Chapter 1
The first thing Arnulf felt when he regained consciousness was a splitting headache — a sharp, stabbing pain, like someone pricking his skull with countless needles.
“Ugh…”
He groaned softly as he opened his eyes. As his senses slowly returned, he realized it wasn’t just his head — his whole body throbbed painfully.
‘This kind of pain… it’s something I’d only feel on a battlefield.’
But he had returned to the royal capital ten days ago. There had been no reason for him to be injured or in pain.
Arnulf blinked in confusion, trying to piece together what was happening. Then, a frantic voice spoke from beside him.
“Y–Young Master! Lord Josef! Are you all right?”
Young Master? Josef?
Arnulf turned toward the unfamiliar voice. His eyes met those of a young man who looked on the verge of tears.
“Oh, thank the heavens! You’ve finally woken up! You’ve opened your eyes!”
The young man let out a joyful cry, tears streaming down his cheeks — but Arnulf couldn’t share in that joy.
“Josef, you say?”
At his question, the young man froze, tears still clinging to his lashes.
“Eh? Lord Josef, what’s wrong?”
“Josef? You’re calling me Josef?”
“G–Good heavens! L–Lord Josef! W–Why are you saying that? D–Don’t tell me something’s wrong with your head?!”
The young man’s face turned pale as he stumbled backward, horrified.
“Oh no! What do I do?! I–I’ll go get a doctor!”
“Wait—!”
Arnulf reached out a hand to stop him, but the young man was already gone, bolting out of the room.
A short while later, he returned with a man in a white coat — a doctor.
“Lord Josef! Are you all right? Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy?”
Arnulf turned his gaze toward him, his expression dazed.
“…Who did you just say I am?”
“Eh? Lord Josef? Are you still confused? You haven’t fully come to your senses yet?”
The doctor muttered under his breath, as if speaking to himself. “He shouldn’t still be drunk… or maybe the medicine hasn’t worn off yet.” His eyes carried a hint of disdain.
“Josef… Are you saying I’m Josef Pomozein?”
The doctor frowned in irritation.
“Yes, of course! That’s what I said, Lord Josef. You really should watch your drinking and drugs, or it’ll end badly. Though… perhaps it already has.”
Arnulf ignored the man’s sharp tone and raised his arm — and froze.
“Huh?”
The sound escaped him before he could stop it.
The arm before his eyes was shockingly pale, as if it had never seen sunlight — thin, almost fragile-looking. His wrist was so slender that it could have been wrapped easily in one hand.
“Why… why is it so thin? This… this is my arm?”
Arnulf was lean, yes, but he stood at six feet two (around 189 centimeters), and his body was well-trained and solid from years of combat. His skin was tanned from long campaigns under the sun, and his hands were rough with calluses from wielding a sword.
But this — this fragile arm and delicate, snow-white hand — could not possibly be his.
Unbelieving, he raised the hand to his face and brushed his cheek. The skin beneath his touch was soft — absurdly smooth, as if it had never known hardship.
‘This can’t be my skin…’
The confusion only deepened. He needed to see for himself.
At the far end of the room stood a small washbasin and a wall mirror. Without hesitation, Arnulf rose and walked toward it. The doctor called after him irritably, and the young man looked alarmed, but Arnulf heard neither of them.
“What… what is this…?”
Standing before the mirror, Arnulf’s eyes widened in disbelief.
The reflection staring back at him was a stranger.
Pale, almost translucent skin. Refined, elegant features.
And above all — what caught his breath — was the hair and eyes.
Hair red as flame. Eyes a vivid green, like sunlight filtering through spring leaves.
He knew that face.
‘Josef Pomozein…’
Yes — the man in the mirror was none other than Josef himself.
Arnulf stared, dumbfounded, at his reflection.
‘Why… how did this happen?’
He could hardly comprehend it. When he had woken up, he was no longer in his own body — he was inside the body of Josef Pomozein, the very man who had killed him.
Arnulf racked his brain, trying to recall what had happened before he lost consciousness.
* * *
After years spent wandering borderlands and battlefields, Arnulf had returned to the royal capital to finally enjoy some peace.
Then, one day, an invitation arrived — to a party hosted by the social club Millionen.
“What a nuisance.”
It was an invitation he couldn’t easily refuse.
Arnulf had been enjoying a rare day of idleness and had little desire to attend, but in the end, he accepted the invitation — largely because of the man smiling before him.
Fair skin, golden hair that gleamed under the light, and violet eyes like gemstones. A tall, broad-shouldered man who didn’t seem to fit such delicate beauty — Sigmund.
“We’ve arrived, Lord Arnulf. Shall we disembark?”
Lost in thought, Arnulf blinked as the carriage came to a stop. Resting his elbow on the window frame, he looked outside with disinterest.
Under the dark blue sky stood a grand mansion, in front of which countless carriages had already gathered.
“How gaudy,” he muttered.
“With over three hundred members in the club, it’s to be expected,” Sigmund replied lightly, stepping down first and waiting for him.
Arnulf followed, and as they entered the mansion, all eyes turned toward them.
It was only natural — one was the Third Prince of Hessen, and the other, the eldest son of the powerful Duke of Waldeck, a renowned knight.
But neither man paid any attention to the gazes that followed them. They had no intention of mingling or making conversation. They were simply there to show their faces.
“Prince Arnulf! What an honor to see you here. I heard you’ve returned to the capital, but you’ve been keeping to yourself. How have you been? Ah, did you hear that Prince Albrecht has completed a successful diplomatic mission with the Duchy of Pomozein?”
A man suddenly butted into their path. Arnulf remained expressionless, though Sigmund’s brow furrowed slightly in irritation.
The intruder swayed as if drunk, speaking with exaggerated gestures.
“With His Majesty in poor health, such good news is truly heartening! The Duchy of Pomozein, after all, is the maritime nation His Majesty has long sought to strengthen ties with.”
“I’m not particularly interested,” Arnulf replied flatly, clearly wishing to end the conversation.
“How can you say that? Prince Albrecht is your elder brother!”
The man gave him a mocking grin.
“Ah, but of course — you’ve never cared for such matters. You’ve spent so long at the frontlines that you wouldn’t know what happens in the capital.”
His tone was openly derisive.
Arnulf knew the man wasn’t truly drunk — he was provoking him on purpose.
“Her Majesty even held a grand ball to celebrate Prince Albrecht’s diplomatic triumph. Quite a contrast, isn’t it?”
The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. Sigmund’s expression turned cold as ice.
Arnulf caught Sigmund’s arm before he could step forward. He knew his companion well — once Sigmund got involved, someone was bound to lose their head.
The man, Baron Freang, flinched under Sigmund’s glare. He couldn’t understand why a man like Sigmund would follow someone like Arnulf — a prince with no real power or ambition for the throne.
The rumors among the nobility were predictable: that the two were lovers.
No one dared to say it aloud — not with the Duke of Waldeck’s influence — but everyone who mattered knew.
Otherwise, why would a knight of such skill and pedigree waste his time at the side of a “useless” prince who spent his life on the battlefield?
“I only concern myself with defending the realm,” Arnulf said curtly. “Politics are not my interest.”
Baron Freang’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“Is that so? And yet, the moment His Majesty’s illness was reported, you rushed back to the capital. Doesn’t sound so disinterested to me.”
His tone was dripping with mockery.
At that instant — shing!
A flash of silver sliced through the air, stopping just short of Freang’s neck.
“Baron Freang! You overstep yourself!”
Sigmund’s cold, cutting voice echoed sharply.
“Eek!”
The baron froze, eyes wide, the tip of Sigmund’s blade glinting against his throat.
