Arch 1: The Mad Prince
The hospital lights buzzed faintly above, dimd under the pressure of the storm raging outside. Rain streaked across the glass windows like racing veins, pulsing with the chaos of the city. Inside Operating Room 4, however, it was calm—controlled.
"Scalpel."
The word left Elric's lips firmly, a command rather than a request. Gloved hands passed him the blade, and he made the incision with surgical precision. The room was filled with beeping monitors and the faint breath of a life depending on him.
The man on the table wasn't just any patient. He was a congressman—shot in a public rally just two hours ago. The news was already plastered everywhere: Celebrity Doctor Elric Saves Congressman Again! This would be his third high-profile ergency save in six months.
He didn't do it for fa. He did it because he was good at it. No, because he had to be good at it. He had worked from the bottom, mocked as a "third-rate intern" with no background, no family, and no ntor. Everything he beca, he earned through stubbornness and sleepless nights.
Elric glanced at the monitor. The heart rate was stabilizing.
"We're past the danger zone," he said, voice steady. The surgical team exhaled in relief. But Elric didn't relax. Sothing was off.
There was... too much silence outside the OR.
Then—
BOOM.
A blast rocked the hallway. Glass shattered. Screams. Alarms.
"Everyone, down!" a nurse scread. But it was too late.
The doors burst open with a gunshot. Masked figures stord in.
Elric barely had ti to shield the patient when he felt it — the sharp impact of a bullet tearing through his shoulder. Another hit his chest. His knees buckled, and everything fell in slow motion. The last thing he saw was the congressman's heartbeat flatlining... and one of the attackers—looking familiar.
A rival party. Of course. They couldn't let the congressman live... and they couldn't let Elric live either.
---
He didn't rember dying. Only... falling.
Through pain, darkness, and a deep cold that clung to his bones.
And then—
Warmth.
Distant voices. A crackling fire. A foul stench. Dirt?
Elric gasped for air and sat up. His head throbbed.
Why is the ceiling made of stone?
He looked around. A dim room, with wooden beams overhead. A pile of hay under him. Bandages on his chest—poorly tied.
"What the..."
His voice was rough, unfamiliar. He stumbled toward a rusty mirror on the wall.
What stared back wasn't the Elric he rembered.
Younger. Leaner. Pale silver eyes. Shoulder-length black hair.
And yet—he knew it was still him.
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