He let out a weak cough, his breath fogging in the freezing air as he lay on the snow-covered ground. His body trembled as the cold seeped through his torn clothes, the once pristine white snow slowly staining red. Above him, the full blue moon bathed the night in an eerie glow, its beauty drawing a faint, peaceful smile to his lips.
What a waste.
Had he known this was how his life would end, he never would have spent years trapped in a gray, soulless office, drowning in paperwork and meaningless deadlines. If only he had pursued something that actually mattered—writing, art, anything besides slaving away for a paycheck that barely kept him afloat. He had wasted his life working for people who didn't care if he dropped dead at his desk, filling out reports that no one would even remember existed.
And now? He was dying alone in the snow, and not a single person from that office would notice.
He chuckled bitterly, coughing up more blood. How much of his life had he sacrificed for stability, only to meet such an unstable, meaningless end? He should have stayed home, curled up with his favorite books instead of wandering out on this cursed night.
Dazai Osamu, Nakajima Atsushi, Akutagawa Ryunosuke, Nakahara Chuuya—he had read their works a thousand times, yet he would give anything to read them once more. Their words had brought him more comfort, more meaning than any job ever had. Even now, as his body grew heavier and colder, he longed to hold those books again, to find solace in stories that had shaped him.
But fate had other plans.
He had only gone out for a simple errand, nothing more. The fridge had been empty, the cabinets bare—a quick run to the convenience store before heading back to his lifeless apartment. It should have been an uneventful night. Until construction blocked his usual route, forcing him to take a different path—a wrong turn he hadn't thought twice about.
If only he had paid more attention to the half-finished building looming in the shadows. If only he had heard the snap of broken wires before the metal poles came crashing down.
How unlucky.
His breath slowed. His body grew heavier.
How much longer until the clock struck twelve? Until the New Year's bell rang through the city? Until his final breath?
No one would remember him. No one would even notice he was gone.
"This... sucks." He whispered, voice barely audible as his body gave up, his eyes finally closing as the weight of exhaustion dragged him under.
12:00 A.M.
The shrine bell rang softly in the distance. Somewhere, the world celebrated.
And in the quiet, untouched snowfall, an unknown man spent his final New Year's night alone, bleeding out beneath the moonlight.
…How dull.
Fate? Destiny? Do you really believe in them?
Then why don't we change it?
Silence. Then—breath.
His body felt light, too light. Warmth surrounded him, unfamiliar and heavy, replacing the freezing bite of the snow that had clung to his skin just moments ago. His fingers twitched—steady, painless, alive.
That wasn't right.
He should be dead.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was ornate, gold-trimmed, bathed in morning sunlight—not the dark sky he had last seen. He swallowed, sitting up on what felt like silk sheets, thick and impossibly soft beneath his hands.
This wasn't the cold street. This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't the world he knew.
His heartbeat thrummed louder, a strange pulse of foreign emotions weaving into his thoughts—things he didn't recognize, memories that didn't belong to him.
Then, like a flood breaking through a dam, they crashed into him.
Names, places, whispered histories—a life that wasn't his but now rested within him, waiting for him to accept it, claim it, become it.
"A-argh!" Pain exploded in his skull. He clutched his head, whimpering as unknown memories flooded in, intertwining with his own in a chaotic mess.
"Hah...Haah..." His breathing came out ragged, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. He forced himself to take a shaky breath—then the truth struck him.
This body belonged to Prince Mika Lyre Verhault.
He knew that name. He knew who this was.
Prince Mika Lyre Verhault—the third prince of the Eirnard Kingdom, a secondary character in Crimson Revenge, the novel he had read countless times. The second male lead. A noble who, for a brief moment, turned into a villain—only to die at the hands of the protagonists.
Crimson Revenge. A romantic epic centered around a Holy Maiden and a Blademaster—the story began with the Holy Maiden rescuing a slave trapped in an illegal underground fighting ring, all due to a prophecy from the gods.
Honestly, the story had bored him. Too predictable. The Holy Maiden was whiny, irritatingly passive, weak despite being blessed by ten gods. She never fought back—never tried to change her fate. Instead, she depended entirely on the Blademaster, letting the plot carry her forward.
And worst of all? She was the reason Prince Mika died. Because of her carelessness. Her foolish oracle.
"Haah..." He exhaled slowly, the weight of his new reality settling in.
With trembling limbs, he pushed himself out of bed, his body weak yet unfamiliar. Holding his head, he took slow steps toward the mirror.
And froze.
The reflection staring back at him was not his own—it was someone else's face.
A nineteen-year-old noble, his lean frame wrapped in the finest fabrics money could buy. Pale skin, untouched by sunlight, spoke of years spent indoors, avoiding effort and responsibility. His wavy, dark hair, soft yet perpetually messy, hung in careless strands as though he had just woken up from a long nap.
But it was the eyes that unsettled him the most.
A deep crimson, burning with a sharp intensity, contrasted heavily with the exhausted half-lidded gaze—like the body itself was still trapped in its former routine of laziness, despite now housing a completely different soul.
He reached out, fingers trembling as he touched the glass. The sensation was wrong—his skin was too soft, too smooth, lacking the imperfections he once had.
