A dull black-and-white guillotine stood at the center of the square. Its blade, smeared with rust and dried blood, gleamed faintly under the gray light of morning.
Kneeling at its base was a man—Lancelot Haier.
Once heir to a family that ruled the nation for fifty years, he now knelt in shackles, his fine clothes shredded and soaked in blood. The tailored uniform that once symbolized power and prestige was now a tattered banner of defeat, dirtied by mud.
"Kill him!"
"Bring down the tyrant's son!"
"Lancelot Haier must die!"
Jeers turned into roars. Fruit and stones flew. Someone hurled a broken placard. Another spat. The name Haier no longer inspired fear—only fury.
But he just got caught in the mess.
Lancelot didn't fight the crowd's judgment. How could he? His last name alone was a curse, etched into decades of oppression and corruption. The truth—that he had tried to break away from it, that he'd planned reforms behind closed doors—was irrelevant. Too late. Too hidden. The people didn't care for nuance. They wanted an ending.
And so he accepted it.
The guillotine blade gleamed above him. He felt the cold kiss of steel in the air, the vibration of tension humming through the wood beneath his knees. His head was locked in place.
He closed his eyes.
'I wanted to fix things. Just once.'
"Do you have any last words you would like to make?" asked one of the rebels, who stood proudly before him with a look of disdain.
Lancelot opened his eyes and met the man's eyes.
"I'm… sorry. Th-there was… nothing I could do," Lancelot said hoarsely.
"A coward's apology," the man muttered, turning his back. "Drop the blade."
The executioner reached for the lever.
Lancelot took one final breath.
In that instant, the crowd vanished from his awareness. The pain faded. All he could think of was the wasted years—the long nights poring over plans that would never come to fruition, the secret meetings with reformists who now spat on his name, and the heavy burden of a surname that had defined his life from the moment he was born.
'If there's another chance… if there's a world out there where I can make this right…'
'Let me carry the sins of my bloodline. Let me do better.'
The lever dropped.
The blade fell.
And then—
Silence.
But it wasn't death.
It was a heartbeat.
A slow, unfamiliar rhythm. Stronger than before. Louder.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Air rushed into his lungs.
His fingers twitched. His body was no longer bound. He felt soft sheets beneath him.
He gasped and sat up.
A wave of dizziness hit him first, followed by the sight of a canopy above his head—luxurious red velvet, trimmed with golden stitching. The bed he lay in was far too large for one man. Sunlight spilled in from a high-arched window, illuminating the polished stone floor and ornate walls. The scent of lavender and warm wood filled the air.
"Where…am I?"
This wasn't the afterlife.
It was a palace.
He flung aside the covers. His hands were smaller. Paler. Younger.
Then came a knock at the door.
"Your Royal Highness? May I come in?" a woman's voice called.
Lancelot froze.
Your Royal Highness?
He swallowed and stood, wobbling slightly. His legs felt strange—this wasn't the same body. He caught sight of a mirror hanging on the wall and stepped closer.
The reflection staring back wasn't the man who had just knelt at the guillotine.
It was a boy—perhaps seventeen or eighteen—sharp-featured, clear-skinned, with shoulder-length dark hair and striking gray eyes. The kind of face that would be sketched in oil and hung in royal halls.
There was a crest embroidered on the sleeve of his sleeping tunic: a golden lion standing atop a mountain. Below it, a stitched name in cursive script:
Crown Prince Lancelot of Spain.
He stared at it for a long moment, then closed his eyes.
This… is real.
This is my second chance.
"Your Highness?" the voice called again.
"Come in," Lancelot replied, steadying his tone.
The door creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside.
Lancelot blinked. She looked to be around his age—perhaps eighteen, maybe a little older. She had long, silver-white hair that flowed neatly past her shoulders, light blue eyes, and a calm, composed expression.
She wasn't dressed in anything extravagant. A simple but well-tailored blouse, dark trousers, and a fitted navy-blue coat gave her a clean and professional look.
"Good morning," she said. "I was told you were awake."
