"Long live the Grand Duke!"
"Glory to Werestia! Glory to the North!"
"Look! It’s Him! He’s actually smiling!"
The main gates of the Werestian capital swung wide with a heavy groan, and the city promptly erupted into absolute madness. Somewhere above, trumpets began blaring. Whether they were supposed to sound like that was a question nobody dared to ask. Tens of thousands of citizens flooded the cobbled streets, screaming until their faces turned an alarming shade of red.
Flowers rained down from three-story wooden balconies like a festive, perfumed hail storm. Small children ran dangerously close to the hooves of the warhorses, waving ragged cloth flags, while market vendors abandoned their stalls entirely just to toss handfuls of sweet-smelling flower petals into the air.
Lioren sat high on his midnight-black stallion, his heavy black armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. He grinned, raising a gloved hand and waving to the crowds on his left and right like a politician running for local office.
"Thank you, thank you!" Lioren called out, his voice carrying easily over the din with a warm, theatrical flourish. "Don’t just praise me! We won because you lot didn’t stop praying for us! Keep it up, or the tax rates might go back up!"
The crowd roared with laughter, delighting in his informal, almost absurdly relaxed demeanor.
That was just who he was. At twenty-four, Lioren Roscaire was widely considered the bedrock of the entire kingdom. He was the young, ridiculously wealthy Grand Duke who commanded the freezing, blood-soaked northern border of Werestia. He was undefeated in battle, a martial prodigy whose blade aura could tear through enemy vanguard formations like wet paper. Enemies feared him as a chaotic demon of the battlefield, while his soldiers trusted him with their lives, mostly because he had a bad habit of charging in ahead of them rather than barking orders from the safety of a command tent.
Yet to the common folk, he wasn’t some terrifying, untouchable god of war. He was just Lioren. Warm, slightly unhinged, and painfully handsome.
Suddenly, a massive, overly ambitious floral arrangement, roughly the size of a carriage wheel and packed tightly with heavy wet clay, came hurtling through the air from a second-floor tavern balcony.
"Watch out!" Caldrin barked from a few paces behind, his hand snapping to his sword hilt out of pure instinct.
Lioren caught the monstrous wreath single-handedly, the heavy impact nearly unseating him from his saddle. He winced as a few stray thorns poked through his leather gauntlets, but without missing a single beat, he balanced the absurdly heavy bouquet on his shoulder, adjusted his posture, and gave the blushing tavern maid who threw it a dramatic, sweeping salute. The crowd broke out into a fresh round of wild cheers.
"You’re going to get yourself assassinated by a bouquet one of these days," Caldrin muttered under his breath, nudging his horse closer to Lioren’s side as they passed through the grand archway toward the upper district.
"Nonsense," Lioren murmured back, keeping his charming smile fixed on the crowd while subtly picking a squished marigold out of his chest plate. "It builds character. Besides, the people need a show. They’ve been paying for this war out of their own pockets for five long years."
The war between Werestia and the neighboring kingdom of Ostharia had dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Both nations had bled heavily, their treasuries drained and their borders stained red. But Werestia’s northern territory had taken the brunt of the bloody stalemate.
This latest victory wasn’t just another small territorial scuffle; Lioren had thoroughly crushed Ostharia’s main offensive force, completely turning the tide of the war. For the first time in a decade, peace negotiations weren’t just a faint dream, they were an unavoidable reality. Ostharia was backing into a corner, and they would be forced to make massive political concessions to keep Werestia from invading their heartland.
Behind them, a couple of veteran soldiers riding in the front ranks were chatting in low, relaxed tones, their voices drifting up toward Lioren.
"Still can’t believe Ostharia collapsed so fast at the end," one soldier remarked, pulling on his reins. "I mean, thank the gods, but still. Remember a few years back? When Prince Xavion was leading their front line?"
"Ah, don’t remind me," the other soldier shuddered, shaking his head. "That guy was a literal monster on the field. The Shadow Hero, they called him. If he’d still possessed his former strength... man, this war wouldn’t have ended today. We’d probably all be pushin’ up daisies."
The first soldier let out a gravelly laugh. "Too true! Though, you gotta admit, it would’ve been something incredible to watch, wouldn’t it? Our Grand Duke going head-to-head with Ostharia’s undefeated hero! A battle for the history books!"
Lioren’s smile didn’t fade, but his hand tightened around the reins until his knuckles turned ghost-white.
Xavion Astervan.
The world around him seemed to mute, the thunderous cheers of the capital fading into a distant, muffled hum.
His head throbbed. That violent, bone-deep headache he’d suffered on the battlefield days ago, the one that had knocked him flat on his back and caused his men to panic, suddenly clicked into place. The final, missing pieces of the puzzle slammed together in his mind with terrifying, undeniable clarity.
