Back in his living quarters. If one could even stomach calling this cramped, suffocating box a "living quarter."
Devin stood in the center of the dimly lit room, the cheap floorboards groaning in protest beneath his stolen weight. The air was stale, thick with the scent of damp brick and a lingering melancholy that seemed baked into the very walls.
He scoffed, crossing his arms over Zain's chest. Really, the old Zain could have found a better place to live, right? For a man without the crushing burdens of a slaughtered royal family, he certainly chose to exist in absolute squalor. The indignity of a Trangdar prince resting his head in a hovel like this was a bitter pill to swallow, but he supposed it was the perfect camouflage.
He began to rifle through the meager belongings scattered about the room, desperately searching for anything that could act as a compass in this stolen life. He tossed aside cheap, woven tunics and scuffed leather boots until his hands brushed against a pair of worn trousers lying discarded at the foot of the lumpy mattress. He reached into the back pocket, and his fingers closed around a stiff, rectangular card.
He pulled it out and held it up to the pale moonlight filtering through the grimy window. It was a standard civilian identification card, stamped with the dull, bureaucratic seal of the Reignn local registry.
Full Name: Zain Ricky
Age: 20
Role: Student
Others: N/A
Ricky? Devin stared at the faded ink, a condescending smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. What kind of name is that? It lacked the heavy weight, the ancestral terror of a name like Trangdar, or the aquatic elegance of Colstar. It was an unapologetically commoner name. A name meant to be forgotten the moment it was spoken.
But he quickly checked his own arrogance. He was a dead prince hiding in the skin of a peasant. He had no right to judge the aesthetics of his camouflage. Let me stop judging, he told himself.
But what else was here? His eyes locked onto the word Student.
If Zain was a student, there had to be more. A civilian ID was merely the surface. Devin began tearing through the room with a renewed, frantic energy. He ripped open the single wooden drawer and overturned a small lockbox hidden beneath the bed. Inside the box, buried beneath a handful of dull copper coins, he found it.
A second card. But this one was entirely different. It was forged from a sleek, polished obsidian material that hummed faintly against his palm.
The crest of the United Educational Institute—the UEI—was embossed in silver across the top.
He brought it closer to the light, his breath catching in his throat as he read the silver typography.
Full name: Zain Ricky
Age: 20
Role: Student
Institute: UEI
Class: 4 Stark
Star: 8.5
Devin's mind raced, slamming violently into the memories of his past life. He recalled the countless letters and late-night study sessions he had shared with Fenrys. The UEI was the absolute pinnacle of Northern education, a ruthless crucible of intellect and power. And within its towering walls, society was brutally bifurcated.
Stark and Phrill.
The upper class and the lower class. The Starks were the elite—the untouchable prodigies and the filthy rich. The Phrills were the stepping stones, the commoners desperate for a crumb of prestige.
Class 4 Stark. Devin did the mental arithmetic, the gears of his aristocratic education turning flawlessly. If his calculations were correct, being twenty years old and in Class 4 meant Zain would either be in the exact same class as the Mortipia twins, or perhaps a class just above them.
But it was the final line that truly paralyzed him. Star: 8.5. Wow. Devin stared at the number, the silver digits reflecting in his eyes. He is on a star level of 8.5 out of 10? The UEI's grading system was notoriously unforgiving. To achieve anything above a 7 was considered generational brilliance. An 8.5 was monstrous. It was the realm of absolute prodigies, of future generals and kingdom-shaping scholars.
What type of person are you, Zain Ricky? The question echoed in the silent, rotting room. Devin looked around the squalor, the pieces of the puzzle aggressively refusing to fit together. A Stark. An 8.5 Star elite.
With this high of a grade level, with this kind of terrifying potential, why was he living in a hovel? More importantly, why was he spending his days wiping down tables and serving hot bean water at Marinakas instead of attending the most prestigious school in the North? Was he in hiding? Was he expelled? Or was there a deep, violent darkness to Zain Ricky that perfectly mirrored Devin's own?
The mysteries of his new vessel would have to wait.
The next morning, Devin woke up to a sharp, familiar knock on his thin wooden door. The sound cut through his uneasy dreams of burning castles and jagged Cyprian swords. He pulled the door open to find Emerald standing there, already dressed in her crisp, simple work clothes. Her bright eyes scanned his face, searching for the melancholic ghost from yesterday.