Her voice was clear and measured, the way someone used to formal conversations would speak. Not cold, but careful.
Lancelot sat up a little straighter. "And you are?"
She was taken aback slightly from that response. "Your Royal Highness. Have you forgotten about me?"
Lancelot tilted his head to the side. He had never met with a woman like her before, and if he did, there was no way he would forget the encounter as she was a fine lady.
And just as he was about to answer, a sharp pain throbbed in his head.
He winced.
The pain came suddenly and without warning, like a hammer slamming against the inside of his skull. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the room spun.
"Your Royal Highness?" the woman stepped forward, concern flashing across her face. "Are you all right?"
He gritted his teeth and clutched the edge of the bed.
It felt like something was breaking open inside his mind—no, not breaking. Pouring in. Images. Names. Emotions. A rush of fragmented thoughts that didn't belong to him… and yet somehow did.
A garden by the eastern wing... a tutor named Marcel... sparring lessons with wooden swords... a younger sister, Juliette, who always clung to his sleeve... formal banquets, royal lectures, hours standing still during court ceremonies.
The King's glare.
The pain spiked again. He sucked in air through his teeth and shut his eyes, trying to stay upright.
"Lancelot?" the woman asked—no longer formal, but worried. She had stepped closer now, reaching for his arm. "What's happening to you?"
He didn't answer right away.
Memories from the body's original owner were forcing themselves into his mind, crashing against the walls of his own identity. Some were clear—faces, places, names. Others were emotion-driven: fear, pressure, guilt. A deep-rooted anxiety about living up to royal expectations. The sense of always being watched. Always being measured.
"I'm fine," he muttered, even though he clearly wasn't.
"You don't look fine," she said plainly. "Sit back. I'll call for the physician—"
"No," he interrupted, exhaling slowly. "Don't. It's… already passing."
He rubbed his temples as the pressure eased. His breathing slowly returned to normal, and the storm in his mind quieted to a low hum.
The woman hesitated. "Should I inform the King?"
"No. Not yet." He finally looked up at her. "Just give me a minute."
She didn't argue, though the worry in her expression remained.
Lancelot looked at her again and this time, a sense of familiarity welled up inside him. He knew that woman, her name was Alicia Viremont. She was a kind of a assistant to him—assigned to the royal household from a young age due to her noble upbringing and her family's long-standing loyalty to the crown.
The memory trickled in slowly. A pale image at first, but one that sharpened with each second: a young girl standing beside him during lessons, handing him scrolls without speaking unless spoken to. Later, she would carry his messages, manage his appointments, even speak on his behalf during court meetings when he couldn't be present.
"Alicia," he said quietly, the name now anchored in place.
She blinked, surprised. "So… you do remember?"
"Bits and pieces," he replied, straightening his posture. "More now than before. It's… coming back in waves."
Alicia studied him a moment longer, she felt something weird from the prince.
"Are you really fine, Your Royal Highness?" Alicia asked with a concerned look.
"I am fine, thank you for your concern," Lancelot replied dismissively. "Anyways, why are you here?"
He had asked that as he knew from memories, though not his, that Alicia wouldn't come and see him if there was nothing important. After all, most of the bureaucratic tasks are handled by her. Why is that? Because the original person that was occupying this body doesn't have a sense of initiative or responsibility.
The original was lazy, apathetic to court affairs, disinterested in governance, and more concerned with hunting trips and poetry recitals than the actual work of a future ruler. That's right, he was the next in line to the throne, and he was the only son of the King of the Kingdom of Spain, who, according to his memories, had been sick lately.
"Your father wishes to see you personally," Alicia revealed. "I'm afraid this is not the matter you can just relegate to me."
"I see—so it's serious then huh?" Lancelot muttered.
Alicia's eyes widened a bit. Normally, she would expect a response like why his father is calling him. Or like, can't he just deliver the message to her and relay it to him. It felt to her like Prince Lancelot was having slight behavioral changes.
"That is correct, Your Royal Highness."
Lancelot bit his lower lip and then sighed. "Okay, let's meet him."