The Other World.

Love was a lie. Loyalty was an illusion. And betrayal?

Betrayal was not a slow poison. It was a blade, swift and merciless, plunged into the heart when least expected.

Adored. Respected. Cherished.

For all his life, Prince Shen Zhu had been the beloved son of the empire, the eighth prince of the great Eastern Kingdom. The people spoke his name with admiration, his presence welcomed in every corner of the palace. His kindness was praised, his wisdom envied. He had everything—power, wealth, and the unwavering love of his people.

Or so he thought.

Because now, standing on the precipice of death, he finally saw the truth.

The palace walls trembled under the deafening cries of the mob outside. A sea of furious faces filled the courtyard, their voices rising in a relentless chant:

"Kill him! Kill him! He deserves to die!"

The flames of their torches cast flickering shadows against the towering palace gates. The scent of burning wood, sweat, and anger thickened the air. The guards, though armed and trained, struggled to hold back the onslaught of enraged citizens.

"He's a monster!" A woman's voice shrieked above the chaos. Her face was streaked with tears, her hands clutching a torn piece of fabric—perhaps the remains of a child's garment. "He killed my son! I want his life in return!"

Accusations, once murmured in the shadows, had erupted into deafening cries of condemnation. Lies did not birth this hatred—the truth did.

He had killed them.

Not with a blade, nor with poison brewed in secrecy, but with his very existence. A single touch had stolen their lives, their bodies collapsing before him, their eyes wide with terror and betrayal. He hadn't understood at first, hadn't realized the curse lurking within his own flesh. But when the corpses piled, when the gasps turned to screams, the world had already made its decision.

A prince had become a plague.

And now, those who once bowed in reverence stood as executioners, their torches casting judgment upon him.

Deep within the stone corridors of the palace, beyond the reach of torchlight and screams, a lone figure sat in the damp darkness of the dungeon.

Shen Zhu.

The forsaken prince. The condemned monster.

His body bore the marks of his downfall—his once-pristine robes were torn, caked in grime and dried blood. His wrists, shackled in iron, ached from the weight of betrayal. But it was not the wounds on his skin that pained him the most.

It was the wound in his heart.

He looked at his hands.

They were clean. No blood stained on them. And yet, the cries of the dead echoed in his ears.

Something had changed in him. Something had made him this way.

But no one had listened. No one had tried to understand.

And now, the world wanted him gone.

He rested his head against the cold wall, his breathing steady but shallow. His hands, though trembling slightly, did not betray fear. No, he was past that now.

What he felt was emptiness.

How had it come to this?

What had he done to deserve such hatred?

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, breaking the suffocating silence. Slow, deliberate. Each step carried an eerie calm, a stark contrast to the madness outside.

The heavy iron door groaned as it swung open.

A figure stepped into the dim light.

Tall. Cloaked in black. The dim light failed to reveal his face, but it didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to stain the air with malice.

Shen Zhu's eyes flickered upward, meeting the figure's gaze—or at least, what little he could see of it through the dim candlelight.

The man chuckled, his voice like rusted steel. "Look at you," he murmured, stepping closer. "The once-glorious eighth prince, reduced to nothing but filth and chains."

Shen Zhu said nothing. He simply watched.

The silence stretched.

The man crouched beside him, tilting his head with mock curiosity. "I imagine you have many questions. Such as… who whispered the rumors into the ears of your people? Who turned your family against you?"

Shen Zhu's breath hitched.

The man smirked. "Surely, by now, you've realized the truth."

A slow, burning rage coiled in Shen Zhu's chest.

"You," he rasped. His throat was raw from hours of silence.

Rage surged through Shen Zhu's veins.

The man leaned in, his voice a whisper.

"But I'm not here just to gloat." His fingers brushed against the prince's bloodied jaw, tilting his face up. His touch was ice against fevered skin. "I came to offer you a choice."

Shen Zhu didn't move.

"Do you wish to die at the hands of those mindless fools outside, screaming for your blood?" The man gestured toward the door, where the distant howls of the mob still raged. "Or…"

His grip tightened.

"Would you rather face the man who made you into a monster?"

A cold shudder ran through Shen Zhu.

The man who made him this way.

His breath turned unsteady.

"You…" His voice was barely a whisper.

The man smiled. "Yes. And I assure you, your suffering is far from over."

Something inside Shen Zhu snapped.

With a feral roar, he lunged forward, chains clashing and screeching as they strained against his sudden movement. His shackles tore at his wrists, drawing fresh blood, but he didn't care.

His fingers closed around the man's throat, his grip tightening like a vice, trembling with sheer force. Heat roared through his veins, his breath ragged, his pulse pounding like a war drum.

The man had taken everything from him. His honor. His family. His very identity.

And now—he would take something in return.

"You turned them against me!" Shen Zhu's voice was raw, laced with venom and wild desperation. "You made me a monster! You—"

But the man didn't flinch.

He didn't struggle.

Didn't gasp for air.

Instead—he smiled.

Then, he leaned in.

The flickering torchlight barely illuminated his face, but Shen Zhu could see it—the amusement glinting in his eyes. Mocking. Taunting.

"Go on," the man whispered, his breath cold against Shen Zhu's skin. "Kill me."

His voice was eerily calm.

A shiver ran down Shen Zhu's spine.

"Your poison won't work on me."

The words sliced through his rage like a blade.