Was she here to walk with me to work? The mundane intimacy of the gesture threw him off balance. In the palace, he was escorted by heavily armored guards; here, he was being picked up by a barista. He offered a tight, practiced smile, quickly threw on his own canvas apron, and they were on their way.
The walk through the morning streets of Reignn was a jarring experience. As they pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Marinakas, Devin was immediately struck by the atmosphere.
The serenity alone was something a royal could never truly experience. Growing up, every banquet, every ball, every hushed conversation in the palace corridors was laced with political venom and deadly ulterior motives. But here? Here it was just different people coming together. Sub-humans and regular citizens alike, sharing warm bread, sipping drinks, and conversing loudly before getting back to their daily, unremarkable lives. It was a peaceful chaos, an absolute sanctuary from the blood-soaked reality of the world he knew.
They resumed their work, the ingrained muscle memory of Zain's body guiding Devin through the mundane tasks of brewing and serving. It was then that he was formally introduced to the last member of their tiny staff.
Dunkan.
He emerged from the back kitchen like a phantom—tall, lean, with dark eyes that looked like they had seen the absolute end of the world and found it entirely unimpressive. He was just your typical, nonchalant cool kid, speaking only in low grunts and brief nods, but he was a hell of a chef.
Devin watched him work through the serving hatch. His blade moved with a terrifying, precise blur, dicing vegetables and searing meats with a fluid rhythm that bordered on a lethal martial art. He did absolutely all the kitchen work by himself, an island of culinary perfection in the back of their chaotic cafe.
Three people running a bustling cafe like this wasn't ideal, not by any stretch of the imagination, but apparently, they made it work seamlessly. The dynamic was remarkably simple: Emerald and Devin handled all the front-of-house chores in the morning—everything except anything kitchen-related. They served the patrons with fake smiles and hot drinks during the chaotic midday rush, and they cleaned up the mess again after the close of work. The kitchen, from dawn until dusk, was entirely Dunkan's domain.
Devin found himself admiring the chef already. In a world where he had violently lost his father and his kingdom, he was subconsciously, kinda hoping for that stoic, cool big bro dynamic. Someone who asked no questions but possessed undeniable, lethal skill.
Life went on as usual for the next few days. Devin fell into the hypnotic rhythm of grinding beans, wiping tables, and dodging Emerald's occasional, playful smacks whenever he zoned out staring at the wall. But beneath the calm surface, his mind was a raging storm, still desperately trying to figure out Zain Ricky's lore.
The 8.5 Star rating burned hot in his thoughts every time he wiped down a dirty table. He was an apex predator hiding in a sheep's flock, but he was beginning to suspect the sheep whose skin he wore had razor-sharp teeth of his own.
Then, the fragile illusion of his peaceful new life shattered entirely.
It was a warm, lazy afternoon. The golden sun was baking the cobblestone streets outside, and the cafe was experiencing a rare lull in customers. Devin was standing behind the counter, absentmindedly polishing a ceramic mug, the mundane task keeping the phantom pain in his chest at bay.
The brass bell above the front door chimed. It was a sharp, cheerful sound that usually signaled the arrival of a tired merchant or a gossiping student.
Devin didn't look up immediately. "Welcome to Marinakas," he recited, the generic greeting slipping off Zain's tongue automatically.
But the footsteps that entered didn't shuffle like commoners. They stepped with purpose. With the heavy, undeniable weight of absolute privilege and lethal grace. The ambient chatter in the cafe seemed to instantly die down, the air suddenly growing thick and cold.
Devin finally raised his eyes.
The ceramic mug slipped from his hands, shattering into dozens of jagged pieces on the wooden floor behind the counter.
They walked in. The Mortipia twins.
Ferran strode forward, tall and imposing, his perfect posture a testament to the brutal Frazer training. His dark eyes scanned the room with a look of aristocratic boredom.
And beside him, Fenrys.
The publicly undeclared sub-human. The brilliant intellectual. The girl who reminded Devin so much of his murdered mother. She looked exactly as she had on the night of his eighteenth birthday, her sharp, intelligent eyes taking in the rustic decor of the sub-human haven.
Devin's heart slammed violently against his ribs, a deafening drumbeat of pure panic and profound, agonizing grief. His best friends from a life that had been burned to ash were standing not ten feet away from him.
But to them, he wasn't Prince Devin Trangdar. To them, he was just a clumsy, low-class barista who had just dropped a cup.
The past had finally tracked him down, and God's twisted entertainment had truly begun.