Chapter 4

There was no sound.

No light.

No time.

Only an abyssal silence, thick as ink spilled across a blank page. And in the middle of that nothingness, something began to pulse. A thought, barely a whisper.

A spark of awareness expanding slowly, like a breath held for centuries.

Cleoh floated in that undefined space—without weight, without a body. A voice, perhaps his own, perhaps not, whispered from somewhere within his still-reconstructing mind:

“Where… am I?”

That’s when he saw it.

A soft light emerged from the darkness—warm and enveloping, as if the universe had decided to light a single candle. At its center rested a colossal book, open upon an invisible pedestal. Its cover was a deep blue, trimmed with antique gold, and on it glowed a title engraved in letters that seemed to burn:

...THE CROWN...

Cleoh took a step—without legs—drawn forward by an instinctive force. As he neared it, the book suddenly sprang open, and the pages began to fly, flipping wildly as though a storm was blowing from within.

Images, words, and scenes flashed before his eyes in rapid succession. Castles. Duchesses. Battles. Silences. Winters.

And then he understood.

He had already read that book.

Not here. Not in that body.

But in another world.

In his other life.

The story now felt faintly familiar. A fantasy novel of magic, swords, and succession—tinged with tragedy—that he had skimmed through on a sleepless night, in a world where magic didn’t exist, nor noble titles, nor a cold as real as the one now seeping into his soul.

In the novel, Emperor Elclein Maura III, lacking a biological heir, chose the eldest children of the empire’s four most prominent duchies to compete for the title of crown prince—and thus, future emperor of the Darcon Empire.

One of those heirs was Ashton Caisent, the eldest son of the Caisent ducal family. The novel chronicled the trials, battles, and ordeals the protagonist endured to reach the throne.

The flurry of pages began to slow, until suddenly, the book stopped.

Open at its center.

Cleoh held his breath—if he was still breathing in that place—when he saw that the text on the page had vanished. All blank.

Except for one line.

At the center of the page, pulsing as if alive, one name was written in vibrant, living ink:

...CLEOH CAISENT...

Cleoh…

That was the name the young woman had used to call him. And though he struggled to recall anything, only one disturbing certainty echoed through his mind: that name appeared only once in the entire novel.

A child adopted by Duke Caisent, mentioned in passing during a melancholic moment in the protagonist Ashton’s story.

A secondary character.

An afterthought.

An extra, condemned to be forgotten.

And yet…

He understood none of it.

Did this mean he had awakened in the body of that forgotten character?

For what purpose?

Under what logic?

He knew nothing about his new identity, except for what he vaguely remembered from the book: that Cleoh had been adopted by the Caisents as a replacement for their firstborn daughter, Cloeh Caisent, who had died in childhood.

And the most disturbing part—described coldly by the novel itself—was that the boy had been chosen because he bore an exact resemblance to the dead girl.

A reflection, a shadow, a substitute.

That was all Cleoh had meant—to the story and to the readers.

So then… why was his name written like that in the book?

Cleoh—or whatever remained of him—stood frozen, trapped in a tangle of thoughts. He tried to understand, to grasp the threads of a logic that slipped through his fingers like sand.

And just when he was about to give up, to surrender to the confusion, the page bearing his name began to move. The paper rustled gently, as if breathing, and slid to the side, revealing the next page.

With a flicker of hope, Cleoh leaned closer, believing he might finally get an answer—a clue, anything that might explain his presence in this world.

But as soon as his eyes scanned the first lines, his mind went still.

There, written in clear, delicate ink, was everything.

Everything he had experienced since opening his eyes in that body—up to that exact moment.

Every thought, every word, every shiver—described with eerie precision.

As if someone—or something—was narrating his life in real time.

Cleoh stared at the page, eyes wide, waiting for the words to continue, to reveal more. He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath, as though the slightest movement might disrupt the invisible flow of narration.

But nothing happened.

The page remained blank.

Silence returned—dense, absolute.

And suddenly, without warning, the book slammed shut. The sharp sound of its cover echoed like a hollow knock in that space without walls, and the light surrounding it flickered—like a candle on the verge of going out.

Cleoh stumbled backward, startled.

But before he could fully react, the book began to vanish. It didn’t fall or crumble. It simply dissolved into light—golden dust that spiraled upward before being swallowed by the surrounding darkness.

And then—

An invisible pull seized him.

He felt a gentle pressure, as if the air itself were wrapping around him, pushing him upward—toward a surface he couldn’t see. His consciousness trembled, vibrated, and a wave of vertigo rocked him from within.

A flash.

A heartbeat.

And suddenly, the void shattered.

The darkness gave way to a warm, flickering glow, and Cleoh opened his eyes with a gasp, as if emerging from the depths of a bottomless dream.

The first thing he felt was the weight of a blanket on his body.

Then, the distant crackle of a fireplace.

The world had shape again. Sound. Warmth.

Cleoh gazed at the ceiling with a serenity that contrasted starkly with the dread that had filled him during his first awakening. This time, the unfamiliar space didn’t frighten him. On the contrary—it offered a strange sense of calm, as if he no longer needed to understand everything right away.

With slow movements, he sat up in bed and let his gaze wander across the room. He immediately noticed it wasn’t the same chamber as before.

This one was less grand, stripped of opulent excess—yet no less elegant. Every object, every piece of furniture, every curtain spoke of quiet refinement. Of measured sophistication. Of intimacy.

Nothing in the room tried to impress—yet everything did.

As if the room itself knew that true luxury doesn't reside in extravagance, but in invisible details only the most attentive eyes can perceive.

Cleoh let the silence settle around him a moment longer... until a faint murmur, barely perceptible, pulled him from his thoughts.

He slowly turned toward a corner bathed in morning light.

And then he saw her.

A woman slept in an armchair beside the bed. A blanket, carelessly draped over her, partially covered her elegant dress, while her face rested serenely on the chair’s arm.

Her chestnut hair, styled with delicate ornaments that shimmered faintly, glowed under the soft light streaming through the tall windows.

Cleoh frowned, confused.

He didn’t recognize her.

Who was this woman?

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