Prince Cheng feels as if someone is calling him.
"Your Highness, wake up..." He turned his head, but the voice didn't fade—it only grew louder. He felt someone's hand reach out and gently tug at his sleeve.
"Your Highness, Your Royal Highness!" Cheng suddenly opened his eyes. The familiar screen, office desk, and walls covered with notes had vanished, replaced by a bizarre scene—low stone cottages, a crowded circular town square, and a gallows erected in the center. He sat on a high platform opposite the square, his feet resting not on a soft swivel chair but on a cold, hard iron throne. A circle of people sat around him, staring intently, while a few women dressed as medieval English noblewomen covered their mouths with their hands, giggling.
What the hell is this place? Shouldn 't I be pushing the drawing schedule? Cheng's mind was a complete blank. Three straight days of overtime had pushed his mind and body to the limit. All he remembered was when he finally couldn't hold on anymore—his heart racing wildly, wanting to collapse onto the desk for a quick nap...
"Your Highness, please pronounce the verdict." The speaker was the very man who had secretly tugged at his sleeve—his weathered face suggested he was in his fifties or sixties, clad in a white robe that at first glance resembled Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings.
Am I dreaming? Cheng licked his parched lips. 'Judgment?' 'What judgment?'
But he soon realized that everyone in the square was staring at the gallows, waving their fists and shouting, with one or two stones occasionally flying toward it.
Cheng had only seen such an ancient torture instrument in movies—two pillars about four meters high, topped with a wooden beam. A rusted iron ring was embedded in the middle of the beam, through which a yellowed hemp rope passed. One end was fixed to the gallows, while the other was looped around the prisoner's neck.
In this eerie dream, he discovered his vision had become astonishingly sharp. While he couldn't normally read the screen without glasses, now every detail of the gallows fifty meters away was crystal clear to him.
The prisoner wore a headgear, her hands bound behind her back, her coarse gray undergarment as dirty as a rag. Her gaunt frame revealed ankles so fragile they could be crushed with a hand. Her slightly protruding chest suggested she was a woman. She shivered in the wind yet struggled to maintain an upright posture.
Well then, what crime did this woman commit that so many people are so outraged and waiting for her to be hanged?
Just as Cheng's thoughts reached this point, his memory suddenly came flooding back, and the answer flashed through his mind almost instantly.
She is a "Witch".
The embodiment of the impure, corrupted by the devil's temptation.
"Your Highness?" Gandalf urged cautiously.
He glanced at the man. Hmm, so his real name wasn't Gandalf—it was Barov, the Chancellor of the Exchequer's assistant, sent to handle his affairs.
As the Fourth Prince of the Kingdom of Graycastle, Roland came to this land to govern. When the residents of Border Town captured the Witch, they promptly handed her over—not to the police station, but to the Inquisition Court. Death warrants are usually issued by local Lords or Bishops, and since I was ruling here, issuing such warrants became my duty.
The memory laid bare the questions he most desperately needed answers to—no filtering, no reading, as if it were his own lived experience. Cheng was momentarily stunned. No dream could ever be so vividly detailed. Was this not a dream? Had he been transported to the Dark Ages of medieval Europe, becoming Roland? Had he transformed from a night-shift drafting dog into the Fourth Prince?
Despite its seemingly barren and underdeveloped territory, the name 'the Kingdom of Graycastle' has never been recorded in historical texts.
So, what should we do next?
While the unscientific nature of such events may be studied later, this farce must end immediately. Blaming disasters or misfortunes on some hapless souls is the norm in uncivilized cultures, yet to satisfy the dark psychology of onlookers by hanging them is an act of sheer folly that Cheng finds utterly unacceptable.
He snatched the order Barov was clutching and flung it to the floor, stretching lazily. "Tired? We'll judge another day. Let's call it a day!" Cheng's move wasn't reckless—he'd meticulously recreated Prince's defiant streak, that self-willed, spoiled demeanor. True, the Fourth Prince was inherently a troublemaker, with a temper that flared up whenever provoked. But then again, who could expect a twenty-something Prince, utterly unruly, to have any proper manners?
