Chapter 2: A Damned Man's Schedule
The heavy oak door creaked open, its sound scratching at the thick silence within the room. Eldrin instinctively straightened his slightly stooped back, a defensive posture learned in the corporate world—appear calm, even if a small apocalypse is raging inside you.
A young woman in a black and white maid's uniform stepped inside. Her movements were the embodiment of efficiency and discipline; every step was measured, every fold of her uniform so crisp it seemed to have been ironed with a ruler. But Alfin's eyes, accustomed to analyzing data, caught other details. The uniform's fabric, though spotless, was slightly faded at the elbows, and there was a very fine but visible seam near the collar. A sign of meticulous repair. A sign of a household—or a kingdom—clinging to the last vestiges of its dignity by a final thread.
The woman stopped at a polite distance and bowed with practiced precision.
"Good morning, Your Highness," her voice was calm and formal, devoid of any unnecessary warmth or emotion. "I am Elara Vance, your Head Maid. I trust you rested well."
Eldrin—he had to get used to that name—could only stare blankly. His brain was still reeling, trying to process the storm of memories that had just subsided. Elara Vance. Daughter of Commander Gregor Vance. One of the few people in this castle who, according to the game's lore, held a sincere yet tragic loyalty to the royal family.
She doesn't know I'm not the real prince, Eldrin thought, a cold dread settling in his stomach. To her, I am her master.
Elara seemed unfazed by the prince's silence. Perhaps she was used to it. She moved to a small table in the corner where a silver tray lay. She lifted a white porcelain teapot and poured its contents into a cup. Eldrin's keen eye noticed a hairline crack on the cup's rim.
The aroma of dried tea leaves and faint spices filled the air.
"Your schedule for the day, Your Highness," Elara continued, placing the steaming teacup on the table beside Eldrin. "Breakfast will be prepared shortly in your private dining hall. After that, your postponed sword training session will commence at the ninth hour."
Sword training.
The words struck Eldrin like a slap. He glanced at his own hands—slender, pale fingers better suited for holding a pen or an analog stick than the hilt of a sword. In the game, he was an Archmage. He'd never bothered to raise his Strength stat.
Incredible, he thought bitterly. They want me to practice sword fighting with a body that would probably struggle to open a jam jar. I'm more likely to stab my own foot.
Elara paused, as if gauging her master's reaction. Finding nothing on Eldrin's masked face, she continued. "And... Duke Morcant has requested a sudden council meeting before noon."
If "sword training" was a slap, the name "Duke Morcant" was the thrust of an icy dagger. The original Eldrin's memories screamed in his mind: a cold fear, the towering shadow of his uncle in the corridors, a thin smile that never reached his eyes. The main antagonist. The man who would tear this kingdom apart for his ambition.
A council meeting? With him? Eldrin's heart hammered against his ribs. That wasn't a meeting. It was a lion's den, and I was a sick rabbit.
"Also, there is one urgent matter," Elara added, her tone now a fraction heavier, a little more personal. "My father, Commander Gregor Vance, begs an audience with you as soon as possible. He says it concerns the security of the border."
Responsibilities. Meetings. Training. Crises.
This world gave him no time to breathe, no pause to mourn his lost life or to understand who he was now. Every word Elara spoke felt like another stone piled onto his already fragile shoulders. A part of him wanted to scream, to refuse, to pull the blanket back over his head and wish this all away.
Leave me alone.
But this body, forged by a life of fear, moved on its own. He gave a small nod, an almost imperceptible movement, an automatic response ingrained in Prince Eldrin's muscles over years. A nod that meant nothing more than "I heard," but in the eyes of another...
From her perspective, Elara Vance saw something different. The prince who would usually avert his gaze or mumble incoherently was now simply still. His silence felt different. It wasn't the silence of fear or indifference, but... heavy. His eyes, staring blankly into the distance, no longer seemed vacant, but as if he were weighing the gravity of every word she spoke.
He didn't refuse the sword practice. He didn't flinch at the mention of Duke Morcant's name. He was simply... thinking, Elara thought, a small glimmer of hope she dared not acknowledge blooming in her heart. Did something happen last night? Is the weight of the kingdom finally... beginning to settle on him?
She remembered her father, who came home each night with exhaustion etched onto his face, always hoping to see a spark of the legendary King Alaric in his son. Maybe... maybe her father's hope wasn't entirely in vain.
"I understand, Your Highness," Elara said, bowing once more, her expression reverting to calm professionalism. Then, she turned and left the room. The door closed with a soft click, sealing Eldrin back in his silence.
The moment it did, Eldrin's mask shattered.
He stumbled backward, leaning against the cold bedpost, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"No, no, no..." he whispered to the empty room.
His legs trembled. He slid to the floor, uncaring of the dust or the cold. He hugged his knees, trying to stop his body from shaking. This was real. All of it. There was no log out button. There was no going back.
He was a prince. He was a target. He was a hope. The three things he wanted least in the entire universe.
Calm down, Alfin, calm down, he tried to coach himself. You've faced impossible deadlines. You've dealt with insane bosses. This... this is just a little more... lethal.
The irony of his thought wasn't even funny.
He struck the stone floor with his fist, once, the dull pain slightly clearing his mind. His plan. He needed a plan. The plan was to be trash. To be invisible. But this world, through that polite maid, had just informed him that option was not on the table.
If I want to live quietly... first, I have to live.
And to live, it seemed he had to play this part. The part of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont.
As he struggled to his feet, another knock came at the door. This time, it was firmer, heavier.
A Royal Guard stood there. "Your Highness, Commander Gregor Vance begs an audience. He says it concerns the lives of the soldiers on the border and cannot be delayed."
The lives of the soldiers.
Those four words hit him harder than anything else. The echo of his greatest failure, the echo of the promise he'd made to himself over his sister's grave, rang in his ears once more.
Never again will I let anyone die because of my weakness.
Damn. Dammit. Dammit!
Eldrin rose to his full height, smoothing his wrinkled clothes with a hand that still trembled slightly. He took a deep breath, putting his blank princely mask back on.
"Very well," he said, his voice hoarse. "Send him in."