It was a crisp, cool night in Tokyo, and Akira Kimora slouched in his train seat like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The train swayed gently along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels almost lulling him into a daze. Thankfully, the car was nearly empty—just him, a couple of sleepy salarymen, and a teenager whose headphones were leaking bad EDM into the otherwise serene space.
Akira looked like a poster child for corporate exhaustion: tie loosened, shirt wrinkled like it had been used to mop up his day's despair, and dark circles under his eyes that could hold coins if gravity felt like doing him dirty. Yet, despite being dog-tired, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out a well-loved manga. Its bright, action-packed cover seemed to mock his lifeless demeanor.
The comic promised a temporary escape,an explosion of humor, battles, and ridiculous tropes far removed from the crushing reality of deadlines and an overbearing boss who breathed fire instead of air. He opened the manga and let it pull him into its world, the stress of the day slowly peeling away.
But, of course, reality wasn't about to let him off that easily.
Bzzzzzz.
The phone in his pocket vibrated like an annoying mosquito, yanking him back to the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the train. Akira glanced at the screen. His stomach sank. It was his boss.
"Kimora," the voice barked the moment Akira picked up. No pleasantries, no "Hey, how's your evening going?"—just pure, unfiltered corporate panic. "I need you back at the office. We're swamped, and I need help finishing these reports. I'll pay you extra."
Akira's reflection in the train window stared back at him, dead-eyed and unimpressed. His manga hero wouldn't put up with this nonsense. His manga hero would say, "Take those reports and shove them where the plot armor don't shine!"
But Akira wasn't a hero. He was a guy with aging parents who needed extra money for medical bills. A guy who had learned that "no" wasn't a word his mouth could properly form anymore.
"Understood," he muttered. "I'll be there soon."
With a resigned sigh, Akira shoved the manga back into his bag, stood up, and braced himself for yet another soul-sucking round at the office.
The office at night was as depressing as you'd imagine: buzzing fluorescent lights, empty desks, and a handful of coworkers who clearly didn't have better things to do. They greeted Akira with the same level of enthusiasm you'd reserve for a rat in your apartment.
"Well, well, Mr. Reliable," one sneered as Akira walked past. "Did the boss drag you out of bed again? What's next, scrubbing his toilet?"
Another chimed in, "You know, kimora , one day you'll wake up and realize you've been working for free. Oh wait—you already are!"
Akira clenched his jaw and ignored them. Sure, they mocked him, but he could tell they were grateful he was the sacrificial lamb. Less work for them. Lucky him.
He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and let the cold glow of the screen wash over his tired face. The cursor blinked accusingly, as if to say, You really came back for this?
As the hours dragged on, Akira's body began sending him warning signals. First, there was the ache in his back from sitting too long. Then, a dull throb in his temples. Finally, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest that made him pause.
He should've stopped. He should've packed up and gone home. But Akira was nothing if not committed—to a fault. He told himself it was just stress, just exhaustion, and pushed through, typing away like a man possessed.
The pain didn't stop.
It grew sharper, like a knife twisting in his chest. He tried to brush it off, but soon his vision blurred. His fingers slipped off the keyboard, and before he could call for help, his body betrayed him.
He collapsed, his head hitting the desk with a sickening thud.
The world around him became a swirl of chaos—his coworkers shouting his name, someone fumbling with a phone to call an ambulance, the distant echo of his boss asking if he could still finish the reports.
For a brief moment, as darkness closed in, Akira had a single, haunting thought:
(Damn it. Is this how I go? Over a stupid report? I didn't even get to have a family... didn't even get to live. Just worked. And worked. And worked.)
The last thing he heard was the wail of the ambulance siren, cutting through the night like a cruel punchline to the joke his life had become.
And then, there was silence.
.
.
.
When Akira opened his eyes, he was greeted by the kind of grandeur that screamed afterlife VIP section. Towering golden gates stood before him, shimmering like they were polished by angels who moonlit as car detailers. Everything glowed in a way that made him squint, and the air was so serene he half-expected a harp solo to start playing in the background.
