Sylas sat on a bed that creaked with every movement. The room smelled like mildew, regret, and maybe rats, considering the scratching noises coming from the walls.
His head throbbed.
Focus! Think. There's a reason I'm here. I need to find out. I need power, resources, gold and... I need to remember.
He closed his eyes, his thoughts spiraling.
It doesn't make sense. A prince... now a fugitive? Exiled for a crime
The name of the remote village surfaced in his mind.
Duskwick.
Duskwick was a quiet village located at the edge of a dense, fog-laden forest known as the Whispering Hollow. It sat near the border between the Kingdom of Shenzara and the untamed wildlands. The villagers were isolated and deeply superstitious.
"This place practically screams poverty," he scoffed. The walls are crawling with mold—does it owe me rent?
His eyes drifted to a letter, sitting on the rickety table beside the bed.
Mother, huh...
"Why does that word always bring such a bitter taste to my mouth?"
Leaning back, a slow, weary sigh escaped him.
I've carried this weight long enough, haven't I?
The word...
It brought back a memory from his past life. A memory, no, a feeling. A kitchen—warm, filled with the smell of food. Small hands helping, soft and eager, following her guidance. His mother... her laughter. Their laughter. The sound of it, light, carefree, echoing through the room. A simple moment.
"The warmth of that memory… Does it matter now?"
Funny how the brain clings to the soft things, he thought, even when you beg it not to.
He took the letter and opened it.
Stopped at one name.
Evan.
He stared at it quietly.
...Evan.
His gaze hardened.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
Memories... flared up, uninvited.
The weight of them crushed his chest, but he forced them back.
Tch.
"My predecessor. He left me quite the inheritance, didn't he?"
Evan. The golden heir.
Born to Ruo Ziyun. His so-called father's third wife.
Ruo Ziyun.
Once, she was the pride of the powerful Ruo clan.
Now?
A fallen legacy.
Power crumbled, and what did they do? Desperate? Yes. Like every fallen clan before them.
They traded away their daughters.
Ziyun, the most beautiful. What a waste.
Offered like... a fruit basket to a starving wolf.
The king. The fool. Mistaking hunger for love. Pathetic.
Sylas sighed, his chin resting in his palm, his gaze distant and cold.
It's always the beautiful ones they ruin first, isn't it?
He remembered a girl from his old world. Her laughter used to fill his apartment—bright, carefree, a sound he could never forget.
Then one day, it stopped.
The silence that followed... louder than any laughter could ever be.
Why did it stop?
His mother had looked him in the eye, her voice tight with something he couldn't place at the time.
"Some women... don't get to choose."
What did that mean?
He hadn't understood then, not fully.
But this world had a way of teaching you things—slowly, cruelly, and without asking.
His mind wandered, lost in the quiet of the room.
There were always more important things to focus on.
"The Kingdom of Shenzara," he murmured, as if saying the name might make sense.
The kingdom was divided between two dominant powers—
The noble houses, who wielded mana drawn from their very souls, and the ancient cultivation sects and families, who channeled qi from heavens and earth.
The two factions, though very different, maintained a fragile alliance. Each had a seat on the Kingdom Council, but their cooperation was based on necessity, not trust.
"Great. It's like watching a bad wuxia crossover," he muttered, tucking the letter into his coat.
And Evan, his dear little brother, had awakened the holy power of Eluria, the Light Goddess worshiped across all of Shenzara, except in this forgotten village and a few distant nations.
The king and the noble council acted quickly. In an instant, they removed Sylas from his title and made Evan the new heir.
The original Sylas didn't handle it well. He threw a fit in the throne room, begging, screaming, and threatening, but none of it worked.
So, in a fit of desperation and pride, he did what all fools drunk on entitlement do—he plotted. Gathered a handful of bitter nobles, threw coin at mercenaries, and set a plan in motion to poison the golden boy.
Naturally, everything went wrong. His so-called 'allies' betrayed him, the golden boy survived, and Sylas was labeled a traitor.
"And now here I am—Exiled, babysitting the legacy of a moron who poisoned his career with actual poison."
He exhaled, long and loud through his nose as he rose to his feet.
What a headache.
It wasn't that he wanted to be the king—too many duties, too many eyes watching, and not enough freedom. But staying a prince? That would've been perfect. Close enough to power to enjoy its benefits, without carrying its burden.
