The grand hall of the palace was eerily silent, save for the ragged breathing of the young prince. Blood dripped from the numerous swords impaling his fragile body, staining the pristine marble floor beneath the golden throne. The boy, no more than fifteen, sat slumped, his once-proud posture now broken by betrayal and pain. His golden hair,blood, clung to his pale face as he struggled to keep his eyes open.
They had conspired, plotted, and now, they had succeeded. Their prince, the last true heir, was dying before them, a victim of their ambition. Some turned their gazes away, unwilling to meet his fading, accusing eyes. Others watched, ensuring that the job was complete, that there would be no return from this end.
His thoughts swirled like autumn leaves. "So, this is how it feels to die?" he mused. He had read about death, heard tales of it in stories of war and conquest. But experiencing it firsthand was different—frightening yet oddly peaceful. The weight of the crown on his head—all fading into nothingness.
A bitter smile formed on his lips. "My first time... dying," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The conspirators watched in stillness, some relieved, others shaken. The deed was done. The throne was empty. But as the last echoes of the prince's breath faded, an unspoken dread settled over them. They had taken his life, but in doing so, had they also sealed their own fate?
----------
Darkness. The blonde prince saw nothing, felt nothing—only an overwhelming void. A cold, numbing realization crept into his mind: So this is what happens after death...
Yet, within that emptiness, a single memory stirred. The voice of the High Priest echoed in his mind, deep and prophetic. "Your story will start after your demise."
"Why now? Why did I remember those words in this endless nothingness?" As the thought settled, a flicker of light appeared in the void—small at first, then rapidly expanding, illuminating the darkness, a lone figure emerged.
A man stood there, his back facing the prince. He wore a black jacket and dark jeans,which the prince was unable to identify, his presence stark against the void. But what caught the prince's attention most was the crimson liquid dripping from the stranger's hands, leaving trails of blood on the unseen ground.
A shiver ran through the prince's spine. "Who was he?"
The figure began to move forward, walking toward the light in slow, deliberate steps. There was something haunting about the way he moved, something unsettlingly distant, as if he belonged to a world beyond this one.
"Hey!" the prince called out, his voice breaking through the silence. "Where are you going?"
The figure did not respond, nor did he pause. He simply continued his path toward the light, never turning back.
An urgency the prince couldn't explain took hold of him. He ran forward, reaching out desperately. His fingers grasped the man's wrist, feeling the warmth of life still within it.
"Hey!" the prince said again, his voice more forceful this time. "Who are you?"
But as he clutched the man's hand. Everything Went silent. Again nothingness. As the silence says. Nothing.
---------
Darkness.
A numbing void surrounded him, stretching into eternity. Then, suddenly—
"Am I… dead again? Huh? What am I even saying?" The words stumbled from his lips like they weren't his own.
A cold sensation dripped onto his skin. Rain? No… it was thicker. Mud. He tried to move, but his body refused to respond. Confusion clouded his thoughts.
"Where am I?" he wondered, his mind grasping for clarity.
A groan broke through the eerie silence. Then, a hand appeared before his eyes, rising into view. It wasn't someone else's—it was his own.
"Is that… my hand?" he muttered. But something was wrong. He couldn't feel it.
"What are these clothes?" another voice rasped, filled with pain.
Panic surged through him. He could see, but his body wasn't under his control. His eyes moved, but not by his will. His limbs twitched, but they weren't his to command.
"Who is speaking? Why can't I move? Is this… a past memory?" The thought comes in his consciousness.
A sudden stab of pain. An unseen force piercing flesh.
"Did someone… pierce me?" the voice groaned again, wracked with agony. But still, he couldn't move.
"It really hurts," the owner of the body gasped.
Realization dawned upon him. "I think… this isn't a past memory."
Then, for the first time, the body responded—not with action, but with words.
"Who?" the voice asked.
His mind reeled. "Ahhh… now he's also saying 'who'? What is going on?"
"I am saying 'who' to you, Mr. Who," the body shot back.
His thoughts raced. "Wait! What is going on?"
A pause.
"Dead?" the body echoed. But it wasn't a response to him.
Pain spiked through the limbs he couldn't feel. The body jerked, struggling, and both voices—his and the other's—spoke in unison.
"What if…?" The body pushed through the mud, gaze locking onto a shallow pool of rainwater.
The reflection staring back at them was not his own.
Both voices gasped.
"What if I'm not dead?!"