Reincarnated as the disaster prince

Akira Kimora slouched in his seat as the train swayed gently along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter almost lulling him into a daze. It had been a long, grueling day at the office, and the late hour weighed heavily on his shoulders. The exhaustion was visible on his face—his tie loosened, his shirt slightly wrinkled.

Yet, despite the fatigue, Akira rummaged through his bag and pulled out a well-worn manga. The colorful cover promised a world far removed from deadlines and overbearing supervisors. As the train rolled on, he flipped open the pages, letting the story's humor and action gradually chip away at the stress that clung to him like a shadow.

Just as he began to lose himself in the tale, the buzz of his phone snapped him back to reality. With a resigned sigh, he pulled the device from his pocket, glancing at the screen. His heart sank. It was his boss.

Reluctantly, Akira answered, trying to mask the irritation in his voice.

"Kimora," his boss barked, not even bothering with pleasantries. "I need you to come back to the office. We're swamped, and I could use your help finishing up these reports. I'll pay you extra."

For a moment, Akira stared blankly at his reflection in the train window, the faint excitement of his manga escape fading away. He wanted to say no, to excuse himself with exhaustion, but he knew he couldn't afford to turn down extra pay. With a deep sigh, he replied, "Understood, I'll be there soon."

As the train pulled into the next station, Akira closed the manga, shoved it back into his bag, and stood up. His night of rest would have to wait.

Akira sighed deeply as he stared at his reflection in the train window, his fingers absently gripping the strap of his bag. He knew he was exhausted, but refusing his boss's request wasn't an option—not when his parents had been asking for more money each month. His dad's medical bills and his mom's growing expenses weren't going to pay themselves, and Akira, ever the dutiful son, couldn't bear to say no to their demands.

"Guess I'll do it," he muttered to himself, a mix of resignation and frustration in his voice. He stepped off the train at the next stop, pulling out his phone to call a taxi. The office wasn't far, but walking wasn't an option—not in his current state.

The taxi arrived quickly, and Akira climbed in, giving the driver his destination. As they rolled through the quiet streets, Akira let his head rest against the window, the manga he'd been reading now a distant memory. The glow of streetlights danced across his tired eyes as he mentally prepared for another round of work.

When he finally arrived at the office, the building was eerily quiet, save for a handful of coworkers who were still burning the midnight oil. As Akira stepped inside, they immediately took notice of him, exchanging knowing glances and snickers.

"Well, well, look who it is—Mr. Goody Two Shoes," one of them sneered, leaning back in his chair.

"Did the boss call you in again? Man, I swear you'd jump off a bridge if he asked," another chimed in, shaking his head with mock pity.

Akira clenched his jaw but said nothing. He'd grown used to their teasing, but it still stung. He knew they pitied him just as much as they mocked him, always whispering behind his back about how he could never say no, how he was just a pushover desperate to please everyone.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered under his breath as he sat down at his desk, opening up his laptop. The glow of the screen illuminated his weary face as he got to work. He tried to drown out their laughter and snide remarks, telling himself it didn't matter. After all, he was here for a reason—to support his family, no matter the cost to himself.

Akira's night took a sharp and tragic turn. The sharp pain in his chest had worsened as he tried to push through his exhaustion. When he collapsed, the chaos around him became a blur—the panicked voices, his coworkers scrambling to call for help, and the piercing sound of the ambulance siren arriving too late. Darkness overtook him, and for a brief moment, everything was still.

When Akira opened his eyes again, he found himself standing before a massive golden gate, its intricate designs shimmering in a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He blinked in disbelief, realizing what this place was.

"So this is heaven?" Akira murmured, a wave of relief washing over him. "Finally... I can rest."

But just as a smile crept onto his face, a sudden, powerful force yanked him backward. He cried out in confusion, his surroundings dissolving into a blinding vortex of light and shadows. Amid the chaos, a serene but commanding angelic voice echoed:

"Rule the new kingdom, savior."