It wasn’t just a faint dream or a weird vision brought on by exhaustion.
He remembered. He actually remembered.
Before he was Lioren Roscaire, the grand duke of a northern border, he had been a completely normal guy. A regular dude living in a cramped, modern apartment, drinking cheap instant coffee, and spending far too many late nights curled up on a sofa, glued to a glowing phone screen while binge-reading dark fantasy web novels.
He had died in that world, how, he couldn’t quite recall, though Truck-kun and Bus-chan were both considered prime suspects. Either way, he had somehow ended up reincarnated here.
And this world? It wasn’t just any random fantasy realm.
It was the unwritten prequel to one of his absolute favorite web novels, The Shattered Dawn.
It was the kind of story where the world had already ended and everyone was simply trying to survive the aftermath. Ninety percent of the global population had been wiped out, civilization had crumbled, and the survivors were left picking through the ruins. And who had caused this delightful little apocalypse? Xavion Astervan, the black mage who had lost his mind, unleashed forbidden dark magic, and practically erased humanity from the map.
Currently, Xavion was still just a prince of Ostharia.
Lioren remembered reading those flashback Chapters about Xavion in his past life, feeling a deep, aching pity for the tragic antagonist. He was tortured into total insanity, eventually triggering the black magic awakening that doomed the entire planet.
Including me, Lioren thought, a cold shiver running straight down his spine. If the plot rolls forward untouched, everyone dies. I die. Caldrin dies. My family dies. The whole bloody world gets turned into ashes because a bunch of royal sociopaths pushed a broken man too far.
A reckless glint crept into Lioren’s eyes, and that was rarely a good sign.
I am not letting this world go to hell, he vowed silently, adjusting his heavy cloak. If the plot wants an apocalypse, it’s going to have to go through me first.
By the time the procession reached the grand gates of the royal palace, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the white marble pillars in shades of warm gold and bruised violet.
Lioren tossed his heavy floral arrangement to a thoroughly bewildered gate guard, smoothed down his tunic, and strode directly into the grand audience hall, Caldrin trailing half a step behind him.
The King of Werestia sat upon his high velvet throne, surrounded by ministers, nobles, and high-ranking priests. As Lioren approached the dais, the old king rose to his feet, spreading his arms wide in a rare, public display of grand affection.
"The hero of the North returns!" the King’s voice boomed through the high-ceilinged hall. "Lioren Roscaire, your brilliant tactics and unmatched valor have brought our bitter enemy to their knees! Thanks to you, peace is finally within our grasp!"
"Your Majesty is too kind," Lioren replied smoothly, dropping onto one knee with immaculate grace, though his eyes remained entirely sharp and alert. "My soldiers bled for this victory. I merely guided their swords."
"Nonsense! A war god should have a little pride!" The King laughed, a sound echoing off the walls. "You have saved this kingdom from decades of ruin, Duke Roscaire. Werestia owes you a debt that gold alone cannot measure. Speak your mind! Ask for whatever your heart desires, be it land, titles, or half the treasury, and it shall be yours!"
In the past, before his modern memories had slammed back into his brain, Lioren might have jokingly asked for a year’s supply of vintage wine, a ridiculously long vacation, or enough gold to build a giant indoor pool just to confuse his staff.
The nobles held their breath, whispering among themselves, expecting the Grand Duke to demand massive territorial expansion or political concessions that would shift the court’s balance of power.
Lioren slowly raised his head. He looked at the King, offering a polite, almost surprisingly gentle smile.
"Your Majesty’s generosity honors me deeply," Lioren said, his voice calm, steady, and utterly devoid of greed. "However... My borders are secure, my men are well-fed, and my estate is quite comfortable. I truly lack for nothing at this moment."
A murmur ran through the assembled nobles. The King blinked, clearly caught off guard by the refusal.
"You refuse a royal reward?" the King asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Not at all, Your Majesty," Lioren replied smoothly, standing up and brushing a speck of dust from his knee. "If your offer is truly genuine, perhaps I might be permitted to save this promise for a later time? A favor, granted by the throne, to be called upon when the need arises?"
The King studied him for a long moment, searching the young Duke’s face for hidden ambition, but found only serene confidence. Eventually, a broad smile broke across the monarch’s aging face.
"A promise from the crown?" The King chuckled heartily. "Very well! By my word as King, whenever you present your request, it shall be granted without question or delay!"
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Lioren bowed deeply, hiding the dark, victorious smirk that slowly curled his lips.
Internally, his heart was pounding with a quiet, chaotic excitement.
I’ll keep this little favor tucked away until the right moment comes. Hohoho...