In the heart of a cluttered apartment, lit only by the blue glow of a screen, a young man slouched over his desk.
Half-eaten takeout spilled beside a keyboard. A thick stack of printed spreadsheets lay untouched on the floor. His monitors showed an open tab full of trading charts, a paused video essay on "Maximizing Intelligence," and a game in which he hadn't moved for hours.
His name was Arin.Twenty-four. Unemployed.A certified genius with a photographic memory.A man who had spent his brilliance hoarding knowledge, but never spending it.
At precisely 3:17 AM, Arin took a bite of a triple-patty burger, choked once, then twice—and collapsed forward, eyes wide.
No one was there to see it happen.
The game timer ticked upward.
And his body stilled.
For a moment, there was nothing.No pain. No sound.Only the cold, creeping sensation of consciousness unraveling.
Then—light.
A flood of blinding light swallowed the void.
Something surged, fast and violent, like wind and flame and weightless pressure. His mind stretched. Collapsed. Then expanded again.
Memories blurred and sharpened. Sounds roared like crashing water—voices, crying, the echo of steel on stone.
He wasn't falling.
He was moving.
Pushed. Pulled. Ripped.
Through something he could not name.
I didn't die in battle.I didn't die protecting a lover.I didn't even die with dignity.
I died choking on a triple-patty cheeseburger while reading an article titled:"How to Make Passive Income by Selling Imaginary Real Estate in VR."
That's right.
My name was Arin in my past life. I was twenty-four, unemployed, and widely known as a genius who refused to apply himself. Not because I couldn't. No. Because it sounded like a lot of work. I liked reading, theory-crafting, and min-maxing games, not participating in the "real world."
I had an IQ of 163. A photographic memory. Near-perfect reflexes from years of VR dueling.And I wasted it all procrastinating with spreadsheets and anime.
Some call that a tragedy.I call it "flawed but consistent character development."
Still, choking to death alone on delivery food? That's cold even by cosmic standards.
So imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes…
…and realized I couldn't move my neck.
Or my arms. Or my legs.
Or anything, really.
And everything around me was BLINDINGLY bright.
"—It's a boy!"
What.
I was soaking wet, freezing cold, covered in goo, and dangling upside down from some medieval nursemaid's very unsterilized hands.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to ask what the hell was going on.
But all that came out was—
"WAAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAaaah!"
I Had Reincarnated. In a Castle. As a Freaking Baby.
Over the next few weeks—yes, I counted—I gathered the following crucial intel.
I was now named Cael Drayke Velian.
I was the first prince of the Kingdom of Virelith, a frosty northern realm tucked at the edge of the continent.
My father, the king, was kind but very sick.
My mother had died years ago. Classic.
Our kingdom? Dirt poor. No industry. No military power. Barely any farmland.
My caretakers whispered that I was "our only hope."
To recap:I was now a one-year-old fantasy baby in a dying kingdom, born with the expectations of a nation weighing on my soft, unformed skull.
Great.
But that wasn't even the most shocking part.
Because at the age of two, something terrifying happened.
I started walking. And speaking. And reading.Effortlessly.
No stuttering. No practice. Just… download complete.
I could recite everything from my past life—from coding languages to fencing theory to obscure political history from 18th-century Prussia. It was all still there.
And my sword hand?
Steady. Fast. Freakishly precise.
They thought I was a prodigy.
They called me a miracle.
But the truth was simple:
I had reincarnated with my old soul—and my brain was running New Game+ mode on a toddler's body.
Now, most people in this situation would vow to save the kingdom.Reform it. Rebuild it. Become a wise and beloved ruler.
Me?
I had one goal:
Retire filthy rich.
Maybe buy an island.Get a wine cellar.Hire a hundred maids.Play strategy games all day and flirt with beautiful princesses who fall for my misunderstood genius.
…You know. The dream.
But first—I had to survive until adulthood.
That meant playing the role of a dutiful little prince, putting on the "pure-hearted prodigy" act, and slowly gaining power.
Not to rule.Not to lead.
But to leverage the hell out of this crumbling kingdom, sell it at peak market value, and walk away laughing into the sunset.
At Age 20, Right after my graduation from the Empire Academy Of Arts, they Made Me Regent.
The king, my father, finally fell too ill to rule.
The nobles were scared. The people were poor. And I, the oh-so-promising Prince Cael, was handed the reins of the nation.
My retainers cried tears of joy.The generals bowed in solemn reverence.My adorable little sister gave me a hug and called me her "hero."
And I looked them all in the eye and said, with perfect composure:
"We must stand strong for the people. We must honor our forefathers. We must protect the peace of this land."
Everyone applauded.
They called me a genius.
They said I would lead us to a glorious future.
…
But as soon as I was alone in the royal office—
I flopped on the desk, stared at the ceiling, and screamed:
"LET'S SELL THIS KINGDOM AND RETIRE, BABYYYYYYYYY!"