The subtle deceleration of the carriage finally brings the royal convoy to a decisive halt as the sun dips entirely below the horizon, painting the western sky in hues of deep violet and fading orange. The silence that follows is swiftly replaced by the organized sounds of a military encampment being established: the jingle of harness leather, low commands issued between soldiers, the rhythmic thud of tents being pitched, the soft exhalations of tired horses. The air, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, is a stark contrast to the stale, conditioned atmosphere of his room back on Earth.
After a measured period during which the camp achieves a functional level of security, Vice Commander Hilowat approaches the ornate carriage door. His movements are precise and respectful. He knocks once, a firm, low sound. "Your Majesty, we have decided to camp here for the night. The area is secure and the preparations are complete. You may come out if you wish."
Mikhail nods internally, recognizing the invitation as a formality and seizing the chance for his first physical exploration of this new world. As he pushes the heavy door open and steps down onto the packed earth, the shift is immediate and profound. His feet find the ground with a lightness and assuredness entirely unfamiliar. The protagonist, who'd been accustomed to a slouching posture and the constant dull drag of sedentary exhaustion, feels a profound difference in the mechanics of his new body. It's indeed stronger, lighter, noticeably taller, granting him a commanding physical presence he'd never remotely possessed. He inhales deeply, the cool night air invigorating his lungs.
The instant he fully emerges, the peripheral activity of the camp ceases. The approximately thirty-five soldiers comprising his personal guard—who'd been variously sitting, stretching, or engaging in quiet conversation—stiffen into immediate, rigid attention. They straighten their shoulders, eyes fixed respectfully, almost nervously, on their Crown Prince. The collective, silent deference is a powerful demonstration of his newfound, absolute authority. It requires no verbal command, simply his presence. Mikhail, recognizing the oppressive effect his gaze is having, performs a simple, deliberate gesture, raising an open hand in a small movement that signals permission to stand down. Only then does the tightness in their formation ease.
He intends to simply sit on a nearby flat stone beside the nascent campfire. However, before he can even settle, one of the kneeling knights swiftly and silently moves, placing a meticulously folded piece of thick, soft wool onto the rock. The small act is entirely unsolicited, born of ingrained habit and respect, ensuring the Crown Prince won't dirty his fine garments or suffer the discomfort of the cold stone.
He's momentarily stunned. All of this minute attention, this instinctive, selfless servitude, is genuinely new to him. The only acknowledgment he can manage is a slight, curt nod—a necessary formality for a Crown Prince—before he carefully takes his seat by the rapidly growing fire.
As the flickering light warms his face, Mikhail begins to observe the soldiers in their state of relaxed vigilance. His gaze travels across the faces of the men, taking in the young, nervous recruit next to the seasoned veteran, assessing the composition of his loyal escort. But as his gaze lingers on the nearest soldier, a new, completely unanticipated layer of perception slams into his consciousness.
It's not a sound delivered through the air, but an immediate, distinct internal monologue that blossoms in his mind:
I wonder how my wife is doing. I really wished to be with her. She's due soon... I hope she remembers to feed the hound.
Mikhail quickly shifts his gaze to a nervous-looking younger man polishing his greaves.
It's just been a few days since I joined the knighthood. I'm not sure if I can manage such a mission. But Sir Hilowat said he trusts me, so I must not fail the Empire.
His eyes move again, landing on a soldier who instantly looks away, flushing slightly. Why is the Crown Prince staring at me? D-did I do something wrong? Is my armor not polished enough? Oh gods.
Mikhail immediately breaks the stare and focuses intently on the mesmerizing dance of the campfire flames, his heart rate quickening not with fear but with exhilarating discovery. The whispers are clear, distinct, and unequivocally not audible—they're the inner thoughts of the people he focuses on. So I can hear what others are thinking if I look at them?
The realization is a staggering game-changer. His former life had been a series of failures rooted in his inability to decipher the lies and subtexts of human conversation—the gap between what people said and what they truly meant. Now he possesses a direct, unfiltered line into the genuine intentions and fears of everyone around him. This isn't a weapon of mass destruction, but a subtle, pervasive tool of absolute political and personal control. This skill is going to be very handy, he thinks, a genuine, thrilling sense of power spreading through him. I'm fucking loving this! He's no longer the shut-in lost in translation. He's a prince with the ultimate advantage: the ability to read minds and navigate the world's deceit with perfect clarity.