Noah suddenly woke up, his ears ringing with his own screams. His entire body was drenched in sweat and his breathing was labored as if he had just been rescued from hell. It took a few seconds for him to regain consciousness fully—and when he did, he immediately noticed how strange it was.
He wasn't on the streets of London.
He was in a very luxurious room.
The bed he was lying on resembled a hospital bed, complete with rails on both sides. The white pajamas he wore looked like hospital attire. Beside the bed was a long, plush sofa. Embedded in the front wall was a giant frame that he'd never seen before—either a screen or a glass window.
"Am I still alive? How? Is this a hospital?"
Questions swirled in his head, but none of them provided answers. Noah forced himself out of bed, his legs feeling slightly unsteady, and walked to the window. As soon as he parted the curtains, a strange world greeted him.
"Is this... the modern world?" he muttered quietly without realizing it. "I just woke up in another world with no clarity whatsoever."
Glancing outside, he saw tall buildings, airborne vehicles, and technology that seemed both too advanced and strange to him. There were some similarities to Earth: streets, sidewalks, and human clothing. Otherwise, though, it seemed different. Too different.
Some countries on Earth were advanced, he thought, but this wasn't one of them. Or one he recognized.
"I don't recognize this world at all." His voice trembled. "Where am I?"
A sudden stab of pain shot through his chest, causing him to lean back and brace himself against a nearby table. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, as if the pain didn't belong to him.
Noah shakily removed the top of his pajamas. His chest was covered in white bandages right over his heart, the location of a deep stab wound. He had no memory of how the injury occurred. All he remembered was his body being crushed after he was thrown from the motorcycle.
"There's no way my heart is still there. There's no way I'm alive if my heart is destroyed."
The thought knocked him off balance. Faint memories flashed—too vague to comprehend, yet too close to ignore.
Still trying to make sense of it all, he felt Noah's elbow brush against a black, hexagonal object that had fallen to the floor. He picked it up and tilted it toward the light. There was a name engraved on its surface.
Noah Caelthorn.
"Noah Caelthorn...?" He read slowly, as if unsure of his own eyes. "That's my name?" Isn't it? My name is Noah Steward."
He shook his head rapidly, moving it from side to side as if denying reality.
"Wait...wait..."
Thoughts, identity, memories—everything collided aimlessly. He didn't know if he was still himself or if he had become someone who should have died.
He felt trapped in a body that wasn't his, the result of an incident that had temporarily erased his memories. However, when he looked at the hexagonal object in his hand with the name "Noah Caelthorn" engraved on its surface, memories emerged, but not as Noah Steward. They emerged as Noah Caelthorn.
The wound on his chest was no ordinary wound. He vaguely remembered a weapon piercing his chest and immense pressure crushing his heart. It was a battle that was blurry and disjointed yet powerful. Even more disturbing were the sensations in his new body: the rapid healing that exceeded the capacity of a normal human and the flow of mana aura swirling through his meridians.
Noah took a deep breath. He straightened his hospital pajamas and tried to calm down, though his head was filled with confusion. He walked to the giant glass frame embedded in the wall—a modern mirror—and stared at his reflection.
An eighteen-year-old boy stared back. His facial structure and brown eyes were similar to his own. He was tall and athletic, not skinny but not overly muscular either. Everything felt familiar, except for one thing:
His hair was silvery white.
"I can't be aging this fast," he muttered softly, frowning suspiciously. "Is this the gray hair that usually occurs in older people?"
Of course not! This white hair wasn't the kind that comes with age. Caelthorn's hair was naturally white, cool and elegant, seemingly part of his royal bloodline.
The automatic door slid aside, and Noah turned instinctively. A young man around Noah's age stood in the doorway, looking surprised. His raven-black hair flowed down to his shoulders.
"Prince Noah, are you really awake?!" he exclaimed, running over.
The young man—Lucas Howard—grabbed Noah's shoulders and examined him from every angle, checking his condition. His expression was full of concern, as if Noah had just returned from the dead. Noah recognized the figure, not as Stewart but as Caelthorn, his personal bodyguard and childhood friend.
"Should I play dumb? Like I just woke up with a concussion?" Noah thought to himself. "It sounds effective, but it's not my head that's injured. I don't even remember everything Caelthorn went through."
He dismissed the ridiculous idea immediately.
"Prince, you should get some rest. Your face is still pale," Lucas said anxiously.
Noah didn't argue. He let Lucas help him back onto the bed. His body felt light and unfamiliar, as if it weren't his own. He remained silent, not saying a word. It wasn't because he didn't want to answer; it was because his mind was filled with memories that weren't entirely his.
Lucas's gaze grew increasingly panicked as he saw Noah's lack of reaction.
"Prince Noah? Are you okay? You haven't answered my question," Lucas asked again, his tone pleading this time.
Noah still didn't look at him. He was digging through the fragments of Caelthorn's memory, not Steward's. He wanted to make sure that what was popping into his head was real and not a hallucination caused by his concussion, as he had initially suspected.
And then...the memory hit him.
The chill of the black mist.
The screams of villagers drowning in darkness.
The seven members of his group fighting to the death.
The appearance of the Extreme Demon — Sequence 9.
An A-Rank mission that had escalated to an S-Rank mission.
An unbridgeable power gap.
And a stabbing pain in his chest. It was not just a wound, but destruction.
Caelthorn died there.
Noah blinked. His breath hitched. "Is everything okay? What happened?" he finally asked, playing the part of someone who had just emerged from a long coma with no memory.
Lucas took a slow breath and sat tightly in the chair beside the bed. "Prince, you were in a coma for a week. You really don't remember anything?"
Noah looked away. He looked down as if he were struggling to remember something. "I only remember up until the Daemon Extreme Sequence 9 attack. After that, I was stabbed in the chest." He frowned, faking a confused expression. "Then it went dark. Nothing happened after that."
Lucas lowered his head and clenched his jaw. "Captain Thomas was only a Sequence 7 Ultimate Sentinel. Facing a Daemon Extreme, Sequence 9, it wasn't a fair fight from the start." His voice trembled.
"Of the seven members of the group, only three Sentinel Masters survived. Prince, you were badly injured trying to save Captain Thomas. But he sacrificed himself so that you and your two friends could survive and receive intensive care."
Noah fell silent. Deep down, he already knew the story was true. However, he maintained his dazed expression because he needed time to understand the body he now inhabited and why he was still alive.
Lucas suddenly looked directly at him, intent.
"However, there's one thing I still can't understand."
Noah waited silently.
"You have a hole in your chest. Your heart is broken." Lucas whispered, as if afraid to hear his own words. "How could you still be alive, let alone conscious, while dragging your two friends out of the battlefield?"
The question stopped everything.
Noah froze. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He remained silent after that—not because he was acting out, but because, for the first time, he was asking himself the same question.