The aroma of wood smoke and roasting meat hangs thick and inviting in the cool night air. The meal served to the Crown Prince is simple, reflecting the necessity and efficiency of a traveling military camp. Mikhail accepts the thick, unevenly carved slab of roasted flesh, observing that it lacks the complex sauces and spices he was accustomed to back on Earth. As he takes his first bite, however, he's met with surprising depth of flavor.
The texture is satisfyingly dense yet tender, and the taste is an unfamiliar, intriguing blend: rich and savory like a premium cut of beef, yet underlined by a distinct, pleasant natural sweetness reminiscent of high-quality pork. There's a clean, earthy quality to the flavor profile that speaks of the animal's pristine environment, entirely lacking the artificiality of mass-produced livestock. He chews thoughtfully, identifying it as something distinct to this world, perhaps one of the unique game animals detailed in the lore. Even though there isn't any seasoning, the meat still has a natural sweetness to it. Tastes somewhere between pork and steak. He instantly recognizes that if common travel rations are of this quality, then the famed delicacies of this realm would be extraordinary. If food is this good, I don't think I'm going to miss my ramen spree any time soon. The thought is a final, humorous severance from his old, junk-food dependent life.
When he finishes his portion, wiping his hands on a provided cloth, Mikhail rises purposefully from the rock. The sudden, tall stature of his new body commands immediate attention. He addresses the surrounding soldiers with a simple, resonant statement. "Gentlemen."
The single word is enough. Instantly, all thirty-five knights snap to attention, their posture rigid, their low conversations dying immediately. The collective stillness is a profound demonstration of his rank. He offers them a brief, measured nod, conveying appreciation without familiarity. "Have a good night. I will go sleep in the carriage."
The knights exchange quick, almost imperceptible glances—a non-verbal check-in about the sudden, seemingly considerate departure. Then, with professional synchronicity, they return a formal, deep bow. Mikhail turns and walks back toward the carriage door. Before entering, however, he pauses for a calculated second, allowing his gaze to sweep across the camp, activating his new, potent skill. He wants to test the impact of his controlled interactions.
He immediately picks up the thoughts of one soldier, slightly older than the rest, who's looking thoughtfully at the carriage. I didn't know the Crown Prince was like this. He was not like this before. Maybe he was lost in thought, right.
Then, the thoughts of a younger knight, who holds a look of genuine pride. The Crown Prince is such a kind person. He acknowledged our efforts. Now I feel honored to serve him.
Mikhail enters the luxurious carriage once more, allowing the door to close quietly, sealing him in. A genuine, small smirk touches his lips. Who doesn't like a kind leader? he thinks, settling onto the plush seat. Haha, I'm enjoying this attention. The effortless ease with which he can manufacture goodwill and loyalty simply by performing the bare minimum of courtesy—courtesy the original spoiled prince had never bothered with—is intoxicating. The manipulation is simple, effective, and deeply gratifying.
He begins preparing for sleep, the first truly peaceful rest he's anticipated since his arrival. He peels off the ornate outer jacket and then the fine linen shirt. It's in this moment, under the faint light filtering from the oil lamp in the carriage, that he receives the final, gratifying inventory of his vessel.
The reflection in the window glass, though dim, confirms what his previous sensations had hinted at: beneath the opulent clothes is a magnificent physique. He's ripped, his torso defined by sharp, visible abdominal muscles, his shoulders broad, his arms corded with lean strength. This is the body of a prince who, despite his degenerate reputation in the game, must have maintained a rigorous, high-level training regimen.
His hand instinctively grazes his chest, and his fingers encounter a series of raised, textured lines—scars. He leans closer, examining his reflection. They're not superficial scrapes but definite, well-healed marks, particularly across his ribs and shoulder, suggesting long, linear injuries—the precise track marks left by blades. Oh, this man is ripped, he notes, a wave of satisfaction washing over him. And what are these? Scars. Look like sword scars. Nice.
This body isn't just a tool—it's a weapon forged by high-status training and proven in combat, adding a layer of depth and potential the game lore had only hinted at. The original Prince Mikhail wasn't just a lazy drunk; he was a lazy drunk who still inexplicably had the physique and combat experience of a seasoned warrior. This is a critical piece of information, confirming that his physical prowess is as formidable as his political status. Now, Mikhail finally closes his eyes, ready to face the four days of travel and the inevitable confrontation with a level of confidence he'd never known in his entire previous life.