The world didn't just shift. It fractured.
For one impossible heartbeat, Kashima felt the solid ground completely vanished from beneath his feet.
His stomach dropped into a sheer, weightless space and his entire body lurched violently upward as though the earth itself had vanished.
"Wha—?!"
A wave of cold, stagnant air struck his face like an open palm. His arms flew outward in a blind panic, clawing helplessly at empty space, but there was nothing beneath his feet bare feet—nothing to catch him, nothing to hold onto, nothing to break his fall.
Then—THUD.
His bare feet slammed flat against an unyielding, unforgiving surface.
A sharp shock wave shot instantly up through his heels, rattling his knees and sending a pulse of dull pain straight through his legs.
Kashima stumbled forward, nearly falling. He caught himself at the very last second, slamming both palms hard against the floor. His skin scraped harshly against a surface that felt completely smooth, rigid, and freezing cold.
For several agonizing seconds, he couldn't even force himself to stand. He could only crouch there in the shadows, his knees trembling as his chest heaved, fighting desperately to draw air into his lungs.
Short. Shallow. Uneven.
His heart hammered against his ribs like an imprisoned animal trying to tear its way out.
Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his head, his messy blonde hair falling across his eyes.
"...What...?"
His voice barely existed—a raspy, fragile sound that was instantly swallowed by the vast, heavy silence pressing down on him.
The bright green grass was gone. The warm, golden sunlight filtering through the glasshouse was gone. The sweet, heavy fragrance of blooming roses had completely vanished into thin air.
Kashima turned his head sharply to the left.
Pitch darkness.
He snapped his gaze to the right, his pupils dilating as he searched frantically fkr any trace of light.
More darkness.
His eyes struggled desperately to adapt to the deep, oppressive gloom. The air itself felt wrong—thick, stale and suffocatingly heavy. A bitter haze hung motionless in the space, reeking of burning incense, powdered herbs, and a faint smell that made his stomach turn.
He pressed his fingers flat against the floor, feeling the material beneath him.
Cold stone. Polished, dark, unnatural stone.
He swallowed hard, a dry, painful lump forming in his throat as his breathing quickened, the cold terror returning in full force
'Where am I...? What is this place...?''
He pushed himself upright.
The room surrounding him seemed so vast, shadowy and enormous that it felt less like a room and more like a grand, silent tomb.
It was far larger than any room had a right to be. Tall, dark curtains hung from massive wooden frames, their heavy folds cascading down like motionless waterfalls before disappearing into the shadows below. Pale moonlight spilled through enormous windows at the far end of the hall, cutting across the darkness in thin, cold strips.
Kashima turned again.
Left...Right.
His wide blue eyes searched wildly, desperately for an exit.—for the bright garden, for the sunlit glasshouse, for the arrogant, brown-haired prince, for anything recognizable.
There was nothing.
Then—there was a faint movement in the darkness ahead.
Kashima froze.
Someone was there, standing near the very center of the vast, moonlit room. A young man, bent down beside a massive, velvet-draped canopy bed.
Kashima recognized him immediately.
The same light-brown hair catching the faint moonlight. The same body—No. Not the same.
The elaborate, outrageously expensive royal clothing was gone. The silver chains, the dark cloak, the gold embroidery—all of it had been stripped away. He was dressed in thin, pale robes, the plain fabric hanging loosely and pathetically from his shoulders.
His head was bowed low and and one trembling hand rested against the dark wooden edge of the bed.
Kashima's heart gave a violent jerk against his chest.
'The prince...'
A fresh wave of raw fear washed over him, sharp and cold. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know why reality kept tearing open and casting him across time, and he certainly didn't know whether this prince, or anyone else in this dark room, had noticed his sudden arrival.
Instinctively, Kashima took a quiet step backward.
One step. Then another.
He turned sharply and hurried toward the shadows on his left, his bare feet sliding soundlessly across the cold, polished stone.
Hide.
That was the first thought that echoed through his brain.
Hide in the shadows. Don't let him see you.
He reached the heavy folds of a tall curtain, his shoulder brushing against the cold velvet—
Then he stopped.