"What?! No! Wait a minute—" Akira shouted, but the force was relentless. Before he could make sense of what was happening, he was plunged into a suffocating darkness. He felt himself falling endlessly, his senses dulled except for the strange sensation of being pulled toward something—or someone.

When he finally came to, Akira gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to gather his bearings. Everything felt... off. His body was too small, his movements sluggish, and his surroundings unfamiliar. He sat up, his head pounding as he scanned the lavish room around him. The walls were adorned with tapestries, and the furniture was unlike anything he'd ever seen—ornate, expensive, and medieval in style. A large bed with a canopy loomed behind him, and sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows.

"What... What is this place?" Akira muttered, startled by the sound of his own voice. It was high-pitched, almost childlike. Panic began to set in as he raised his hands, noticing how small and delicate they were.

Beside him, a young maid stood frozen, her wide green eyes filled with shock. She was petite, with soft freckles dusting her cheeks and brown hair tied back into a neat bun. The moment Akira's gaze met hers, she flinched slightly, as if startled by something she saw.

"W-what's going on?!" Akira demanded, his voice trembling. "Bring me a mirror—now!"

The maid hesitated but quickly obeyed, rushing to fetch a small, ornate hand mirror from a nearby table. She handed it to him with trembling hands. Akira snatched it, his heart racing as he stared at the reflection.

The face staring back at him was not his own. It was that of a young boy, no older than ten, with tousled dark hair and wide, inquisitive eyes. Akira's confusion deepened as he tried to process what had happened.

"This... This isn't me," he whispered, his hands shaking as he touched his face. "What the hell is going on?"

The maid, still visibly shocked, knelt down beside him. "Young Master... Are you feeling unwell? Should I call the physician?"

Akira turned to her, still gripping the mirror tightly. He didn't know who he was now or why he was here, but one thing was certain—his life had taken a turn far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The maid returned quickly with the mirror in hand, her puzzled expression mirroring Akira's confusion. She watched him intently as he took the mirror, concern evident in her voice as she asked, "Young Master, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill again?"

But Akira didn't answer. His entire focus was on the face staring back at him in the mirror. A frail boy with pale skin, jet-black hair, and striking red eyes met his gaze. The sight startled him so much that his grip tightened, and with a loud crack, the mirror shattered in his hands.

The maid jumped back in alarm, her hands flying to her mouth. "Young Master!" she cried, but before she could say more, she bolted from the room to fetch the physician.

Akira barely registered her departure. Guilt washed over him as he stared at the shards of glass on the floor. "What have I gotten myself into?" he muttered under his breath, his hands trembling. He bent down instinctively to pick up the pieces, ignoring the sharp sting as the broken edges cut into his palms. Blood trickled from the wounds, but he barely noticed, too overwhelmed by the reality of his situation.

Moments later, the maid returned with the physician, an older man with a stern face and gentle hands. They both froze upon seeing Akira crouched on the floor, blood dripping from his hands.

"What are you doing?!" the maid cried, rushing to him. She grabbed his arms and hoisted him effortlessly, carrying him toward the bed.

Akira was mortified. His soul was that of a grown man, yet this petite maid had carried him as if he weighed nothing. "I-I'm fine! Put me down!" he stammered, his face burning with embarrassment.

But the maid ignored him, laying him down gently on the bed. The physician stepped forward, his face a mix of worry and disapproval. "Young Master, harming yourself will not help your condition. Let me see your hand."

"Harming myself?!" Akira exclaimed, realizing how things must have looked. "No, it's not like that! I didn't mean to—" He paused, struggling to find the right words. "Look, I'm not who you think I am. I'm not this boy! My soul doesn't belong here—I'm from another world!"

The maid and physician exchanged uneasy glances. Clearly, they didn't know how to respond. "Young Master," the maid said softly, her green eyes filled with worry. "You've been very sick lately. Perhaps this is just... confusion?"

The physician nodded cautiously. "Yes, let's focus on your injuries first."