"So this is heaven," Akira murmured, a tired smile spreading across his face. "Finally, I can get some damn rest."
But, as always, peace was a fleeting luxury in Akira's life. Before he could take two hypothetical steps toward eternal bliss, a sudden, invisible force yanked him backward like he was a toddler on a leash.
"Hey, wait a second,what's happening?!" he yelped, flailing wildly as he was sucked into a swirling vortex of light and chaos. Just as he started to regret not reading the Terms & Conditions of his afterlife, a booming, otherworldly voice echoed around him:
"Save the world from evil, savior."
"What? Savior? No thanks! Wrong guy,return to sender!" Akira shouted, but the universe clearly didn't care about his preferences. The next thing he knew, he was falling.
When Akira came to, he wasn't in heaven—or, for that matter, hell. He was in a bedroom. A massive, fancy bedroom, the kind that looked like it belonged to a spoiled medieval prince with too much money and not enough taste. The walls were lined with tapestries, sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, and the bed behind him was so ridiculously oversized he could practically swim in it.
"What the hell...?" Akira muttered groggily, sitting up and clutching his pounding head. Something was off. His hands felt... smaller? His body felt weird, like he'd shrunk in the dryer. Panic set in, and Akira looked down, inspecting his hands. They were small and delicate, like a child's.
"No. No, no, no. What's going on?!"
Before he could spiral further, a voice piped up. "Young Master, are you alright?"
Akira whipped his head toward the source—a petite maid standing a few feet away. Her green eyes were wide with concern, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. She looked like the walking definition of "adorable servant girl in a fantasy novel," and Akira had no idea what to make of it.
"I... I need a mirror. Bring me a mirror!" he demanded, his voice cracking slightly—and not just from panic.
The maid nodded, scurrying off and returning moments later with an ornate hand mirror. She handed it to Akira with trembling hands. He snatched it and held it up, bracing himself for whatever fresh nonsense awaited him.
The face that stared back was not his.
Instead, he saw a frail boy with pale skin, messy black hair, and red eyes so striking they looked like they belonged to a villain in an anime.
"What the... WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" Akira yelled, nearly dropping the mirror. His reflection mimicked his outburst, looking just as horrified as he felt.
"Young Master, please calm down!" the maid begged, her expression shifting from concern to outright panic. "Should I call the physician?"
"Physician?!" Akira shot back. "How about a therapist, because I'm losing it here!"
But before the maid could react, the mirror in Akira's trembling hands cracked with a loud snap. Shards rained onto the floor as the maid jumped back in alarm.
"Young Master!" she cried, bolting from the room.
"Great," Akira muttered, staring at the broken glass. "Not even ten minutes into this weird reincarnation mess, and I've already committed mirror homicide. This is going great."
Moments later, the maid returned with reinforcements: a stern-looking physician and two burly guards who were clearly ready to tackle Akira if he got too sassy. The physician wasted no time approaching him.
"You're bleeding," the doctor observed, pointing to Akira's hands, which had been nicked by the mirror shards.
"I'm also confused, emotionally unstable, and possibly hallucinating," Akira retorted. "You gonna fix that too?"
The maid gasped. "Young Master! Such strange words!"
"Listen," he said, attempting to sound as rational as possible. "I'm not this 'Young Master.' I don't belong here. My soul got... I don't know, misdelivered. I'm a grown man! I had a job, a boss, and... well, not a great life, but it was mine!"
The maid and the physician exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of confusion and pity.
"Perhaps the Young Master has bumped his head," the physician suggested.
"Bumped my—ugh, you're not listening!" Akira groaned.
The maid ignored Akira's protests, gently laying him back on the bed as though he were a fragile piece of glass. The physician stepped forward, his face a delicate mixture of concern and quiet judgment. "Young Master, harming yourself will not help your condition. Let me see your hand."
"Harming myself?!" Akira's voice shot up, a mix of indignation and panic. "No, no, no! It's not like that!" He flailed his uninjured hand for emphasis. "I didn't mean to—uh—it just happened!" He struggled for an explanation that didn't sound insane. "Look, I'm not who you think I am! My soul doesn't belong here—I'm from another world!"