Something had caught his eye—a still, unnatural shape resting under the shadow of the canopy.
Kashima slowly turned his head, his blue eyes widening.
His gaze gaze drifted across the dark room, falling upon the bed and everything inside him went completely, terrifyingly still.
An old man lay motionless beneath the heavy, embroidered blankets.
He was dressed in pale, stiff ceremonial robes, the rich fabric almost completely swallowed by the darkness around him. His once—formidable face—carved with broad bone structure that must have looked commanding in life—had become thin, hollow, and terribly frail with age and lingering illness. Deep lines carved themselves around his closed eyes and mouth.
His skin looked entirely drained of life beneath the cold moonlight—dull and gray.
His lips were slightly parted. But there was no faint fog rising from them in the chilly air. There was no movement beneath the heavy blankets. Not even the smallest, most faint rise or fall of his chest.
Beside his pale, lifeless hand rested resting on a sheet, a single white flower had fallen. Its delicate petals had already begun to turn brown at the edges, wilting slowly in the cold gloom.
Kashima stared.
His eyes slowly widened, his pupils shrinking into tiny dots. The room seemed to grow unnaturally, suffocatingly quiet. Even the faint, distant crackle of the burning incense vanished, replaced entirely by the deafening, frantic pounding inside his own head.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The prince kneeling beside the bed suddenly moved.
His thin shoulders shook and a small, choked sound escaped his throat—not a loud cry, nor a scream of grief, but a fragile,broken breath.
Slowly, pitifully, he lowered his forehead flat against the edge of the mattress, right beside the old man's cold, unmoving hand.
His fingers curled weakly, helplessly into the thick fabric of the blanket, clutching at it as if he could somehow pull life back into the room through sheer force of will.
Kashima didn't move.
He stood completely frozen in the dark, his hand still gripping the edge of the velvet curtain. He had forgotten that he was trying to hide. He had forgotten that he was somewhere he didn't understand. He had forgotten his own fear.
He could only watch.
The prince's shoulders trembled again.
And in that heavy, motionless moment, Kashima understood.
"...His father?"
The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them, a hushed whisper that dissolved into the surrounding shadows.
He stared at the old man on the bed. He had never seen the Emperor before—not once in his life. But who else could this be? The prince had been surrounded by bowing servants only moments ago in the sunlit garden. He had spoken casually about his father. He had been summoned to meet him.
And now, here he was, stripped of his luxury, kneeling in thin robes beside a freezing bed.
Weeping
Kashima's eyes lowered to the dark stone floor. Something deep inside his chest felt strangely empty.
His own parents. His family.
He couldn't even remember the last time he had genuinely wondered whether they were well. Whether they were sick. Whether they were afraid. Whether...one day...they would die.
The thought should have frightened him. It should have brought a wave of grief or panic.
It didn't.
And as Kashima stood there in the dark, he realized that was the absolute worst part.
He had never truly cared.
His parents had always been there, somewhere within the vast marble halls of the Kanzaki estate.
His father had never looked at him and seen a son. Only potential. A brilliant mind to sharpen, a prodigy to perfect, an heir whose worth depended on what he could become. Every achievement was another expectation met; every mistake, another flaw to correct. Kashima couldn't remember the last time his father had looked at him without measuring him against something.
His mother had her own world—her career, her demands, the life she wanted beyond the estate. Kashima had never been much more than a name attached to it. Even the secrets she kept from her husband seemed to matter more to her than the child living under their roof.
They had given him everything money could buy.
Everything except a reason to feel he belonged to them.
Kashima's fingers slowly tightly curled into his palm until his nails bit painfully into his skin.
He raised his head and looked back at the kneeling prince. The spoiled, careless boy who had laughed so easily in the sunlit garden was completely gone. There was no boredom in his face now. No untouchable arrogance. No lazy, dismissive smile.
Just a young man—a boy no older than himself—kneeling in the dark beside the body of the person who would never, ever speak his name again.
Kashima's throat tightened. He looked away unable to bear the sight for another second.
His hand rose slowly, trembling as he pressed his palm flat over his eye. His fingers pressed hard against his brow, digging into his skin as if he could physically stop the thoughts crashing through his mind.