But that opportunity was gone now.
Sylas walked over to the crooked window, his crimson eyes darkening.
Still... that didn't mean the path was closed. It would just take more time. Careful planning. And a few necessary sacrifices.
The warped frame creaked under his touch.
Outside, the forest greeted him like a painter's cruel joke—a fog-laden forest with only a sliver of sunlight, rotting fence posts jutting from the earth like broken teeth.
"Charming," he muttered. "If you're fond of plagues... and quiet despair."
He casually adjusted his collar with a flick of his fingers.
Time for a stroll, perhaps... or to find a few fools in need of salvation.
~~~~~~
The air was damp, and the ground felt soft under his boots as he walked. Fog curled around him like a creature sniffing out his scent.
Villagers peeked through cracked windows and open doors, whispering nervously. It wasn't often they saw outsiders or nobles in Duskwick.
Sylas walked calmly, head held high, each step deliberately placed. He caught fragments of quiet whispers, fleeting glances, and curtains moving as people peeked at him.
The villagers feared the forest.
Children were pulled back when they neared its edge. Elders spat prayers into the wind.
They called it the Whispering Hollow—a place said to hum with voices when the night grew still enough. Some believed it was cursed. A place where dead still listened… or spoke.
Perhaps there is something to the whispers... or perhaps it's just them feeding their own dread.
Lately, people or rather, children... had been disappearing.
Which made Sylas all the more curious.
He strolled further into the village, passing a tavern tucked between an apothecary and a chapel. Inside, villagers whispered over drinks, and outside, an old man sold bone charms.
"It smells of desperation. Is that why they sell trinkets like these? Bone charms. Hah."
Sylas eventually arrived at a small market, where old stalls and crooked tables crowded the square
A few sellers shouted, offering vegetables and dried meat. An old woman sold hard candies from a cracked glass jar. Children ran by, playing with wooden toys shaped like animals and birds.
Sylas walked through the crowd, his coat brushing past people as the noise around him swirled into a chaotic mess.
Everyone keeps moving, keeps pretending, but beneath it all, we're all looking for something. A way out. A way up. Just like me.
He spotted a small stall made of mismatched cloth, like a patchwork tent, tucked between a fish seller and a sweaty blacksmith shop.
He was already walking past, until a tug at his coat broke the silence.
A boy, no older than ten, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Brother, brother, could you buy something from the stall?" he asked, a half-melted candy sticking to his small fingers.
He stared at the child, motionless, as his mind drifted inward.
A faint memory, too faint to catch, stirred in the depths of his consciousness. It wasn't pity. No, not pity, almost like recognition, hidden deep under years of pretending.
A boy. Alone. Reaching out.
A faint memory.
Then it disappeared. His face became calm again.
He gave a faint smile and a soft chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. Absently, he ruffled the boy's hair, then turned to leave, but paused for a moment.
The stall… it did look out of place.
He couldn't quite explain why, but the oddity of it gnawed at him. Was it curiosity? Or just a fleeting moment of boredom? He felt both, but only one was enough to pull him toward the mismatched tent.
The shopkeeper was a thin, wiry man with a crooked smile and eyes like shiny black stones. He looked up with interest as Sylas walked in.
I haven't seen a noble in... what, a decade? The shopkeeper's gaze flicked over Sylas. His clothes aren't much, but the way he carries himself—there's money in that.
Sylas glanced at the items in the stall: scrolls, old trinkets, and a few books.
He crouched in front of a manual, slowly brushing away the dust. His touch was gentle, almost tender. The cover was old, the ink faded, but the title was still clear.
Silent Pulse Vein-Threading Scripture
He repeated the name under his breath, voice laced with the faintest awe. "A core manual…"
The shopkeeper's eyes narrowed as he watched Sylas closely. A slow, calculating smile appeared on his lips.
If I play this right… the rewards could be endless. This chance won't come again.
"Ah, good eye, sir," he said, his voice smooth "You've got taste, I see. Rank 1 cultivation manual, one of a kind around here. Fifty gold coins... a real bargain."
Fifty gold coins? Hmph. This fool has no idea what he's dealing with. He thinks I'm a novice. Does he believe I'll pay such a ridiculous price?
Sylas looked up, and whatever warmth had been in his tone was gone. His gaze pierced through the shopkeeper.
"Five gold."