This was Prince Mika. The same character he had seen drawn in the novel's pages.
Yet, something in his mind felt empty.
His memories—his identity—were blurred at the edges, as if something had been erased.
He tried to grasp at it—his name, his real name.
But the answer wouldn't come.
Why couldn't he remember it?
"Ugh… my head hurts…" Mika groaned, breathing heavily as he leaned against the mirror, his fingers pressing against his temple. The pain was sharp, unbearable—like his mind was tearing itself apart every time he tried to recall something important.
His own name.
It was gone.
The harder he tried to grasp it, the worse the pain became, until he finally gave up, exhaling a shaky sigh.
"I guess… I'll just call myself Mika."
Pushing himself off the mirror, he staggered back toward the bed, collapsing onto the plush sheets with a heavy sigh. His fingers absently brushed against his messy dark hair, pushing aside the strands that had fallen over his tired eyes. He turned his gaze back to the mirror, staring at the pale, noble face staring back at him.
"So, this is what people call reincarnation…" he murmured.
Never in his entire existence had he imagined this would happen to him—let alone inside a novel he abandoned halfway through.
He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then the realization struck.
"I'm the prince… I'm the prince?"
Mika shot up, his red eyes wide as clarity finally settled in.
"I'm the third prince!"
A slow grin spread across his face.
"That means I don't have to do anything. I can lazy around all day instead of doing any work!"
He glanced down at his hands, curling his fingers into a tight fist before unclenching them again, admiring their slender, well-manicured state.
Unlike his previous life—where he had worked himself to the bone—here, he could do whatever he wanted.
No deadlines. No bills. No soul-crushing exhaustion from overwork.
Just pure, untouchable privilege.
With newfound energy, he jumped out of bed, standing tall with a newfound sense of pride and confidence.
"All I need to do is avoid the Holy Maiden…"
His chin rested on his hand, deep in thought.
"If Mika's memories are correct… then this timeline is two years before the prophecy."
He began pacing back and forth, his mind slowly piecing everything together.
"That means the Blademaster, Louis, is twenty-two and still trapped in the underground arena…"
He abruptly stopped, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Hah. The oracle claimed that Prince Mika would start a rebellion… but that prophecy was wrong—all because the Holy Maiden misinterpreted it."
He exhaled, his amusement growing.
"So, for revenge… and for a secure future… why don't I take Louis as my bodyguard?"
His smirk widened.
Yes. That sounded like a damn good plan.
"…Thinking back… why is this place so quiet?"
Mika finally noticed the eerie silence that surrounded him—no servants bustling about, no maids waking him for morning duties, just pure, unsettling stillness.
Curious, he walked toward the window, expecting the sight of a grand, lively estate fitting for royalty.
Instead, his eyes widened in shock.
The mansion was huge, yes—but gloomy, lifeless, as if it hadn't been properly cared for in years. The once vibrant garden was devoid of color, its only surviving blooms black roses, their petals swaying ominously in the morning breeze.
A place as noble as this should have radiated grandeur—but instead, it reeked of isolation and neglect.
"Ah… right."
Mika muttered under his breath, a faint trace of sadness flickering in his expression.
"Mika… is not a direct bloodline of royalty."
Prince Mika Lyre Verhault was never meant to exist, an illegitimate child born from an affair between the King and a commoner woman—a woman too kind, too simple, too naive to realize she had been drawn into a dangerous game.
The King, disguised as a merchant, had courted Mika's mother, visiting her humble bakery under false pretenses. She had loved him, never once suspecting the truth.
Until the Queen found out.
Her rage was uncontrollable. She ordered the knights to seize Mika's mother while the King was away, and, fueled by fury, she personally sentenced the woman to a brutal public execution.
Mika's mother had pleaded for mercy, exposing her pregnancy—yet that only angered the Queen further. She commanded the executioner to continue without hesitation.
By the time the King returned, it was already too late.
Devastated, he demanded to know where the Queen had buried her, threatening her with public execution in return if she refused to answer. Forced to confess, she revealed the location of the grave.
Heartbroken, the King himself dug out the corpse in the middle of a storm, his hands trembling as he uncovered the woman he loved, lifeless and cold in the drenched soil.
And yet—whether by miracle or divine mercy—Mika was born from her corpse, untouched, breathing, as though fate itself had denied death its claim.
The King had been both horrified and relieved, yet he knew one truth with certainty:
Mika would never be safe in the palace.
"The King didn't want anything to happen to Mika, so he sent him here," Mika murmured, shifting his gaze away from the window. "Away from his brothers. Away from his stepmother."
In the novel, Mika had first met the Holy Maiden when she had wandered into his garden, lost and helpless.
Over time, he had befriended her, opened himself up, only to be betrayed in the end.
What a fool.
Mika let out a frustrated groan, throwing himself back onto the bed.
"The author barely explained Mika's past. After the Holy Maiden and Louis met, Mika—the fan favorite—was completely cast aside… such a waste."
Rolling onto his side, Mika felt his exhaustion settle in, his red eyes slowly shutting.
"I guess… I'll do everything tomorrow. I still need to visit the underground arena…"
With that final thought, Mika drifted into deep sleep, unaware of the storm of fate brewing ahead.