"..."
For some reason, another face had appeared in his mind.
Not his cold, distant mother. Not his stern, unyielding father.
Someone else entirely.
A tired, gentle voice stirred somewhere in the depths of his memory.
A large hand settled on his head, warm and heavy, ruffling his carefully combed hair until it stuck out in every direction. Kashima could almost hear the quiet amusement that followed, the soft reprimand he never truly minded.
He remembered sitting across from that man at a cluttered table, a steaming bowl placed in front of him. Nothing extravagant. Nothing a chef would have written about. Just a simple, home-cooked meal, prepared with a care Kashima had never found in the lavish feasts served beneath the cold chandeliers of the Kanzaki estate.
He remembered the warmth rising from the bowl. The unhurried quiet. The way no one watched his every movement or waited for him to say something clever.
He could eat without being evaluated. Speak without rehearsing his words. Sit in silence without feeling that he had disappointed someone.
And when he finished, there was always the faint, ordinary comfort of knowing he could stay a little longer.
For a boy who had been taught to earn approval, that simple kindness had felt almost impossible to understand.
He had never asked the man to stay with him. Never told him how much he looked forward to those meals, or how the thought of that familiar voice could make an otherwise unbearable day feel survivable.
He had simply returned whenever he could.
Again and again.
As though some quiet, frightened part of him had already learned what the rest of him refused to acknowledge.
That, here, he was allowed to be a child.
Not a prodigy.
Not an heir.
Not the Young Master Kanzaki.
Just Kashima.
And the man had never once made him feel that being Kashima was anything less than enough.
Kashima's breathing faltered, a sharp, ragged hitch escaping his lips. His hand slipped down from his eye, pressing tightly over his mouth to muffle the sound. His fingers trembled against his lips.
"No..."
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to force the sight out of his head. But the thought refused to leave; it burned behind his eyelids with terrifying clarity.
For one terrible, suffocating instant, he imagined that body lying beneath those heavy, dark blankets instead.
That familiar, comforting voice gone forever silent.
That warm, familiar presence—Gone.
His stomach twisted violently, a wave of cold nausea washing over him. Kashima turned his face entirely away, his jaw clenching so hard it ached as he swallowed hard.
Once. Twice.
His eyes burned with hot, unwanted tears that he fought furiously to hold back. He pressed his hand even more firmly over his mouth, his knuckles turning stark white, forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose as his whole body trembled under the sheer weight of the effort.
He didn't want to imagine it. He couldn't survive imagining it.
Yet the vivid image remained in his mind—the cold, dark bed, the unmoving hand, the heavy, permanent silence where a comforting voice should have been.
Kashima's eyes opened again, shining with unshed tears in the dim moonlight. He looked back across the dark room at the prince.
And for the first time since arriving in that impossible world—he didn't see a spoiled grape flicking heir who ruined servants' loved for fun.
He saw a son.
A terrified, broken son who had just lost the center of his world.
Kashima stood there alone in the darkness, anchored to the freezing floor, utterly unable to look away as the cold truth washed over him.
The prince lowered his head again, pressing his face deeper into the dark blanket. His thin shoulders shook uncontrollably.
And somewhere in the vast, mournful room—a single, silent tear fell onto the white sheet.
A Click broke the heavy, suffocating silence.
Kashima's head snapped instantly toward the far end of the room.
The massive double doors swung inward with a low Groan. A long strip of cold, pale light spilled across the polished stone floor, instantly followed by the looming shadows of several men.
Their shoes struck the stone in measured, unhurried, agonizingly rythmic steps.
One. Two. Three.
Kashima straightened his spine instinctively, his breath locking in his throat as his muscles went rigid.
The men entered without a single word of greeting, moving with the quiet, terrifying authority of figure who owned every room they walked into. They wore dark, formal court robes—the high collars heavily embroidered with intricate silver thread and their shoulders draped in thick, expensive silk that rustled softly as they moved.
A few carried thick documents sealed with the imperial crest. Others wore ornate ceremonial swords at their waists, the polished metal fittings catching the dim moonlight streaming through the high windows.
They looked like men accustomed to being obeyed without question.