His fingers tightened—then faltered.

No—no!

This wasn't right. He was stronger than this. He was supposed to be the one in control.

He pressed harder, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingertips. Why wouldn't it work? Why wasn't this man afraid?

The man's lips curled. "Look at you. So desperate. So lost."

His voice was nothing more than a whisper, but it echoed like thunder in Shen Zhu's ears.

Shen Zhu's grip trembled.

Why… why wasn't this working?

A dark chuckle rumbled from the man's chest.

"Pathetic," he murmured.

Then—

Cold steel pierced through Shen Zhu's stomach.

His body jerked.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in his gut, spreading like wildfire. His breath hitched, his fingers weakening, slipping.

Warmth bloomed beneath his robes.

Blood.

His own blood.

Shen Zhu staggered back, gasping as he clutched at the blade embedded in his abdomen. His knees buckled, vision tilting, blurring.

The man straightened, tilting his head as he watched him.

Unbothered. Unshaken.

Like he had known this would happen all along.

"You were never meant to win," the man murmured, wrenching the blade free.

Shen Zhu choked as another wave of agony crashed over him.

His legs gave out.

He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, fingers desperately pressing against his wound, slick with blood.

He had failed.

Even in his final act of vengeance—he was the one to bleed.

The man crouched beside him, smirking as he grasped Shen Zhu's bloodied chin, tilting his face up with cruel leisure. His fingers were ice against fevered skin, a mocking contrast to the fire burning in Shen Zhu's veins.

With a sigh, he wiped the gleaming edge of his blade against the tattered remnants of Shen Zhu's robes, as if his blood was nothing more than a stain to be discarded. His gaze, sharp with amusement, bore into the dying prince's eyes.

"That's the thing about monsters," he murmured, voice laced with mock pity.

He leaned in, a whisper against Shen Zhu's trembling lips.

"They never know when they've already lost."

Through bloodied lips, Shen Zhu forced out a ragged breath, his voice barely more than a whisper—a curse, a promise, a dying wish.

"You… will suffer a death far worse than mine."

The man chuckled, tilting his head as if considering the weight of those words. "Worse than this?" he mused, his tone light, mocking. "Ah, but tell me, little prince—how many suffered before you? How many did you condemn without ever raising a blade?"

His fingers pressed deeper into Shen Zhu's chin, forcing their gazes to lock.

"You call for vengeance," he continued, voice dripping with amusement, "but was it not your own hands—your cursed, wretched existence—that brought so much pain?"

Shen Zhu's breath hitched. His chest tightened, the bitter taste of blood pooling on his tongue.

Because he knew the answer.

And it was killing him faster than the blade ever could.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't.

The man let go of his chin, letting his head drop like he was nothing.

"How ironic," he sighed. "That the monster you became… will be remembered as nothing more than a tragedy. A stain in history. An example."

He rose to his feet, his boots crushing the pool of blood beneath him. The villagers who had stormed into the dungeon stood frozen, watching with wide, hateful eyes.

Then, the man turned, facing them.

"Let it be known!" he declared, voice sharp and commanding. "Prince Shen Zhu—the beloved eighth prince—died begging for mercy!"

The silence shattered. Cheers erupted. Cheers.

Torches burned bright. The mob roared in victory. As if this was justice.

Shen Zhu clenched his fists, nails biting into his skin. Begging? He had done no such thing.

But it wouldn't matter. The truth wouldn't matter.

This was the story they would tell.

Shen Zhu's breath was shallow, each inhale rattling in his chest like a dying ember struggling to stay alight. The world blurred at the edges, drowning in firelight and blood.

Still, his lips curled into the faintest trace of a smirk, defiant even in his final moments. His voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it cut through the chaos like a blade.

"You think this is victory?" he rasped. "You think this is the end?"

The man paused at the doorway, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Shen Zhu exhaled a weak, broken chuckle, each breath laced with pain. "Mark my words…" His fingers twitched in the blood pooling beneath him. "One day… when you least expect it… you will beg for death."

The man tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Bold words for a corpse."

Shen Zhu's vision wavered, darkness creeping in, but his voice—his promise—remained.

"Not a corpse. A curse."

For the first time, something flickered in the man's expression. A hesitation. A crack in his certainty.

Then, the smirk returned, smooth as ever. He crouched, voice low and mocking. "Tell me, how does it feel?" He traced the tip of his blade through the blood-soaked ground, watching him. "To be the villain in your own tragedy?"

Shen Zhu's vision blurred, his breath ragged, but his fury remained. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it burned with defiance.

"A tragedy… can be rewritten."

The man chuckled, tilting his head as if considering the thought. "Oh, how hopeful." He crouched beside him, his blade still slick with blood. "Stories can be rewritten, yes." His voice dropped, a whisper of mock sympathy.

"But dead men don't hold the pen."

The cheers grew louder. The fire burned brighter.

"Then I will carve my story into the bones of the living."

His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges, but he forced his lips to move one last time.

"And when that day comes..." His voice was nothing more than a breath, a ghost of sound carried on the embers of his dying fire. "I will remind you... what true suffering means."

His fingers curled weakly against the stone, bloodied and trembling.

Then, finally, his body went still.

The cheers of the crowd swelled, filling the dungeon, echoing through the palace walls, through the empire itself.

Prince Shen Zhu was dead.

Or so they thought.