A soft glow suddenly emanated from the physician's hand as he moved it over Akira's injured palm. Akira flinched at first, but then a soothing warmth enveloped him. It was unlike anything he had ever felt—comforting and serene, like being held by a mother for the first time. He stared in awe as the cuts on his hand closed before his eyes, leaving smooth, unblemished skin behind.

"What... What was that?" Akira asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The physician raised an eyebrow. "Your Highness, you don't know what magic is?"

The maid gasped softly, her hand flying to her chest. Akira realized his mistake too late. His pulse quickened as he scrambled to cover for himself. "I-I mean... Of course I do! It's just that, uh, the illness... It's made my memories a bit fuzzy." He forced an awkward smile, hoping they would buy his excuse.

The physician and maid exchanged a glance but seemed to accept his explanation. "That's understandable," the physician said kindly. "You've been through a lot. Rest now, Young Master, and let us handle everything."

Akira nodded, relieved they didn't press further. As the maid adjusted the pillows behind him, he leaned back, his thoughts racing. "Magic, huh?" he murmured to himself. This wasn't just another world—it was a world with powers beyond anything he'd ever known.

Whatever role this frail boy played, Akira had a sinking feeling he was going to have to figure it out fast.

The doctor's expression darkened as he prepared to explain, his tone tinged with both sorrow and unease. Akira sat on the edge of the bed, trying to maintain his composure, though the weight of the situation pressed heavily on his chest.

"The queen... she still comes after me?" Akira asked hesitantly, his voice betraying his nervousness.

The doctor paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "Forgive me, Your Highness. It's clear your memory loss has clouded your understanding of the situation. Let me explain."

Akira leaned forward, listening intently.

"You are Prince Theodore Dominick, the first and only son of the late Queen Urian," the doctor began. "She was the daughter of the North Duke, a noble family known for their unmatched influence in the northern territories. Your birth should have been a time of great joy and celebration... but it wasn't."

Akira frowned, his confusion growing. "Why not?"

"Because," the doctor said, his voice heavy with regret, "the Marquis—a cunning and ambitious noble—manipulated the king into remarrying mere months after Queen Urian passed. The new queen took her place, but she saw you, the rightful heir, as a threat to her ambitions."

The doctor paused to let the words sink in before continuing. "The new queen maltreated you from the start. She ensured your health would deteriorate, isolating you from the palace staff and withholding care and resources. The state of this mansion, your frail body... it's all her doing."

Akira clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "And the king? My... father? What about him?"

The doctor lowered his gaze. "His Majesty... he is blinded by the queen's schemes. He has neglected you, unaware of the suffering you endure under her rule."

Akira felt a chill run down his spine. The story of the prince's life, now his life, unfolded like a tragedy. A cruel stepmother, a negligent father, and a household left in ruin. And now, he realized with growing dread, the queen might still be trying to eliminate him.

"My life is in danger, then," Akira said softly, the reality settling in.

The doctor nodded solemnly. "Indeed. That is why you must be cautious, Your Highness. The queen's influence runs deep."

Akira exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He needed to understand this world, its dangers, and how to survive. "Doctor," he said, straightening his posture, "I need to know more. What is magic? Can I use it?"

The doctor looked surprised by the sudden shift in topic, but he quickly adjusted, recognizing the determination in Akira's voice. "Magic is the lifeblood of this kingdom," he explained. "It is the ability to manipulate the energy of the world around us. Some are born with natural affinity, others must train. However..."

"However?" Akira prompted.

The doctor hesitated, his expression darkening again. "You, Prince Theodore, cannot use magic. You've been cursed."

"Cursed?" Akira repeated, his voice rising. "How?"

"It is a curse placed upon you at a young age, one that blocks your aura and prevents you from channeling magic. It is likely the queen's doing or someone working on her behalf. Without magic, your body is frail, your health weak, and your future... uncertain."

Akira's jaw tightened. He felt anger boiling within him, not just at the queen, but at the unfairness of it all. This world seemed as cruel as the one he left behind. He couldn't use magic, he was malnourished, and now, his life was at stake.