At their head walked an elderly nobleman with neatly combed silver hair and a severe, unreadable face. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, but nothing in his expression suggested even a trace of fatigue, shock or grief. His dark gaze swept across the chamber, taking in the grand bed, the fallen, wilting flower, and the young man kneeling helplessly beside the corpse.
Then his eyes shifted.
They moved straight towards Kashima. Kashima's breath caught sharply in his chest.
For one absurd, terrifying second, he believed the man was staring directly into his soul. The nobleman's gaze seemed fixed directly on his face, unblinking and intense.
Kashima took a step back, his bare feet pressing against the freezing stone.
The old man's expression did not change. Neither did his gaze.
Behind him, another nobleman turned his head, his cold eyes looking at Kashima.
Then another.
One after the other, their heavy, silent stared seemed to settle on the exact spot where Kashima stood in the shadows.
A cold, prickling shiver crawled up the back of Kashima's neck, settling like ice between his shoulder blades.
'What...?'
He glanced frantically behind himself.
But there was nowhere to run—only the quiet expanse of stone leading back toward the canopy bed, where the prince still knelt with his back turned to him just a few paces away. Kashima was trapped right in the middle, standing directly between the prince's back and the grand entrance.
When he looked back towards his front, the men were still approaching, their footsteps echoing through the gloom.
'Why are they looking right at me?'
His mouth went completely dry, his tongue feeling thick and heavy.
Had they discovered him? Had someone spotted him through the rose bush in the garden? Had the young prince noticed him after all?
Kashima's eyes wildly darted toward the open door.
Too far.
The procession of noblemen was already blocking the narrow path, standing between him and the only way out.
His feet refused to obey him, glued to the freezing floor by sheer panic.
The silver-haired nobleman stopped just a few paces away.
He looked straight at Kashima. Then, without slowing down, he took another step forward. Kashima's pulse leapt into his throat.
Another step.
The distance between them rapidly dwindled until the man stood so close that Kashima could see the individual stitches of fine silver thread along the edge of his high collar.
'Don't come any closer!' The desperate thought flashed through his mind but his limbs felt like jelly.
He tried to throw his weight to the side, to dodge out of the way. His legs barely responded.
The nobleman continued marching straight towards him.
Kashima's shoulders locked right. A single bead of cold sweat slipped from his temple, tracing a slow, agonising path down his pale cheek.
'Wait—'
The man was going to slam directly into him—
Kashima squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the collision.
WHOOSH!
A faint rush of air brushed softly against his skin.
Nothing else happened.
No hand seized his collar. No guard twisted his arms behind his back. No booming voice demanded an explanation for his intrusion.
For several long heartbeats, Kashima remained frozen, his eyes screwed shut and his breath trapped high in his chest.
'...Why?'
Slowly, hesitantly he opened one eye.
The silver-haired nobleman was gone from his sight.
No—
Kashima turned behind towards his right sharply.
The man was already standing beside the bed, his back to him, staring down with cold indifference at the grieving prince.
Kashima stared, his mind struggling to process the sight.
'What just happened?!'
Had the old man stepped around him at the very last second?
He frantically remembered the moment in his head—the approaching footsteps, the severe face drawing closer, the sudden, sharp than of air against his skin.
He was certain the nobleman had been walking straight toward him.
And then—Kashima slowly looked down at his own body. His clothes were still there. His hands. His arms. His chest. Everything felt solid to him.
He pressed a trembling palm flat against his chest. His heart was beating wildly against his chest.
'Did he turn? When?'
His head spun, the thoughts refusing to form cleanly. 'If he saw me, why didn't he react? Why didn't he call the guards or grab me?! An intruder is standing right next to the Emperor's deathbed... '
Kashima swallowed hard, his mind racing in circles. 'Did he actually not see me at all? Was he looking right through me?'
Another set of heavy, rythmic footsteps approached rapidly from behind.
Kashima spun around, his hair flying across his eyes.
A second nobleman was walking towards him, a thick bundle of documents tucked tightly beneath his one arm. The man never slowed his pace, his gaze fixed straight ahead the bed.
Kashima moved aside at the last moment.
