The Iron Empire, Ironia. At its heart lay the capital, Ferma,seat of the largest and most powerful nation ever to conquer half the continent. And deep within its immense royal palace, in a forgotten wing of the Castle of Steel, stood the Eleventh Prince’s Palace.

The exterior was all ivory grace, noble and composed. But inside, tension clung to the air like a taut bowstring. And lately… stillness had taken over.

He hadn’t left his room. Again. The only clue he was even alive was the slight reduction of food on his tray. Some took this as a good sign. Others weren’t so sure.

Among the palace staff, maids, stewards, and footmen; unease had thickened. It showed in their faces, the stiffness of their shoulders, the silence before each breath.

A maid twisted her hands, glancing at the lead steward’s tight expression.

«You don’t think… it’s a purge again, do you?»

That one sentence froze the corridor.

«Shhh! Do you have any idea what saying that out loud can bring down on us?» the steward snapped. «You want everyone here dead?»

«I… I’m sorry,» she stammered, bowing over and over. «I was just… afraid. They say the staff in the Eleventh Wing are all disposable. In the end, none of us made it out.»

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her voice cracked.

«Not exactly wrong,» the steward muttered, his face unreadable. «The last staff? All dead. We’re just the replacements.»

He stopped there. Silence pressed in around them. The others watched him, dread rising behind their eyes.

«So let’s just keep our heads down and do our jobs. If we want to live.»

They didn’t argue. One by one, they scattered.

Inside the chamber, he let out a breath. What was the point of whispering if he could hear every word?

He was lying in bed, listening. It had been ten days now. Ten days since he became Aziel Kaerhyn Not emperor. Not yet. Technically, he had become the emperor’s younger self, still just a prince.

After a lifetime spent pretending to be him, mimicking his every breath… he was now the real thing. The Eleventh Prince.

At first, he didn’t believe it. Truthfully, he still didn’t. But ten days of restless thoughts and endless circling questions had forced him to accept it.

«Alright,» he muttered, dragging himself upright as violet silk slid off his shoulders.

Even climbing out of this bed felt like a struggle. The cold floorboards beneath his feet bit sharply. He crossed the room to the mirror,full-length and ornately framed in gold.

The reflection staring back at him wasn’t a man. Not yet. He hadn’t even had his coming of age ceremony.

A boy, barely stepping into adulthood. Tousled platinum blond hair, sharp violet eyes with a faint, heavy gloom. Long lashes. A mole at the corner of one eye, like a falling tear. Beautiful in a way that was almost unsettling. Tall, too,nearly 187 centimeters, even now.

But that appearance was nothing more than a shell.

[Identifying subject’s fate…]
[Fate: The Worst Tyrant]
[Sub-fates: Misfortune. Assassination risk. Mediocre talent. Greed. Corruption. Indolence. Rage. Cruelty. Paranoia. Rebellion. Depravity. Arrogance. Cold-heartedness…]

The worst of the worst.

Even now, looking at that list, he could hardly believe it. Hard to imagine someone like that ever existed. And harder still to accept that such a monster had ruled an empire.

No wonder it collapsed. No matter how many times he stared…

«How did this guy ever become emperor?»

All he could feel was suspicion. Thick, choking doubt.

Still, he hadn’t spent ten days spiraling in despair. Because now, he could see it. Fate.

It clung to people like thread,glowing, inescapable. He’d seen it before. Knew what it could do. It didn’t ask. It didn’t wait. It simply was. Inevitable.

Unless…

«Don’t try to change your fate. Devour it. That’s how you survive.»

That was what the scribe, the one who gave him this power,had said. Not to fight fate. Not to outrun it. To consume it.

He remembered those words now. Faint, like the last breath of a dream.

The Fate-Eater.

He had devoured the destiny of a false life. That’s when everything changed. That’s when he became the real prince.

For ten days, he had done nothing but study the Mystery. Trying to understand how to use it, how it worked.

Because now, he carried the fate of a tyrant. And he had no intention of walking that same road.

He knew the truth. He knew how many people the real Arhan had slaughtered. The madness, the decadence, the rivers of blood. He knew how many times the man had dodged death. How many others had died in his place. How many would die in his place now.

Fate wouldn’t let him go. It would grab him by the hair and drag him back into that nightmare.

What could he do? He was nothing but a speck in the face of a world-crushing wheel.

That was why he needed it. Fate Devouring.

This damned, twisted, blood-soaked destiny,he had to consume it before it consumed him. Even if it pulled him into ruin again. Even if the world itself conspired to crush him. He would bite back.

For ten days, he had sworn and sworn again. Sharpening his will like a blade. Forging his resolve in steel. He would not be swept away.

But,

[Attempting to devour fate: “The Worst Tyrant”]
[Fate ,too vast. Devouring failed.]

«…Tch.»

Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.