"What can I do about it?" he asked, his voice firm despite the storm of emotions inside him.

The doctor sighed. "To lift a curse is no simple task. You would need powerful magic—perhaps a divine artifact, or the intervention of a skilled mage."

Akira leaned back, considering his options. "Is there a library here? A place where I can learn more about magic and curses?"

The doctor hesitated, but then nodded. "Yes, the mansion has a library. Though it has been neglected like the rest of the estate, you may still find something of value there. I can guide you."

Akira nodded, gripping his stick as he rose to his feet. "Then take me there. If I can't rely on magic now, I'll find another way to survive. I'll gather knowledge, no matter what it takes."

The doctor saw the fire in Akira's eyes and felt a chill run through him. This boy—no, this man—was different from the prince he had known. He was determined, even dangerous. "As you wish, Your Highness."

With that, the doctor led Akira toward the dusty halls of the library, unaware of the dark resolve growing within him. Akira wasn't just planning to survive—he was planning to win.

The doctor explained the fundamentals of magic, delving into its essence and how it functioned. He clarified why Akira was unable to use magic, attributing it to a curse inflicted upon him at a young age. According to the doctor, Akira's magical aura was completely blocked—a malicious act likely orchestrated by someone targeting the prince in his infancy.

The revelation left Akira seething with anger. He clenched his fists, fury surging through him as he began piecing together his next move. His survival depended on finding a solution. With determination in his voice, he asked the doctor if there was a library where he could search for books on magic. The doctor nodded and guided him toward the library, offering silent support as Akira steadied himself on a walking stick and began moving.

Each step down the hallway was slow, but purposeful. The corridor stretched wide, its walls adorned with faded paintings coated in layers of dust. The air smelled of neglect. Akira's heart ached as he thought about his new father—the man who had ignored him in this life, just as his previous father had in the past life. The loneliness he felt was suffocating. He couldn't help but wonder why his fate always seemed to spiral into misfortune.

But as the self-pity began to take hold, Akira stopped and slapped his own cheek. The sharp sting grounded him. Enough, he thought. He had a chance to change his destiny, and he wouldn't squander it.

Despite lingering doubts, Akira pressed forward, resolute in his quest to find a cure.

When they arrived, Akira's breath caught in his throat. The library was vast, its shelves towering and seemingly endless. Books filled every corner, some stacked high, others floating gently through the air. It was like a scene from a fantasy film, but the magic of the moment was dampened by the state of the room. Dust coated every surface, cobwebs clung to the shelves, and the air was thick with the smell of age and neglect.

Akira stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room. He couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. Books had been his refuge in his past life—his escape from stress and sorrow. When life became overwhelming, he would lose himself in mangas or novels, finding solace in their pages. Now, standing in this dilapidated library, that love was reignited, but it also reminded him of all he had lost.

Anger welled up within him, momentarily overshadowing his quest for survival. He forgot his immediate concerns and called out to the doctor, who had been lingering behind him.

The doctor approached, surprised by the sudden shift in Akira's demeanor. His patient's eyes burned with an intensity the doctor had never seen before—a sharp contrast to the defeated boy he had been caring for. For a moment, the doctor wondered if Akira's supposed memory loss was genuine. There was something raw and untamed in his expression, a spark that hadn't been there before.

The doctor made a silent vow to keep an eye on Akira. This newfound determination might be fragile, but it held promise. And for the first time, he dared to hope that Akira's path could lead to something extraordinary.

"Yes, Your Highness," the doctor replied respectfully, his tone calm and steady.

Akira turned to him, his lips curling into a pout as he asked sharply, "Why is the condition of this mansion so bad?"

The doctor hesitated, his face darkening. Turning slightly away, he explained, "It is the doing of the new queen, Your Highness. She ordered all the maids to leave and dismissed the staff. The wages that the king sends to maintain this mansion every month—she keeps them for herself. Since she manages all the royal household affairs, none of the funds have ever reached you. Instead, the queen spends the money lavishly on her own comforts."

