[Prologue]: Ivan Zakharovic Kozlow [1]

Year 1434 of the Imperial Calendar.

Capital of Camelot, Holy Britannia Empire.

The once majestic capital of Britannia, a city known for its splendor and the heart of a mighty empire, now lay in ruins, consumed by chaos and fire. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the thick smoke that hung like a shroud over the city. Agonizing cries and desperate screams echoed through the streets.

"H–Help us!!"

"My child!"

"Run away dear!"

"Kyaaa!"

"P–Please! Don't—ughh!"

Women and children ran frantically, their faces twisted in horror as they fled the devastation. Fathers and husbands, armed with whatever they could find, tried in vain to defend their families. They were cut down mercilessly, their bodies strewn across the cobblestones. Homes were reduced to ashes, and monuments burned.

The glorious capital, once a beacon of power and civilization, was now a scene of utter destruction. The attackers, an army of apostates known throughout the world as Gevurah, had struck without warning. They were the Believers of Seraphiel, worshippers of the Fallen Goddess—a figure reviled by the devout followers of the Holy Church but secretly venerated by the clandestine organization of Gevurah.

Clad in black from head to toe, the invaders were unmistakable, each wearing a distinctive black cross that dangled ominously around their necks. Their assault had been swift and unrelenting. Within an hour, they had breached the heart of the city, reaching the imperial palace itself. Once thought impregnable, the palace was now overrun with enemies. Knights, despite their fierce loyalty and skill, were hopelessly outnumbered. They fell one after another, their blood staining the once pristine marble floors.

The grand entrance of the palace, which had once welcomed dignitaries and royals, was now choked with the bodies of the slain and the black-clad soldiers of Seraphiel. Amidst the chaos, the faint sound of footsteps echoed softly.

A lone figure emerged from the haze of smoke and carnage. His shoulder-length jet black hair was partially swept back by the searing winds, revealing a pale yet strikingly handsome face. His expression was calm untouched by the destruction around him. He wore a jet-black suit layered with light armor that clung to his well-toned physique. He looked young, barely past his teenage years, yet there was a coldness in his pitch-black eyes that spoke of something far older.

Before him stood the great white palace of Britannia, once the proudest symbol of the empire, now engulfed in flames. The sight should have been triumphant for any conqueror, but the young man's expression remained void of emotion. His eyes seemed distant, locked in a trance as if caught between worlds.

Suddenly, his gaze sharpened, and he blinked as if waking from a long dream. He looked around, his eyes sweeping over the burning city, and then down at his own body, as if seeing it for the first time yet not.

"Yvan… no. Ivan…" He whispered, staring at his hands as if they were foreign to him.

In a flood of memories, images and sensations rushed through his mind at a dizzying pace. Memories of another world—a peaceful world called Earth. Memories of a young man named Yvan, and yet at the same time, memories of who he was now. He was both Ivan and Yvan but six other memories had also settled within his mind. The floor of memories was so potent along the ragging emotions and feelings of six other out of ordinary people, Ivan struggled to get himself together.

Clenching his head, Ivan fought back a searing pain in his brain. Anyone might have already died over the amount of informations.

After a long minute, Ivan heaved a sigh.

There was no doubt.

He was inside the Novel of one of the novel he was asked to draw the Art of himself. From Ivan's perfective he had always been inside the novel which made Yvan of Earth's memories even more confusion but they were all true.

This was not just any place; it was the very world from the novel he had read. In those tales, Ivan was not just a character; he was the Main Antagonist, the final one. The Biggest one of the Novel, [The Fallen Prince].

Year 1434, Second Month of the Imperial Calendar.

Ivan realized with clarity that this moment, this burning city, was the opening scene of the novel—a chapter that took place just a month before the story's official start. 

The world around him was not just fiction—it was reality. And in this twisted reality, Ivan stood at the epicenter of destruction, the villain of the story, with all the power and knowledge of both his worlds converging into one undeniable truth: he was the orchestrator of Britannia's fall.

"Filthy heretic!" A voice snarled, dripping with venomous contempt. Ivan turned to see a knight clad in gleaming white armor, his eyes burning with fury. The knight's gaze locked onto the black cross hanging around Ivan's neck, a symbol of insult against everything the Holy Church stood for. 

If the knight had known that Ivan was the mastermind behind the assault, the leader of the very army that had brought Britannia to its knees, his rage would have been even more unbridled.

"Die!" The knight roared, charging at Ivan with his sword raised, intent on cutting down the man who embodied everything he despised.

—Spurt!

Before the knight's blade could even come close, his head was severed cleanly from his shoulders. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud, his eyes still wide in shock, while his lifeless body crumpled beside his sword, blood pooling on the once-sacred palace floor.

"What are you doing, Ivan?" 

A voice called out calmly.

Ivan turned his head to see a young woman standing beside him, seemingly unfazed by the violence. She was around the same age as Ivan, radiantly beautiful with long, flowing silver-grey hair that framed her pale, flawless face. Her eyes were as dark as the abyss. She wore a long black skirt paired with a black top that exposed her slender, pale shoulders. The black cross she wore hung just above her chest, matching the earrings that swayed gently in the smoky breeze.

"Ludmila," Ivan called, his voice indifferent yet familiar, for he knew her well. She was not just a comrade but one of his most trusted allies and from the novel's, she was another Antagonist.

"The palace has been secured by Mikhail and Kamila," Ludmila reported. "They're waiting for us in the Throne Room, Ivan."

Before Ivan could respond, another figure approached—a blond-haired young man who appeared slightly younger than Ivan and Ludmila. His eyes were perpetually half-lidded, with dark rings underneath that hinted at a chronic lack of sleep, yet his features were undeniably sharp.

"Dimitri," Ivan greeted without turning his gaze away from the palace's burning halls. Now that his memories were fully aligned, merging the personas of Yvan and Ivan, he moved forward without much hesitation.

Yvan's and the other six Antagonist's memories barely changed anything in his current plans.

As they entered the palace, the members of Gevurah immediately knelt, heads bowed in reverence. They were the highest-ranking members of Gevurah, the chosen few who stood closest to their leader. Ivan, Commander and Leader of the army, led the way, flanked by Ludmila and Dimitri. They moved through corridors littered with bodies, their boots treading over the remains of knights who had fought valiantly in defense of their emperor and empire.

The walls, once adorned with priceless tapestries and carvings, were now smeared with blood. The grandeur of the palace had been defiled, reduced to a slaughterhouse. But Ivan's gaze remained fixed and unfeeling. He was accustomed to such scenes.

"Lord Ivan," two newly appointed guards of Gevurah called out, their voices filled with respect. They had replaced the former palace guards, now loyal only to Gevurah. With a swift salute, they struck their fists against their chests in a gesture of respect but there was slight hint of fear in their face.

Ivan passed them without a second glance, his focus solely on the grand double doors at the end of the hall—the entrance to the throne room. As the doors swung open, Ivan stepped into the chamber that once symbolized the very heart of Britannia's power.

Inside, six figures were forced to kneel on the polished floor, their heads bowed in humiliation and despair. The royal family of Britannia—once the rulers of a mighty empire—now nothing more than prisoners, stripped of their power and dignity.