Hi, everyone.
I'm Ned. Ned Forester. Every time I say that, I get this weird spy-thriller vibe, like I should be wearing sunglasses, whispering secret codes, and dodging lasers. But no, it's just me. A regular guy. A human guy. Totally ordinary—except for the part where I used to be a prince. Yeah, used to be. Fun times.
So, why am I doing this? Writing all this down? I hate journaling. It feels like talking to some invisible audience that's probably not there. But life's been kicking me around lately, and I figured, why not vent somewhere? Here's to my highly embarrassing autobiography, written in real-time.
Let's get this out of the way: I'm not actually a prince anymore. Plot twist—I never was. Turns out, my actual dad isn't the king. Nope, it's that guy over there, sitting in the corner, nursing a bottle of cheap alcohol like it's his only friend. A palace guard. My real dad thought, "Hey, I've got a great idea. Let's put baby Ned next to the dying queen while she's giving birth and tell everyone he's her kid!" Genius move, right? Except, surprise, the actual baby—the real Forester—didn't make it. RIP to that guy. You would've been a way better prince than me, buddy.
Fast forward to my talent awakening. You know, the grand ceremony where everyone finds out what cool, badass talent they inherited from their family? Spoiler: mine wasn't the royal Red Thunder talent. Shocker, because, oh right, I'm not their blood. Everyone's supposed to resonate with their family's talent, and guess who I resonated with? The drunk guard and the maid. Yeah. Turns out, being swapped at birth doesn't come with a talent upgrade.
The nobles? Oh, they loved this. They finally got to trash a royal without losing their heads. And the commoners? Well, they treated me like a punching bag for all their pent-up envy. So here I am—two years of banishment in, and it's been an absolute blast. Society hates me, I've got no home, and my reputation is somewhere between "useless trash" and "that guy who peaked as a fake prince."
But wait, there's more. My talent—brace yourselves—it's Spectator. Sounds cool, right? Like, maybe I can see the future, detect lies, or observe things on a Sherlock-level? Nah. It means I can see better. Like, I can read small text from far away and maybe notice stuff in the background of a painting. That's it. Oh, and my imagination's pretty decent too. So, shoutout to all the writers of spicy novels—I can visualize your work in HD. That's literally my peak utility.
Or so I thought.
Sometimes I feel like there's… more to it. Like when I stare at something too long, my vision blurs, and I catch a flicker of something else. Words, maybe. Shapes. Once, I thought I saw a memory—one that wasn't mine. It felt like deja vu, but stronger, sharper, like it was burned into my brain. It's probably just my imagination acting up, right? Spectator talent, your one-stop shop for weird optical glitches!
Anyway, life as a banished ex-prince has been... interesting. Sure, I'm broke with a shitty talent, but at least I'm good-looking. I figure some bored noblewoman might hire me as a "personal assistant." It's a living, right? Beats being stuck in this pit where both nobles and commoners hate my guts.
So, there you go. That's Chapter 1 of my totally tragic, mildly ridiculous story. Am I a useless nobody with a trash talent? Maybe. But hey, at least I've got charm. And eyes. Spectacular eyes, apparently.
Somewhere in this mess, I'll figure out why I'm still here. Why I even bother. Maybe then, I'll stop feeling like the whole world is looking at me and laughing.
Or maybe it's not laughing. Maybe it's watching me back.
Cheers to the next disaster—uh, I mean, chapter.