The maid and the physician exchanged a glance so laden with pity it could've doubled as a funeral wreath. The maid leaned closer, her green eyes practically dripping with sympathy. "Young Master, you've been very sick lately. Perhaps this is just... confusion?"
The physician nodded solemnly, adopting the tone of someone explaining algebra to a toddler.
"Yes, let's focus on your injuries first, shall we?"
Before Akira could protest further, the physician held his hand over Akira's injured palm. A soft, golden glow radiated from his fingertips, warming Akira's hand like a comforting hug on a winter morning. Akira's eyes widened as the cuts on his hand vanished, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.
"What... what was that?" Akira stammered, staring at his newly healed hand like it had just performed a magic trick on its own.
The physician raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, you don't know what magic is?"
The maid gasped audibly, clutching her chest like Akira had just confessed he didn't know what air was. Akira's brain stalled, but his mouth scrambled to compensate. "I—I mean, of course I do!" he sputtered. "It's just that... uh... the illness! Yes, the illness has made my memories a bit... fuzzy." He forced the kind of smile that screamed don't ask me follow-up questions.
Thankfully, the physician seemed to buy it, nodding sympathetically. "Understandable. You've endured much. Rest now, Young Master. We'll take care of everything."
As the maid fluffed the pillows behind him, Akira sank back into the bed, his thoughts racing faster than his heart. Magic? He was in a world with magic? His panic was now battling with a tiny spark of intrigue. Okay, so this isn't just some generic reincarnation nonsense. This could actually be... cool?
He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me," he said, trying to sound casual. "Can you, uh, remind me where I am? And... who I am, exactly?"
The physician paused, clearly weighing his words. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but don't use such formalities with us. We are merely your humble servants. However, it's clear your memory loss has clouded your understanding of the situation. Let me explain."
Akira straightened up, trying to look serious while ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach.
"First, we are in Rhonwen Metropolis, the jewel of the Kiran Continent, which we call the Heart of Kiran. It is the largest continent in the world, known for its trade, military power, and magical prowess. The city is protected by towering walls and divided into six districts, all governed by the king."
"Right," Akira said, nodding as if he had any idea what that meant. "And... me? Who am I in all this?"
The physician exhaled, his expression tinged with sadness. "You, Young Master, are Prince Theodore Dominick, the first and only son of the late Queen Urian and King Henry Dominick III. Your mother was the daughter of the North Duke, a family whose influence in the northern territories remains unmatched to this day. Your birth was meant to be a time of great joy and celebration."
"Meant to be?" Akira frowned. "Why wasn't it?"
The physician's face darkened. "Because of Marquis Donovan, a cunning and ambitious noble. He manipulated the king into remarrying mere months after Queen Urian's passing. The new queen, Queen Bianca Donovan , took your mother's place but saw you as an obstacle to her ambitions."
The maid, who had been quietly standing by, looked down, her hands twisting the hem of her apron.
Akira's confusion turned to unease. "What do you mean, 'saw me as an obstacle'?"
The physician's voice grew heavy with regret. "The new queen has done everything in her power to undermine you. She isolated you from the palace, limited your access to resources, and allowed your health to deteriorate. This mansion, far removed from court, is her doing. She made sure you were forgotten, a shadow of your rightful place as heir to the throne."
Akira's hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening. "And the king? My... father? What about him? Why hasn't he done anything?"
The physician's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice low. "His Majesty... is blinded by Queen Isabel's schemes. She has his trust completely, and he has neglected you, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to see—the suffering you've endured under her rule."
Akira felt a chill crawl down his spine as the story of the prince's life—his life—unfolded like a grim fairy tale. A cruel stepmother, a negligent father, a home left in ruin. And now, an ominous realization settled over him like a heavy fog: the queen might still be trying to eliminate him.
"My life is in danger, then," Akira said softly, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
The doctor nodded gravely. "Indeed, Your Highness. You must tread carefully. The queen's influence stretches far, and her ambition knows no bounds."
Akira exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He needed more than caution; he needed information. If he was going to survive in this world, he had to understand it—its rules, its dangers, and its power. "Doctor," he said, straightening his posture, "tell me about magic. What is it? And can I use it?"