Or tried to.
The nobleman's broad shoulder passed straight through Kashima's chest.
A sharp, painful gasp caught painfully in Kashima's throat.
For one horrible, unnatural instant, the world seemed to lose all its warmth. A piercing, cold swept through his body—not across his skin, but through his flesh, deep beneath his ribs and into his vey soul. The sensation vanished almost as soon as it has arrived, leaving his entire body rigid and shivering.
The nobleman continued walking effortlessly forward.
He didn't stumble. He didn't turn. Hidn't even glance back.
Kashima stood frozen, his mouth slightly open wide with sheer, unadulterated shock.
"...WHAT?!"
His voice came out thin, fragile and utterly disbelieving.
He looked down at his own shoulder, touching the fabric with his hand. Then at the man moving away from him.
Then at the empty space between them where two bodies had just occupied the exact same space.
'He just—'
Kashima reached out a trembling hand, but his fingers stopped halfway in the air.
No. That couldn't have—That was completely impossible.
He looked around at the vast, moonlit room.
The other nobles had gathered in a tight formal circle around the bed. One was speaking in a quiet, urgent tone to the silver-haired elder. Another had already begun unfastening his dark gloves.
Not a single one of them looked at Kashima. Not one gaze drifted towards him.
He took an unsteady, hesitant step toward the nearest official.
"Hey."
Nothing.
Kashima's brows pulled together in a desperate frown.
"P-Pardon me?"
The man unrolled a heavy document, his eyes examining the ink without pausing.
Kashima stepped directly into the man's line of sight, waving a hand wildly in front of the nobleman's face.
"Hello? Can you hear me?!"
The official continued reading as if looking through empty air.
Kashima's fingers froze mid-air, a sickening realization beginning to take root in his stomach.
He tried again, louder and far more agressive.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!"
Nothing.
Not even a blink. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow.
A heavy, suffocating weight settled deep inside Kashima's chest. He turned slowly to face the rest of the dark figures.
"Can any of you hear me?!"
His voice sounded terribly small, fragile and lost in the vastness of the Grand room.
No one answered.
A cold drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck.
Kashima backed away, step by step.
His hand found his chest again, pressing hard against the frantic beat beneath the ribs. He swallowed hard, then dragged in a long, shaky breath through his nose.
'They can't hear me.'
His eyes moved from one nobleman to the next.
'They can't see me, either.'
The realization settled over him with a terrifying clarity.
And somehow, that quiet truth felt infinitely worse than being captured. He wasn't being ignored out of malice or disrespect.
They genuinely could not perceive his existence. He was a silent spectator, completely disconnected from the world around him, anchored to a memory he couldn't touch.
Kashima let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It escaped his lips in a rough, unsteady rush, and he lowered his head for a moment, forcing himself to breathe.
'What on Earth is happening to me...?'
He had no answer.
And no time to look for one.
"Your Highness."
The silver-haired nobleman's voice cut through the heavy air, sharp and devoid of warmth.
Kashima lifted his head, his focus drawn back to the bed.
The prince had not moved and inch from beside the bed.
His forehead remained pressed flat against the dark edge of the mattress. One trembling hand was still wrapped tightly around his father's cold, lifeless fingers, holding them with a desperate, heartbreaking grip—as though he truly believed his own body heat could somehow pull the Emperor back from the Heavens if he simply refused to let go.
The old nobleman watched the kneeling boy for a brief second.
Then his severe expression hardened even further.
"The Privy Council has been fully assembled." The old official declared. "The border commanders are awaiting your immediate orders, and Lord Vaelgrim along with the Western Lords already begun issuing formal inquiries regarding the succession."
The prince's fingers tightened violently around his father's stiff hand.
He said nothing.
"The court cannot remain without a sovereign..." the nobleman continued, his voice utterly lacking sympathy. "Your Majesty's father's passing must be formally announced before the hour ends, and the Imperial Seal must be transferred before the council adjourns."
The prince's shoulders rose and feel with a faint, uneven breath.
"Please..."
The word was barely audible, a fragile whisper buried beneath the silence of the room.
The old nobleman's jaw tightened in visible annoyance.