Akira froze, digesting the doctor's words. A bitter truth began to settle in his mind: his relationship with the royal family was beyond strained—it was shattered. The king had neglected him, despite being his firstborn son. His stepmother's greed had left him malnourished, alone, and without anyone to care for him. The boy he now inhabited had suffered far more than he initially realized.

Rage bubbled within him, surging like a tidal wave. Without thinking, Akira clenched his fist and drove it into the nearest wall. The impact caused a cascade of books to tumble from the shelves, several of them hitting him on the shoulders and head. He barely flinched.

His breath was heavy, his heart pounding in his chest. The resentment burned like a fire, consuming him. He hated the king, the queen, the entire royal family—every single person who had turned a blind eye to the suffering of this child.

And then, like a dam breaking, memories of his previous life flooded his mind. He remembered the abuse he and his mother had endured at the hands of his father. He remembered the betrayal, the cruelty, and the greed of those around him. And most vividly, he remembered how his boss's greed had ultimately led to his death.

Akira staggered, gripping the edge of a nearby shelf for support. His thoughts grew darker. He saw humanity as a stain—filled with selfishness and cruelty. His heart hardened, and he began to reject the very concept of love. Why bother with something as meaningless as love? Humans don't deserve it.

He thought of the old prince—the body he now occupied. That boy must have been so broken, so consumed by despair, that he had taken his own life. And for what? For a family who didn't care if he lived or died?

A twisted idea took root in Akira's mind. If humans were naturally greedy, if they thrived on exploiting others, then he would do the same. Why not use them? he thought. Why not twist their greed to my advantage? If the world refused to show him kindness, he would refuse to show it mercy.

The mission entrusted to him by the angel, the reason he had been reborn into this world—it all seemed so distant now, like a dream he couldn't quite remember. His resolve shifted. If no one cared for him, then he would make them fear him. He would rise above them all and rule this world.

Akira turned back to the doctor, his expression cold and unrecognizable. It was as though a different person had emerged. The doctor flinched slightly, startled by the transformation. The young prince's aura had shifted completely. Where there had been anger and sadness, there was now a chilling determination.

The doctor stared, feeling as though he were witnessing a rebirth. The boy before him was no longer the same Theodore.

Akira stood still, a subtle smile forming on his lips. For the first time since his reincarnation, he fully embraced his new reality. The weight of his past life and the injustices of his current one no longer crushed him—instead, they fueled him. His mind, sharp and mature from thirty years of experience, was now his greatest weapon. Akira resolved to use the knowledge and lessons from his previous life to shape his future and pursue his dream.

The doctor, who had been observing him silently, felt a sudden chill run down his spine. Akira's demeanor had shifted drastically, exuding a confidence and authority that was both captivating and intimidating. Without thinking, the doctor knelt, bowing his head low.

"My lord," the doctor said solemnly, his voice trembling slightly. "You are no longer the boy you once were. You are the new hope of this kingdom."

Akira tilted his head, momentarily stunned by the doctor's declaration. "What brought about this change in you?" he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

The doctor looked up and smiled faintly. "Your aura, my lord—it is unlike anything I have ever felt before. You are destined for greatness."

Akira chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief. Yet, he couldn't deny the satisfaction swelling within him. "Very well," he said with a smirk. "I will accept your loyalty. From now on, you are one of my people."

Though outwardly composed, Akira's thoughts were far darker. Foolish man, he thought. He has no idea of my true intentions. He had no interest in becoming the kingdom's hope. His plan was far more sinister: to manipulate and exploit those around him for his own gain. Humanity's greed was its greatest weakness, and Akira would use it to his advantage.

He vowed never to trust anyone but himself, nor to love anyone but himself. Love, after all, was nothing but a weakness—a lesson he had learned painfully in his past life. If the people of this world were so easily fooled by respect and good will, then he would wear those masks to win them over. But beneath the façade, he would walk the path of evil.

