Death was quiet.
No pain. No light. No divine voice asking questions.
Just silence.
And then—
Cold.
Sharp, biting cold seeped into his bones, followed by a choking sensation as air rushed violently into his lungs. He gasped, coughing weakly, his chest burning as if it had never breathed before.
"—Your Highness!"
A panicked voice echoed near his ear.
He tried to open his eyes.
They felt heavy. Too heavy.
His eyelids trembled before finally parting, revealing a dimly lit chamber of stone and iron. Flickering torchlight danced along engraved walls, their shadows stretching like claws. The air smelled of incense, old blood, and damp stone.
This… isn't a hospital.
His mind struggled to focus.
A woman leaned over him—middle-aged, dressed in a plain servant's robe, her face pale with fear. Behind her stood two armored guards, their expressions tense, hands resting on sword hilts.
"Thank the heavens," the woman whispered. "The Third Prince is awake."
Third… Prince?
The words struck harder than the cold.
Memories—foreign, violent, fragmented—flooded his mind all at once.
A grand palace carved into a mountain.
A massive throne of black stone.
A royal family bound by blood, betrayal, and dragonfire.
And a frail boy.
Weak. Sickly. Ignored.
Bullied by servants when no one watched. Treated as invisible by his own father, the Dragon King.
The Third Prince of the Valerius Dragonblood Dynasty.
His head throbbed as the last piece clicked into place.
So that's it… I died. And reincarnated.
Not as a hero.
Not as a chosen one.
But as the weakest prince in a world where strength decided everything.
His lips parted, but only a hoarse breath escaped.
The servant noticed immediately. "W-water! Quickly!"
Someone lifted his head gently, pressing a cup to his lips. He drank instinctively, the cool liquid grounding him.
As his breathing steadied, he assessed his situation with the calm detachment he'd learned in his previous life.
Fantasy world. Royal family. Dragons are real.
Worst of all—
This body is trash.
He could feel it. The lack of strength. The fragile bones. The sluggish circulation of mana within him—thin, weak, barely present.
In the memories he'd inherited, this prince was destined to die young.
Poisoned.
Quietly erased in a political struggle he never even understood.
A disposable pawn.
The servant wiped tears from her eyes. "Your Highness… you collapsed during the dragon resonance ceremony. The royal physicians said your heart nearly—"
The word dragon made his chest tighten.
Images surfaced.
A massive dragon silhouette carved into the palace ceiling.
The Dragon Resonance Ceremony—where royal blood was tested for compatibility with dragon power.
His result?
Failure.
Mockery.
Humiliation.
And now, apparently, near death.
One of the guards spoke cautiously. "Should we inform His Majesty?"
The servant hesitated.
That hesitation told him everything.
Even now… they're not sure my life is worth reporting.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile formed on his lips.
Not joy.
Not relief.
Resolve.
Fine.
If this world valued only power, then he would obtain power.
If dragons ruled the skies, then he would conquer dragons.
If royalty was a battlefield, then he would outgrow the throne itself.
Weak-to-strong.
Step by step.
No shortcuts.
No mercy.
His eyes hardened as he stared at the stone ceiling above him.
I won't die quietly this time.
This world had already tried to kill him once.
It wouldn't get a second chance.