines, but its gleam had been stolen by time. Driven by an urgent need for a single point of certainty, he approached it.
And froze.
The figure staring back at him was not Alfin Leontarde, the 29-year-old office worker with thin-rimmed glasses and a slight slouch from staring at a screen for too long.
The figure in the mirror was a stranger, a young man of perhaps eighteen years.
His hair was a pale, golden-blond, falling to his shoulders in a mess that seemed both intentional and neglectful. His eyes were a remarkably clear, grayish-blue, but painted beneath them were faint dark circles that made him look fragile and so, so tired. His features were fine and aristocratic, a straight nose and thin, pale lips. The face of a dying fairytale prince.
Who is this?
As his gaze locked with his own reflection, his head exploded in agonizing pain. This wasn't a neat data download; it was a brutal, chaotic tidal wave of information.
Fragments of memory not his own slammed into his consciousness like shards of glass.
A cold, grand council room. An old man in full armor staring at him, his eyes radiating a disappointment that was so familiar, so piercing...
A dimly lit corridor. A heart pounding, a paralyzing fear when passing a tall, imposing figure he recognized as his uncle. The air around the man felt cold...
A dusty training yard. The mocking laughter of young knights as he failed to properly lift a training sword...
Each fragment was an echo of a life lived in fear, failure, and profound loneliness. The memories of the original Prince Eldrin Vaelmont. Weak. Fearful. A coward.
And that sense of powerlessness resonated horribly with Alfin's own trauma.
A glowing monitor screen. The clang of virtual swords. Total focus. Then, the deafening screech of tires from outside his window, followed by a horrific crash. Too late. He was always too late.
The guilt over his failure to save Liana, his sister, now fused with the shame and fear of this dead prince. Two souls, two failures, now intertwined in a single, fragile vessel. For a moment, the scent of ancient stone in the corridor mixed with the haunting smell of burnt rubber.
Amidst the storm of memories, the final pieces of information emerged with brutal clarity, giving a name to this nightmare.
Vaelmont. This dying kingdom.
Kaelos. The enemy at the border.
Duke Morcant. The cold, calculating face of his uncle.
Commander Gregor. The disappointed gaze.
This was the world of Chronicles of the Shattered Throne.
A game.
He had been reincarnated into the world of a game he had once beaten, all by himself. And worst of all, he had awakened in the body of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont—a side character known in the game forums by a single moniker: the "Trash Prince." A symbol of the kingdom's failure and decline.
Incredible, thought Alfin, or Eldrin, or whoever he was now. Of all the characters... I had to get this one.
He stumbled back from the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed air. He needed a way out. His chamber door, made of heavy oak, looked like a prison gate. With what little strength he had left, he pulled it open and stepped out into the silent corridor.
The corridor was long and dim, lit only by flickering torches on the walls. Its architecture was grand yet oppressive. "Vaelmont Gothic," he recalled from the game's lore book. The walls were made of pale moonstone that should have reflected light, but now they seemed dull, as if absorbing all hope. The high ceiling was supported by stone pillars carved to resemble drooping hands, as if forever struggling to hold up the cracked roof. The Swooning Pillars, they were called. An all-too-fitting metaphor for the state of this kingdom.
He walked aimlessly, his unfamiliar feet carrying him down the silent halls. He passed a large, faded tapestry depicting a golden-haired king—King Alaric, the hero—leading an army against a horde of shadow creatures. A past glory that was now just a silent echo in a dying castle.
After walking for an unknown amount of time, he found himself back in front of his chamber door. There was no way out. Nowhere to run.
He went back inside, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the cold wood. His head was spinning, his soul exhausted.
What should I do?
The answer came quickly, born of trauma and the instinct to survive.
Do nothing.
He was the "Trash Prince." Weak, incompetent, and useless. That was his reputation. That was his role. And that role... was the perfect camouflage. If he did nothing, no one would expect anything from him. If he just stayed quiet, maybe, just maybe, everyone would ignore him and he could find a way to live quietly in some forgotten corner of this world.
Yes. That was the plan. Be trash. Be invisible. Survive.
As he solidified that pathetic resolution in his heart...
Knock. Knock.
A rap sounded on the heavy wooden door. Polite, measured, yet it sounded like a war drum in Eldrin's ears.
The outside world had come for him.