"Your Highness, Krahenhold requires your presence. Grief is a luxury the crown cannot afford."
The prince bowed his head even lower, his pale forehead digging into the fabric.
"Just... give me a little more time."
For the first time, his voice broke—a raw, cracked sound of pure agony.
He swallowed hard, his throat working desperately as he tried to force the words past his lips.
"I haven't even—"
He stopped.
His lips pressed together into the tight, pale line.
His hand trembled uncontrollably around his father's cold fingers.
Kashima watched from a few steps away, the cold panic in his chest slowly giving way to a dark bitterness.
The silver-haired nobleman glanced down at the dead Emperor's lifeless face with a detachment that was sickening.
Then he looked back at the prince.
"Time is precisely the one thing we do possess."
Another elder stepped forward, broad-shouldered and heavy-set, a deep frown carved permanently between his thick brows and a heavy gold chain hanging across his dark velvet chest.
"Three border garrisons have yet to receive confirmation of the Emperor's condition..." The man stated sternly. "If word of His Majesty's death reaches the provinces before the succession is secured, every ambitious lord in the western provinces will begin calculating how much territory he can seize."
He stepped closer, looming over the kneeling boy.
"Your Highness, this is no longer a private matter of grief. The entire weight and the stability of the empire rests upon what you choose to do in the next five minutes."
The prince slowly, painfully raised his head.
His eyes were red and swollen.
For a long moment, he looked up from the ground, his gaze moving from one man to the other, searching desperately for a single trace of humanity—for someone, anyone, to acknowledge the dead father lying beside him.
None did.
"He's my father..." the prince whispered, the words sounding so frail against the grand, imposing room.
The words seemed to fall into the vast freezing chamber and vanish into nothingness.
The broad-shouldered elder's expression didn't soften in the slightest.
"And you are his successor."
Kashima's fingers curled slowly into tight fists at his sides.
The prince stared at the officials.
In that dim light, he looked so impossibly young.
Not a ruler. Not an heir. Not the arrogant, grape-flicking boy who had sat beneath the glass roof of the glasshouse and dismissed servants' livelihoods with a careless wave of his hand.
Just a son.
A terrified, heartbroken son who was being forced to abandon his own humanity let go of his father's hand.
The silver-haired nobleman took one more step closer.
"Your Highness, the Council has already debating whether you possess the strength to assume the throne. Do not give them further cause to doubt your resolve."
The prince's face went completely still.
It was a terrifying, quiet shift.
His shoulders stopped trembling. His weeping stopped. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, letting his father's cold hand fall back onto the sheet. He placed the dead man's beneath the edge of the blanket, arranging it with a care that made Kashima's stomach tighten.
Then he lowered his own trembling hands to his sides.
"...I understand."
He didn't sound like a man who understood his duty.
He sounded like broken child who had realised that utterly hollow words was the onlyway to make the agonising conversation end.
The broad-shouldered elder reached down and gripped the prince's arm with unyielding strength.
"Then stand!"
The prince flinched sharply.
It was slight—a quick involuntary tightening of his shoulder, a startled movement of his fingers—but Kashima saw it.
The elder either didn't notice or didn't care.
He pulled the prince up by his arm, dragging him to his feet with zero gentleness.
The prince's knees nearly buckled beneath him. He caught himself against the carved wooden bedpost, his gaze flickering helplessly back toward his father's still face.
"Your Highness..." the silver-haired nobleman said sharply. "Compose yourself."
The prince drew a sharp, shuddering breath. His mouth trembled once, a silent sob threatening to break through.
Then he bit his inner lip, pressing his mouth into a rigid, emotionless line until the trembling completely stopped.
A pair of waiting servants hurried forward, carrying a heavy, black ceremonial coat. Another brought a folded silk sash bearing the imperial crest.
They began dressing him immediately, invading his space before he had even taken a step away from his father's deathbed.
One straightened his collar with sharp, mechanical pulls.
Another wrapped the heavy sash firmly around his waist, pinning it into place.
The silver-haired nobleman inspected the final result with a brief, dissatisfied glance.
"Lift your chin." The prince obeyed instantly, his eyes blank.