The doctor blinked, momentarily surprised by the abrupt shift in topic, but quickly adapted. He could see the resolve hardening in Akira's eyes. "Magic is the essence of life in this kingdom," he began. "It flows through all living things and can be harnessed to manipulate the world. Some are born with an affinity for it, while others must train tirelessly to master its intricacies. However..."
"However?" Akira prompted, leaning forward.
The doctor hesitated, his expression darkening. "You, Prince Theodore... cannot use magic."
Akira's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, I can't use it?"
"You've been cursed," the doctor explained, his voice tinged with sorrow. "A powerful enchantment was placed on you as a child. It blocks your aura, cutting you off from magic entirely. This curse is likely the queen's doing—or that of someone working under her orders. It is why your health is frail and your body weak. Without magic to sustain and strengthen you, your future remains uncertain."
Akira clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The anger bubbling inside him was almost overwhelming. He was cursed, isolated, and malnourished—all because of the queen's machinations. This world, it seemed, was no kinder than the one he had left behind.
"What can I do about it?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions brewing inside him.
The doctor sighed deeply, his face lined with concern. "Lifting a curse is no simple task. You would need magic of incredible power—perhaps a divine artifact or the aid of a skilled mage. But such things are rare and often guarded by great peril."
Akira's jaw tightened, his mind already working to piece together a plan. He refused to resign himself to this fate. "Is there a library in this mansion? Somewhere I can study magic and curses?"
The doctor hesitated again before nodding. "Yes. Though it has been neglected like the rest of the estate, the library may hold something of value. I will guide you there, if you wish."
"Good," Akira said, gripping his walking stick as he pushed himself to his feet. "Then let's go. If I can't use magic now, I'll find another way. I'll gather knowledge, uncover the truth, and learn to fight back. Whatever it takes."
The doctor watched Akira with a mix of admiration and unease. There was something different about him—something sharper and more determined than the frail prince he had tended to in the past. This was not a boy resigned to his fate. This was a man with a fire in his heart, one that burned brighter than the doctor had ever seen.
"As you wish, Your Highness," the doctor said, bowing slightly before leading Akira through the dusty, neglected halls of the mansion.
The walk to the library was slow but purposeful. Akira leaned on his stick, each step a small triumph as he forced his weak body forward. The corridor was wide and dimly lit, its once-grand walls adorned with faded paintings and peeling wallpaper. Dust hung heavy in the air, and the faint smell of decay lingered—a fitting metaphor for the state of his life.
His thoughts strayed to the father of this body, the so-called king who had allowed this to happen. Akira's heart clenched with a familiar ache. This king had abandoned his son, just as Akira's father had neglected him in his past life. Different worlds, same story.
The bitterness began to rise, threatening to overwhelm him, but Akira abruptly slapped his own cheek. The sting snapped him back to the present. Stop it, he thought. Self-pity won't get you anywhere. If fate wants to stack the deck against me, fine—I'll learn to play dirty.
When they finally arrived, the library took his breath away. The room was vast, with towering shelves that reached for the ceiling. Books filled every corner—some neatly arranged, others piled in chaotic heaps. But the splendor of the space was overshadowed by neglect. Dust coated the shelves, cobwebs draped from corners, and the faint smell of mildew hung in the air.
Akira stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of awe and sadness. Books had always been his escape in his past life—a refuge from stress and loneliness. Seeing this place in such disrepair struck a chord.
Akira turned sharply to the doctor, his lips curling into an irritated pout. "Alright, but seriously—why does this mansion look like it's been hosting a ghost convention for ten years?"
The doctor hesitated, his expression darkening as if he were bracing himself for a scolding. Turning slightly away, he said, "as I've explained before It is the doing of the queen, Your Highness. She ordered all the maids to leave, dismissed the staff, and... well, appropriated the wages your father sends for the upkeep of this estate."
Akira narrowed his eyes. "Appropriated?"