The Noble seated on the high platform wore an expression of unshakable composure, while a tall armored man stepped forward. "Your Highness, this is no joke! Once the witch's identity is confirmed, she must be executed immediately. Otherwise, other witches might kidnap her. The Church won't stand by and watch." Carter Lannis, the man with his stern face, was actually his Chief Knight. Cheng frowned. "What, you're afraid?" His words carried a raw mockery that wasn't just acting. A burly man with arms thicker than his torso actually feared being kidnapped by the other party—did he really see witches as the Devil's emissaries? "Why not have more of them to catch all at once?" Seeing he remained silent, Cheng waved for the guards to escort him away. Carter hesitated briefly before joining the group, walking beside the Fourth Prince. Other Nobles stood up to bow in respect, but Cheng's peripheral vision caught the unmasked disdain in their eyes.
Back at the temporary palace—the castle south of Border Town—he finally breathed a sigh of relief when the guard stopped the Minister's Assistant, who looked visibly anxious, outside the main hall.
For someone who spends 90% of their time on computers, performing such a show in public is already an extraordinary feat. Cheng found his bedroom by memory, sat on the bed to rest for a while, and finally managed to calm his racing heart. The top priority now is to get to the bottom of this. As Prince, why wouldn't he stay in the Royal Capital? What could he possibly be doing in this desolate place?
He was relieved that it wasn't a bad idea, but the moment the thought crossed his mind, the answer left him speechless.
Roland Wimbledon actually came here to compete for the throne.
The origin of this system traces back to the eccentric decree of King Wimbledon III of Graycastle: succession to the throne was not determined by the birth order of princes, but by the ruler's competence. The king dispatched his five adult children to govern various territories, and after five years, the crown prince would be chosen based on their governance performance.
The idea of appointing capable individuals with equal gender representation sounds remarkably progressive, but the reality is a far cry from it. Who can guarantee that all five players will start with identical conditions? This isn't some real-time strategy game. As far as he knows, Prince II's territory is far superior to Border Town's—well, that means Border Town seems to be the weakest option among the five, starting off as a complete underdog.
Furthermore, how should governance standards be measured—population, military, or economic? King Wimbledon III never specified any criteria or imposed any restrictions on competition. What if someone secretly engaged in assassination games? Would the queen merely watch her own son engage in self-destruction? And so on... After careful deliberation, he concluded: another tragic news—the queen had passed away five years prior.
Cheng let out a sigh. This was clearly a barbaric and dark feudal era, evident from the rampant witch hunts. Even as Prince, he had already reached a high starting point. Moreover, even without the throne, he was still a descendant of the Graycastle kings. As long as he survived, his title and lands would make him a local lord.
And what good would it do to be the King? Without the internet or the comforts of modern civilization, would he end up like those natives—burning witches for no reason, living in a city where people dump their own filth, and dying from the Black Death?
Cheng suppressed his chaotic thoughts and approached the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the bedroom. The reflection showed a light gray curly hairline—the most distinctive trait of the Graycastle royal family. His features were still regular, but his face lacked definition, giving him an airless appearance. His complexion was slightly pale, a sign of poor physical conditioning. As for whether he indulged in alcohol or women, he recalled vaguely that he seemed to be doing well. He had several voluntary lovers in the Royal Capital, none of whom he had ever forced.
As for the reason behind his own time travel, Cheng had a rough guess—it was probably the brutal deadline pressure from client A, where the boss ordered overnight overtime that led to the sudden death. In such cases, the main culprits are almost always code warriors, mechanical dogs, or engineering lions.
In the end, no matter how you look at it, this is at least an extra life, and he shouldn 't complain too much. In the days ahead, he might gradually change his life, but for now, his top priority is to play the Fourth Prince well—don't let anyone catch on and end up as the Devil's possession, bound to the stake.
"Since that's the case, just keep living," he said, taking a deep breath and whispering to the mirror. "From now on, I'm Roland."