Kyle's breath came in shallow gasps.
He lay motionless on the stone floor, every inch of his body screaming. His muscles were sore, his skin sticky with sweat, and the back of his neck throbbed as though something had tried to crawl its way out of his spine.
But it was over. Whatever *that* was.
He blinked up at the ceiling. The cracks between the stones looked wider now. Or maybe his vision had simply sharpened. He could see tiny bits of dust floating in the air, drifting down like lazy snowflakes.
His body didn't feel like his anymore—more foreign than ever.
Slowly, he moved a finger.
It twitched. Then another.
He groaned and shifted his shoulders. Chains clinked against the iron bolt drilled into the wall behind him. His wrists were sore, raw where the metal rubbed his skin. Cold sweat soaked the back of his tattered shirt, making the damp chill of the cell seep straight into his bones.
Still… he was alive.
Barely. But alive.
Whatever that system thing was—it hadn't killed him.
And that meant one thing: **he had a chance.**
Even if it was just a sliver.
He shifted again, pressing his back against the wall and using it for support as he forced himself upright. His breathing was steadier now. Slower. He swallowed hard, trying to ease the dryness in his throat, but there was no moisture left in his mouth.
His lips were cracked. His stomach let out another angry groan. This one louder.
"Haven't eaten…" he muttered hoarsely. "How long's it been?"
There was no way to tell time here. No window. No light other than that single flickering torch in the hallway. The guards hadn't spoken again. No one had brought him food or water. Either they forgot him—or they were leaving him to rot.
Kyle leaned his head back and exhaled through his nose.
He needed a plan. Not a grand escape—not yet. Not with zero strength, zero allies, and chains around his wrists.
But a plan to survive long enough **to make one.**
He clenched his fists, testing the chains. The cuffs were tight, and the metal bit into his skin, but they weren't enchanted or glowing. No magical restraints. That was… something.
His eyes scanned the small space again.
A bucket in the corner—he didn't want to guess its original purpose. The floor was stained and uneven. A few scattered bones. A gnawed rat corpse by the far wall.
"Lovely," he muttered.
Still, he kept his focus. Every detail mattered now. Every inch of this space could mean the difference between life and death later. A loose brick. A bent chain. A broken stone sharp enough to be a weapon.
Nothing obvious yet.
But that was okay.
He had time—well, seven days. And he wouldn't waste a second.
His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of boots on stone.
A figure approached. Another guard, heavier than the first, his armor more scratched. He walked with a limp, dragging a wooden tray. Kyle's stomach responded before his mind could.
The tray slid under the bars.
"Food," the guard grunted, not looking him in the eye.
He turned and left without another word.
Kyle didn't move at first. He didn't trust it.
But hunger overruled suspicion.
He crawled forward, slowly, painfully, each movement sending aches through his limbs. The tray was old and splintered. On it sat a crust of stale bread, a bowl of something gray and soupy, and a dented metal cup half-filled with water.
He hesitated. Then grabbed the bread.
Dry. Hard. But food.
He tore into it, not caring how it tasted. His body demanded fuel. He forced it down, then reached for the soup. It smelled like boiled cloth. Tasted worse. But he drank every drop.
The water came last. It was warm, maybe days old. He still drank it.
After finishing, he crawled back to the wall and slumped against it, panting. His stomach twisted, unused to the sudden intake, but it helped.
His hands rested on his knees, still shaking slightly.
"I need to know more," he whispered to himself.
More about this prince's life. More about this world. Why he was in prison. Who wanted him dead. And—above all else—what the hell this "Paradox System" really meant.
Just thinking about it made his skin crawl.
He shut his eyes, breathing in through his nose.
*Focus. Piece by piece.*
He had always lived with pressure. Deadlines. Sickness. Debt. This wasn't new. The rules were different, but pressure was familiar. If he let it control him, he'd lose.
So he would control it.
Kyle opened his eyes.
"Hey," he called out weakly, his voice echoing down the hallway. "Guard. Oi."
No response.
He tried again, louder. "Hey, you tin can! I'm talking to you!"
Still nothing.
He grinned despite himself. "Guess I'm not important enough to talk to."
It was petty. But it helped. Anger kept him sharp.
Then came a new sound.
Footsteps. Softer. More deliberate. Not armored.
Then—
A key rattled in the cell's lock.
Kyle stiffened.
The door creaked open. And in stepped a young woman in dark robes. Hooded. She closed the door behind her and stood silently, watching him.
Kyle frowned. "Let me guess. You're the executioner's apprentice?"
She didn't respond. Instead, she knelt and placed a small folded cloth on the floor. From it, she produced a vial—slender, black-glassed, and glowing faintly with a green shimmer.
Kyle's eyes narrowed.
"What's that?" he asked, voice low.
Still silent, she popped the cork. The scent of herbs and something metallic drifted toward him.
She held the vial up, then wordlessly motioned toward him.
He didn't move.
"You first," he said dryly. "I don't take drinks from strangers."
She tilted her head. Her voice, when it came, was soft and calm.
"You're not Kael."
Kyle blinked.
His heart jumped once in his chest.
"No," he said slowly. "I'm not."
The woman's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.
"Good," she said. "Then we don't have much time."
She stepped closer and lifted the vial toward his lips.
"Drink this. You'll need it if you want to keep your mind from cracking."
Kyle hesitated.
This could be poison. A trick. A test.
But she knew.
She knew he wasn't the real prince.
And right now, she was the only one who did.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment.
Then leaned forward—and drank.