Whatever had just happened—whether it was real or a dream—Veyron couldn't tell. His head throbbed with confusion, images flashing through his mind like lightning in a storm. None of it made sense.
Then... his eyes opened.
He lay on a richly embroidered bed. The silk sheets beneath him were torn and stained, carrying the scent of blood and battle dust. Leaning over him was a beautiful maid, accompanied by a middle-aged physician.
The maid had pale skin, gently tinged with rose at the cheeks. Her emerald eyes shimmered under the golden light streaming through the window. Her lips were full and pink, curved into a soft, worried expression. Long auburn hair, loosely tied behind her back, framed her delicate face. Her posture was graceful, her figure slender yet poised with strength, and her hands moved with practiced gentleness—nurturing, but never submissive.
"Prince Veyron," she said urgently, brushing his forehead with a damp cloth. "You fell on your slave during the explosion—that's what saved your life. We succeeded in defending the walls."
Before Veyron could respond, the door slammed open.
A woman in heavy armor stormed into the room. Her black-and-silver plating gleamed with the stains of recent war. Her short, raven hair was slicked back, and her pale face was hardened by years of command. Her silver eyes narrowed like blades.
"Maid Marnia! Is the prince conscious?!" she barked.
Marnia turned calmly but with concern. "Commander Teriya, Prince Veyron is still in critical condition. Please wait."
Teriya didn't wait. She strode forward, fury lacing every word. "That tiny kingdom—where the hell did they get a cannon?! You said the perimeter was secure. No traitors. No leaks. And yet... the rear-attack plan with our Master Gold Soldiers was crushed before it even began. A trap! And still, they took down 300 men and 16 assassins. But what did it matter against 1,389 enemy troops?! We lost 1,578 of ours! We have 1,459 left! And your strategy was so pathetic that—"
"Silence," the physician snapped. "He has a head injury. Just because he survived falling on a slave doesn't mean he can hear you. There's no certainty he's even conscious."
But Veyron was conscious.
Inside his mind, two conflicting identities clashed violently.
One was from the future—a version of himself reshaped by experimentation and stripped of emotion. Cold, calculating, and capable of mental processing far beyond any machine. Efficient. Unshaken. Dangerous.
The other was his medieval self—fiery, prideful, a master of sword and battle, but flawed in judgment, often clouded by arrogance.
The two collided, fighting for control. He didn't know which one was truly him anymore. But eventually, they reached a compromise: let the present version take control, deleting the most harmful traits from both sides. It wasn't perfect, but it would suffice. His body received the command.
Three minutes passed.
"My memory is faint," Veyron said suddenly, his voice steady but low. "But the important parts are still there. You all go. I'll be ready soon."
The room froze in shock. The physician hesitated, then bowed low. "Prince Veyron, I advise you to rest—"
"Silence. I know what I'm doing."
The command left no room for doubt. One by one, they filed out.
Once alone, Veyron stood slowly, unsteady at first. He walked to the mirror.
A bandage was wrapped around his forehead. Scars marked his pale skin like whispers of near-death. His black hair fell loosely to his shoulders, his eyes hollow but searching. The face staring back at him was slightly above average—neither noble nor common—but unfamiliar.
As he dressed in his royal robes, a thought passed through his mind.
"Humans are truly foolish."
The future voice echoed:
"Dual personality is a good thing. If you can control it, you can improve. Add what's useful. Delete what's flawed. Eventually, you become a third person—one above both."
The medieval side answered:
"Even that person will still be just like us."
The future voice gained dominance, merging with memory and instinct. Only a sliver of the past self remained.
Veyron donned his armor piece by piece—heavier than anything he'd worn before—and strapped his sword to his hip. Then he reached for his whip, a weapon he'd never gone without.
When he emerged, fully armored, the servants outside stopped in awe.
There was a warmth inside him, something he hadn't felt in ages. It was foreign. Unwelcome. But good.
His emotions had begun to return—capped at 30% for now, by his own will.
By the time he reached the meeting chamber, sweat soaked his undershirt and his muscles ached from the weight. But his steps never faltered.
Soldiers stood at attention. One whispered in disbelief, "Your Highness… you've never worn armor this heavy. Not even in battle. Why now?"
Veyron answered, calm and cold:
"The heat and fatigue I feel now is nothing. In a war zone, it'll be a hundred times worse—not just for me, but for every soldier out there. If I said, 'Oh no, I'm sweating. That's unfit for a prince,' would you accept that?
This is my punishment. For the mistake I made. I gave a traitor a chance to change—and he leaked our strategy."
Silence.
With a wave of his hand, he signaled to Commander Teriya. The doors burst open, and a captured servant was dragged inside, thrown toward the interrogation chamber.
Veyron didn't look back. Instead, he turned away and said coldly:
"Now it's your turn—the next traitor."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
"If I had the power to clone myself," he continued, voice still razor-sharp, "I wouldn't have to do this. I'd see every face. I'd know the truth."
He spun around suddenly, voice rising:
"But you? No reaction?!"
A tense silence followed. Then Veyron let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his temple.
"Sorry about that," he added, a rare note of sarcasm flickering across his face. "Anyway—let's move to strategy."
The soldiers looked stunned, unsure whether to laugh or brace for another outburst.
"We must find where their cannons are coming from. Not just destroy them—we'll turn their weapons against them. We've trained soldiers for cannon use. It's a high-risk mission, but instead of sending soldiers, we'll use assassins."
One soldier stepped forward, hesitant. "Your Highness… assassins are a valuable asset. Losing them would be—"
"We'll only send them after we find the cannon supply. First, we need a scout. Someone who can trace their logistics without being noticed."
He looked around, eyes scanning each man, as if measuring their loyalty by sight alone.
To be continued...