The silence in the Eastern Palace felt surreal.
Ray sat on the edge of his bed, still gripping the small mirror in his hand, his silver eyes wide with disbelief. The soft silk of his sleepwear brushed against his fingers—no blood, no filth, no rusted chains around his wrists. There were no more people shouting and cursing him, no one torturing or throwing stones at him. He was back.
Truly, impossibly, back.
Back in his sixteen-year-old body.
Back in the palace where he once laughed.
Back before the screams, before the lies, before the betrayal.
Back before everything shattered.
Ray slowly touched his face again, half-expecting the blood to return, the bruises, the cuts, the shouts and curses of the crowd—but none of it came.
Just warmth.
Life.
His hands trembled, and his chest heaved as he tried to breathe steadily. But the weight of everything was crashing down at once.
"I'm alive," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm really… alive."
For several long minutes, he didn't move. His mind spiraled in circles, stuck between memory and reality.
Was this a dream?
Was he hallucinating in the last moments before death?
His fingers curled around the sheets tightly, desperately trying to feel something solid.
He stood up, walked to the mirror, stared hard into it again.
Same silver eyes. Same youthful face. The faint scar above his brow from a sparring accident—it wasn't there. That scar wouldn't happen for two more years.
This wasn't a dream.
This was real.
He had gone back.
But the knowledge didn't bring relief—not right away.
First came the disbelief.
Then the grief.
He remembered dying. I remembered the pain. The shame. The betrayal. It wasn't something he could forget in one morning.
He remembered Kael's cold eyes. His father's silence. The sneers from nobles he once protected. The people throwing stones.
Everything came flooding back—and it hit him like a wave.
He cried.
Not out loud. Not with sobs.
But with silent, trembling gasps that made his shoulders shake and his throat tighten.
He sat curled on the bed, arms around his knees like a child, crying for everything he lost—his honor, his dreams, his trust.
He remembered how it had all fallen apart.
And then came the fear.
What if he failed again?
What if history simply repeated itself?
What if his return changed nothing?
Then… came anger.
Anger at himself. For being blind. For being too trusting. For being too kind.
Anger at them—for turning away. For stabbing him in the back. For building lies on top of his truth.
Anger at the world—for not giving him a chance.
His hands clenched. Fingernails bit into his palm.
But through the anger, something else flickered.
Resolve.
He had a chance now.
And no matter how painful the memories, no matter how heavy the emotions—he couldn't waste this second life.
He had to use every second of it.
There was a knock on the door.
His entire body jolted.
A gentle voice called from outside, one that hit Ray like a thunderclap.
"Young Master Ray, are you awake? I brought your tea."
Ray's breath caught in his throat.
That voice.
He knew it.
He would never forget it.
"...George?" he said, not even realizing he had spoken aloud.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and in stepped an old man in his sixties with kind eyes and graying hair tied neatly behind his head. He wore a tailored butler uniform, as crisp and proper as always. His posture was straight, his every step full of practiced grace.
Ray stood there frozen.
It was him.
George.
His butler. His second father. The man who had served him since childhood.
The man who had died mysteriously a year later in Ray's previous life.
Ray's vision blurred. His knees buckled slightly, and he caught the bedpost for support.
"Young Master Ray? Are you alright?" George asked, setting the tray down and walking quickly to his side. "You look pale. Did you have a nightmare?"
Ray didn't answer.
He couldn't.
His voice was caught somewhere between joy and sorrow.
He just stared at the man before him—the man he had buried with his own hands.
The man who was now alive and well and worried about him.
"I… I'm fine," Ray managed, finally speaking. "Just… tired."
George smiled gently. "That is to be expected. You always were sensitive before important events."
Ray blinked. "Important event?"
George nodded as he poured the tea into a porcelain cup. "Your awakening ceremony, young master. It's scheduled for exactly one week from now."
The words hit Ray like a punch to the gut.
Awakening ceremony.
That cursed day.
The day everything began to go wrong.
In his previous life, his spirit affinity was revealed to be extremely low—an evaluation so disappointing that it shook the entire empire. A prince born of divine blood, yet possessing the talent of a commoner.
He became a target of mockery, pity, and then suspicion. Everything he built crumbled from that day on. Nobles whispered. His peers distanced themselves. Even his own brothers began to treat him differently.
Ray clenched his fist.
He remembered it all too clearly.
But there was one more thing.
A memory. A truth he had uncovered far too late.
During his years as an investigator, digging into the corruption of the empire under a false identity, he had met a divine doctor—a man blessed by the spirit of truth. That doctor, after performing a rare diagnostic ritual, told him something that broke him all over again.
"You were cursed, child," the doctor had said. "Your spirit was shackled. Suppressed. Whoever did this… wanted to destroy you from the start."
A curse.
That explained everything.
His low affinity. His failures. His sudden loss of recognition and power.
He had not been untalented.
He had been sabotaged.
On purpose.
By someone with access.
By someone close.
By someone he trusted
Ray's hands trembled again, this time with rage.
He had spent so many sleepless nights wondering why the world had turned on him. Why he had lost everything despite trying his best to serve justice. And in the end, he learned the truth when it was too late to act on it.
But not this time.
Not again.
He had been given another chance.
Another life.
And seven days—seven precious days—before the world started to judge him again.
Ray stood up abruptly, startling George.
"Young master?"
"I… I need to go somewhere," Ray said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'll be back soon."
George looked concerned. "You haven't even had your tea—"
"I'll have it later," Ray said, already pulling on a coat over his sleepwear. "Just… make sure no one enters my room while I'm gone."
George gave a short bow, still puzzled. "As you wish."
Ray rushed through the palace halls, ignoring the confused glances from servants. Every corridor brought back memories—some beautiful, others bitter. He passed the same hallway where he used to play hide-and-seek with his brothers. The same corner where he first read his public decree on noble reform. And the same stairs he had stumbled down when he got the news of his mother's disappearance.
He finally reached the small abandoned tower near the back gardens. It used to be a storage place for old scrolls and magical items. No one came here anymore.
Ray locked the door behind him, sat on the cold stone floor, and took a deep breath.
The divine doctor had taught him a method to check his condition—a technique that only worked on those pure of heart and uncorrupted by lies.
He closed his eyes.
"Spirit, show me myself."
A faint glow spread from his chest.
His body began to shimmer with a light violet hue. Particles of energy floated around him, slowly forming a translucent silhouette. It was like looking into a mirror of energy—his soul reflected back at him.
He scanned the projection for signs of disturbance.
Discoloration. Rot. Shadows.
Any indication of a curse.
Nothing.
Ray's breath caught.
Nothing.
No curse.
He was clean.
That meant—he hadn't been cursed yet.
Which meant…
Whoever cursed him would do it sometime in the next seven days.
Ray's eyes opened, blazing with resolve.
He had seven days.
Seven days to change his fate.
Seven days to stop the one who destroyed him.
Seven days to uncover the first thread of the web that entangled his life.
His chest burned—not with fear, but with purpose.
The last time, he had begged for answers. This time, he would find them.
The last time, he had waited to be judged. This time, he would be the one judging.
They thought they could break him.
They thought they had buried him.
But Ray Illustrious was not a flower to be crushed.
He was a sword, reforged.
And this time, when they raised their blades against him, they would find his already drawn.
He would not forgive.
He would not forget.
And he would not fall again.