Akira's smile widened, his confidence growing. He turned to the doctor and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Leave me now. I have much to learn. If I am to fulfill this destiny you speak of, I must begin with knowledge."

The doctor bowed low once more before leaving the room, visibly moved by what he perceived as Akira's determination.

Left alone in the dusty library, Akira felt no pang of loneliness. He was used to solitude; it had been his constant companion in his previous life. He had grown up in an abusive household, bullied at school, and isolated in adulthood. Even those he had called friends had taken advantage of him, abandoning him once their own lives were fulfilled with families and success.

Work had been his only escape, yet even then, he had been exploited by a greedy boss who valued him only as a tool. That life had ended in tragedy, but this one—this one would be different.

Akira's determination hardened into resolve. He would rewrite his story, not as a victim, but as a ruler. If the world was cruel, he would outmatch it in cunning. If humanity was greedy, he would outplay them in their greed.

With a sharp breath, he sat down at one of the dusty tables, surrounded by towering shelves of books. He pulled the nearest tome toward him and opened it, the musty smell of old parchment filling his nostrils. His first step was clear: he needed to find a cure for his curse.

The world may have abandoned him before, but this time, he would bend it to his will.

As Akira flipped through the dusty library, a deep, husky voice echoed faintly around him. It sent a shiver down his spine. He froze, his eyes darting around the room. "Who's there?" he called out, gripping his stick tightly.

There was no response, only an unsettling silence. Just as he was about to dismiss it as his imagination, a worn-out book floated off one of the high shelves and hovered in front of him. Its cover was grotesque, appearing to be crafted from human skin, bound with chains that rattled softly as it moved.

Akira's breath caught in his throat. He stumbled backward and fell to the ground, staring at the book in shock. The urge to open it clawed at his mind, almost as if the book were whispering to him, coaxing him to reach out.

But instead of succumbing, Akira smirked, defiant. "You won't use me, and I won't open you."

He pushed himself up, dusted off his clothes, and turned away. With determination, he limped further into the library, ignoring the sinister presence of the book.

However, the book wasn't ready to be ignored. It floated after him, bumping into his back repeatedly. Annoyed, Akira swung his stick at it. "Leave me alone!" he shouted, striking the book hard. It flew across the room, slamming into the wall.

The book quivered, seemingly angry. Without warning, it launched itself at Akira with violent force, shoving him repeatedly. Akira gritted his teeth, swinging his stick wildly to defend himself. But in his weakened state, his movements were sluggish. He accidentally stepped on a loose book, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. His head struck the hard floor with a sickening thud, and warm blood trickled from his forehead.

Dizzy and in pain, Akira touched the wound and felt the sticky blood on his fingers. Anger surged through him. "You cursed thing!" he yelled at the book. "What do you want from me?!"

The book paused midair, seemingly shocked by his outburst. For a moment, it floated silently. Then, to Akira's surprise, it darted forward and struck him on the head again. But this time, instead of pain, a soothing warmth spread through his body. His wound stopped bleeding, the dizziness faded, and he felt a strange energy coursing through him.

Before he could react, the book began to glow with a dark, ominous light. It suddenly dissolved into mist and surged toward him, disappearing into his chest. Akira gasped, frantically patting his body as he searched for the book. "Where are you?!" he shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

The room was silent again, the oppressive atmosphere gone. But Akira's fear only grew as he realized the book had fused with him. He tried calling out to it, but there was no response.

Then, without warning, his vision blurred, and a flood of memories overwhelmed him. Images, words, and sensations filled his mind—a torrent of knowledge too vast to comprehend all at once.

He saw the fundamentals of magic laid bare: the intricate workings of aura, the principles of elemental magic, and even forbidden black magic. Spells and incantations he'd never dreamed of were now etched into his consciousness. The sheer magnitude of it was too much for his already frail body to handle.

Akira's knees buckled, and his stick clattered to the floor as he collapsed. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was a mix of awe and fear: What have I unleashed upon myself?