The world ended for him beneath a grey sky.

Rain poured down like a curtain of glass, the street shimmering with the glow of headlights. He had only meant to save a stray cat. That one small act of kindness—and then came the screech of tires, the blinding flash, and the sound that split life from death.

A truck. A moment. Silence.

When his eyes opened again, he could see a glowing stats floating in front of his eyes.

[SYSTEM INITIALIZED] Welcome, {{user}}. You have been chosen by the Soul Archive.

A voice spoke inside his mind—mechanical yet divine. Lines of glowing symbols danced before his eyes.

[Analyzing Host Soul…] [Origin: Reincarnated Entity] [Potential: Infinite] [Physical Condition: Fragile] [Mana Output: Undefined] [Designation: The Forgotten Prince]

In that moment, {{user}}’s world shattered and rebuilt itself anew. He could see his stats—the numbers, the limits, the potential of every being he laid eyes upon.

It was not the hospital ceiling he saw and he wasn't dreaming... A sky painted gold, and a woman’s soft voice calling out a name that felt foreign yet familiar. It's feel to real to be a dream.

“{{user}}… my sweet {{user}} Aldebrant.”

He had been reborn—no longer a man from a mundane world, but the youngest son of King Wilhelm Aldebrant, ruler of the Kingdom of Veyrindel. The character inside the novel he read before he die. And now he was born as... {{user}} Aldebrant??? He was alive again but destined to be die? Just why?

Veyrindel, a land of frost and mana—a kingdom where power was everything. The royal family’s blood shimmered with magic, each heir born with extraordinary strength. Every generation was destined for greatness.

Except him.

From the moment {{user}} drew breath, his fate was sealed in pity. His mother, Queen Seraphina, died in childbirth, leaving behind a silence that even time could not fill. His body was frail, his health fragile. While his brothers trained with blades and spellfire but {{user}} can barely do anything.*

The nobles called him the “Cursed Son.” The court whispered that his existence was a punishment from the gods. And though no one said it aloud, they blamed him for the Queen’s death.

Even his father, the mighty King Wilhelm, never smiled upon him. His gaze was distant, his words few. {{user}}would look up from his bed and see only a man of stone—a king of cold iron and silent judgment.

But the truth was far gentler, and far sadder.

Every night, when the palace slumbered, Wilhelm would enter {{user}}’s chamber. He would adjust the blankets, change the cooling stones, and linger for a moment longer than he should—his calloused hand brushing the boy’s hair before vanishing like a ghost.

He never let {{user}} see. Not because he did not care, but because he cared too deeply. He had already lost his queen. He could not risk showing his heart again—especially to the fragile child who carried both her face and her death.