The doctor sighed heavily. "She keeps the money for herself. Since she oversees all royal household finances, none of the funds meant for you ever reach this mansion. Instead, the queen spends it lavishly on her own comforts—banquets, jewels, imported luxuries..."
Akira froze, his fists clenching at his sides. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. So the neglect wasn't just casual—it was deliberate. His stepmother had stripped this place bare and left him to rot while the king—his father—had turned a blind eye to it all. The injustice felt suffocating, and rage bubbled within him.
Without thinking, Akira swung his fist at the nearest wall. The impact sent a cascade of books tumbling from a nearby shelf. Several smacked him square on the head and shoulders.
"OW! Son of a—" Akira staggered back, rubbing his head as the books clattered to the floor. He glared at the mess as though it had personally betrayed him. "First my life, now the furniture. Great. Just great."
The doctor flinched at the commotion but said nothing, wisely choosing to let the young prince vent his frustration.
Akira took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. But as the initial sting of the books faded, darker thoughts began to creep in. He thought of the boy whose body he now inhabited—a child who had suffered quietly, neglected and forgotten. What kind of despair must he have endured? Was it possible... that he had taken his own life, unable to bear it any longer?
The idea sent a chill down Akira's spine. Memories of his previous life flashed through his mind—the abuse, the betrayal, the greed of those who had used and discarded him. Humanity, it seemed, thrived on cruelty.
Akira's heart hardened as he pushed the pity aside. If this is how the world works, he thought bitterly, then I'll play the game better than anyone else. If humans are greedy, I'll use their greed against them. I don't need love or trust—I'll make them kneel through fear and cunning.
Straightening his posture, he turned back to the doctor. "You can leave now," Akira said curtly, his voice cold and steady. "I have work to do."
The doctor hesitated, sensing the shift in Akira's demeanor. There was something sharper, more calculating about him now—something almost frightening. But he bowed his head respectfully. "As you wish, Your Highness."
When the doctor left, Akira turned his attention to the dusty shelves around him. He had to start somewhere. If he couldn't rely on magic now, he'd learn everything he could about it. Somewhere in this decrepit library was the key to breaking his curse.
He began scanning the shelves, his fingers brushing over the faded spines of old tomes. The silence of the room felt oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his steps.
But then, a faint rustling sound made him freeze. He straightened, his eyes darting around the room. "...Hello?" he called out, his voice echoing slightly.
No response.
He turned back to the shelf and was about to grab a book when something moved in the corner of his vision. Slowly, he turned his head—and there it was.
A large, ancient book floated off the top shelf, its chains rattling softly as it hovered in the air. Its cover looked unsettlingly organic, like it was stitched together from scraps of old leather—or worse.
Akira stared at it, unblinking. "...Of course," he muttered under his breath. "A cursed book. Because why not? It's not like my life is complicated enough."
The book, apparently offended by his sarcasm, shot toward him like a missile.
"HEY, HEY, WAIT—" Akira barely managed to dodge as the book whizzed past his head and slammed into the wall behind him.
It hovered there for a moment, almost as if it were sizing him up. Then, with a loud whoosh, it launched itself at him again.
This time, it hit him square in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. Akira stumbled back, flailing wildly as he tried to pry the book off. "GET OFF ME, YOU STUPID PILE OF PARCHMENT!" he shouted, swinging his arms like a madman.
The book seemed to tighten its grip—or whatever the floating equivalent of that was—before glowing with a dark, eerie light. Akira froze as the glow intensified, the chains rattling louder.
And then, without warning, the book dissolved into a cloud of inky mist and surged straight into his chest.
Akira gasped, his hands flying to his torso as he staggered backward. "WHAT THE—GET OUT OF ME!" he yelled, twisting and turning as though he could physically shake the book out of his body.
But it was no use. The mist disappeared, and Akira felt a strange warmth spreading through him. Then came the flood of information—memories, spells, incantations, forbidden knowledge. It was like someone had ripped open his mind and stuffed it full of everything they could find.
The sheer magnitude of it was overwhelming. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his head as the torrent of knowledge surged through him.
Just before the darkness claimed him, one coherent thought floated to the surface of his mind:
I really just got mugged by a book.