Chapter 1: The Wrong Move
I woke up in chains.
Not metaphorical ones—actual, cold iron shackles biting into my wrists. My arms felt like lead, my head throbbed with an ache that seemed to pulse in time with the jeers echoing around me, and my vision blurred as I tried to focus.
When my eyes finally cleared, I realized I wasn't in some dark, damp dungeon. Oh no. I was in a courtroom. And not just any courtroom—a courtroom ripped straight out of a high fantasy novel.
Marble pillars rose to dizzying heights, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns of mythical beasts and blooming flowers. A vast ceiling arched overhead, adorned with a mural depicting the gods of this world passing judgment on mortals. Rich velvet drapes framed towering stained glass windows that bathed the hall in shards of gold and crimson light.
It would have been breathtaking—if not for the crowd.
Nobles, dozens of them, dressed in opulent silks and dripping with jewels, filled the gallery to the brim. Their faces ranged from sneering contempt to outright hostility. They whispered behind gloved hands and cast me scornful glances as if I were a particularly unsavory rodent dragged into their midst.
"Maxwell Erenhart," a voice boomed, silencing the chatter like a crack of thunder.
I turned my head, my chains clinking with the movement, to see him: the Crown Prince.
He was everything you'd expect a prince to be—tall, golden-haired, and exuding an air of cold, effortless authority. His ice-blue eyes locked onto me with a look that said he'd rather see me hanged than hear a word of explanation.
"You stand accused of treason against the crown," he said, his voice as sharp and unyielding as a blade, "and the murder of Lady Aria Valcrest."
The words hit me like a hammer.
Lady Aria Valcrest. The name sent a jolt through my chest, unlocking a floodgate of memories.
This wasn't my life. This wasn't even my world.
I wasn't Maxwell Erenhart, second son of a disgraced noble family and petty villain of The Crimson Bloom. I was someone else—someone from a completely different reality.
My name was Ethan Clarke. Or at least, it had been. Back in my world, I'd been a brilliant strategist. Not to brag, but people had called me a prodigy—a genius with an uncanny ability to outthink my opponents in any game, no matter how complex. Whether it was chess, strategy simulations, or online RPGs, I thrived on solving impossible problems.
And one of my favorite pastimes? Picking apart the plot holes in cheesy romance fantasy novels like The Crimson Bloom.
It was a story I knew all too well. A tale of love, betrayal, and redemption set in a sprawling kingdom on the brink of war. Lady Aria Valcrest was the heroine—a bright, compassionate noblewoman destined to unite the kingdom's fractured factions and inspire the male leads to become their best selves. She was the glue holding the world together, the heart of the story.
And now, apparently, she was dead.
By my hand.
The blood drained from my face as realization hit me like a runaway carriage.
"Do you have nothing to say for yourself, Erenhart?" the prince demanded, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What could I even say? I didn't remember killing Aria. Hell, I didn't remember being Maxwell until about thirty seconds ago.
"You dare to remain silent in the face of your crimes?" The prince's glare hardened. "Very well. If you refuse to defend yourself, then—"
"Wait!" I blurted, my voice cracking slightly.
The courtroom fell silent. All eyes turned to me—some curious, most disdainful.
"I... I don't remember doing it," I said, my mind scrambling for anything that could buy me time. "The last thing I recall is..." I hesitated, realizing I had no idea what Maxwell had been doing before this. "I was attacked. Someone must have framed me."
A nobleman scoffed. "How convenient. The coward feigns ignorance now."
The gallery erupted into murmurs again. My heart pounded. I needed to think, and fast.
"Silence," the prince ordered, his voice slicing through the noise like a sword. He turned his piercing gaze back to me. "You claim to have no memory of your crime. Yet witnesses saw you flee the scene of Lady Aria's death. Her blood was on your hands—quite literally."
I looked down at myself for the first time. My clothes were filthy and torn, dark stains smearing the fabric. My hands...
They were covered in dried blood.
My stomach churned. Was this real? Had Maxwell actually killed her? Had I killed her?
"I..." I started, my voice faltering.
"Enough," the prince snapped. "Your lies insult the memory of Lady Aria. Guards, take him to the dungeons. At dawn, he will face the executioner's axe."
My chains rattled as two armored knights stepped forward, their gauntleted hands reaching for me. Panic surged through me.
"No! Wait!" I shouted, struggling against their grip.
"Your Highness!" I forced my voice to steady, forcing myself to channel the confidence that had won me countless battles in my old life. "If you kill me now, you may never uncover the truth of what happened to Lady Aria."
The prince hesitated, his eyes narrowing.
"I swear to you," I said, meeting his gaze with as much conviction as I could muster, "I am innocent. Someone orchestrated this to frame me and throw the kingdom into chaos. Execute me, and you'll play right into their hands."
The gallery buzzed with renewed whispers. The prince's expression was unreadable, his sharp features betraying nothing.
"You ask for a reprieve," he said slowly. "But why should I believe you? You are Maxwell Erenhart, a known schemer and opportunist. You have no loyalty to the crown or this kingdom."
He wasn't wrong. Maxwell was a schemer. But that reputation might be the only thing that could save me now.
"Because," I said, forcing a smirk onto my face despite the fear churning in my gut, "if I were guilty, I wouldn't be begging for a chance to prove my innocence. I'd be trying to escape."
The prince studied me for a long, tense moment. Then he leaned back in his throne, his expression cold and calculating.
"Very well," he said at last. "You will have three days to prove your claims. But make no mistake—if you fail, your life is forfeit."
Relief flooded through me, though I knew better than to let it show.
"Thank you, Your Highness," I said, bowing my head. "I will not disappoint you."
The guards released me, though the chains around my wrists remained.
As they escorted me out of the courtroom, the weight of the situation finally settled on me.
Three days. Three days to prove my innocence, uncover a conspiracy I wasn't even sure existed, and fix the mess that was supposed to be this novel's plot.
Oh, and survive the wrath of a kingdom that wanted me dead.
No pressure.
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