"Your shoulders." He pulled them back, posturing himself like a statue.
"Do not let the court see you in such a pathetic state."
Kashima stood frozen in the shadows, staring at the horror unfolding before him.
The prince hadn't even been granted five quiet minutes to say goodbye.
His father's body was still warm under the blankets, and already these cold, calculating men were molding him, correcting his posture, fixing his clothes, and wiping away his grief so he could be paraded before a crowd of politicians.
They were treating his sorrow like a filthy stain that needed to be scrubbed clean before he could step out into the light.
Something bitter rose in Kashima's throat. 'Are you serious right now...!?'
His blue eyes darted furiously between the stone faced elders.
'His father literally just died!' The words remained trapped behind his teeth.
He looked back at the prince, waiting desperately for the boy to fight back. To above the hands away. To scream at them to leave. To demand one final, quiet moment alone with the man lying on the bed.
Anything.
But the prince did nothing.
He simply stood there like an empty shell, his gaze fixed blankly on the dark stone floor.
His hands hung stiffly at his sides.
He didn't protest when a servant adjusted his sleeve with a rough tug.
He didn't turn his head to look back when the broad-shouldered elder took his arm and began guiding him firmly towards the heavy double doors.
Kashima's brows drew together. 'Why aren't you saying anything!?'
The thought came with a sharp, angry edge, burning through the silence.
They're treating you like an object—'
He stopped dead.
For a brief, disorienting second, the dark imperial chamber seemed to melt away entirely, replaced by the suffocating chill of a grand, dimly lit marble hall.
He remembered the bitter reek of strong alcohol clinging to the air. He remembered his father, Seijurou Kanzaki—the billionaire of the business world—stumbling blindly against the butler, his expensive suit wrinkled, his words thick, ugly, and slurred as he spat abuses about his wife's affairs.
Kashima remembered stepping forward out of genuine concern, asking if he was alright—only for his father to look up with bloodshot, wild eyes and shove him brutally in the chest.
"Don't touch me!" his father had shouted, discarding his own child like trash on the floor. "Is this how you run my house? Servants grabbing me whenever they want?!"
"Master, please—" the butler had pleaded, his voice heavy with shame. "That is your son—"
"My son?" Seijurou had laughed, loud, bitter, and mocking. "I didn't call for a servant with her eyes."
The memory snapped, vanishing into the gloom.
Kashima looked down at his own hands. His fingers had curled so tightly that his nails were digging painfully into his palms, leaving deep red crescents.
He looked back at the prince.
The young man was walking towards the exit now, surrounded by a swarm of noblemen who spoke of borders, succession, and the empire's future. The prince's gaze remained fixed dead ahead. His face had gone pale beneath the dim light.
No one asked whether he could stand.
No one asked whether he was ready.
They had already decided what he was required to be and his feelings were entirely irrelevant.
To his father, Kashima was just a reminder of a cheating wife—an inconvenient servant with her eyes.
And to these cold officials, the prince was nothing more than an object to hold a crown
Kashima's mouth tightened into a hard, bitter line.
He knew that exact feeling. He had spent his entire childhood being told what he must become, forced to fit into a mold created by people who didn't care who he actually was.
He knew that eerie, hollow silence in the prince's eyes.
It was the absolute silence of someone who had learned early in life that crying or protesting only made the cold reality worse.
His eyes followed the Young Emperor as the men guided him out of the bed.
For the briefest, flicking moment, the prince slowed his steps and looked back over his shoulder.
His red, swollen eyes found his father's cold, lifeless face one last time. His steps faltered, his heel catching against the stone.
The elder gripping his arm pulled him forward without hesitation.
And the prince went quietly, vanishing into the bright light of the corridor.
Kashima remained standing alone beside the grand bed, staring at the empty space where the broken boy had just been kneeling.
The single white flower lay motionless against the dark blankets.
He looked at it for a long, silent time, the quiet crushing his chest. Then his gaze shifted slowly to the unmoving cold hand resting beneath the sheet.
A sharp, familiar tightness seized his lungs once more.
'What a miserable way to inherit a throne.'
The thought was quiet.
Bitter.
-----