“Soren… Soren…”

  I woke up to my mother’s beautiful face hovering over me like the world was still gentle. For a second, I forgot I lived in a castle where every hallway felt like a warning. Then she smiled, and it all came back—duty, bloodline, and the parts of me that didn’t fit.

  “Good morning, Mom!” I said, trying to sound normal even though my chest always felt tight here.

  “Come on,” she said. “Hurry. Your breakfast will get cold. I made pancakes.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She headed out first, leaving warmth behind like a trail I wanted to follow forever. I sat up and the glass television immediately pulled my attention like a curse I invited. The Reincarnation Games played on loop, cheering crowds and brutal finishes stitched together like it was something holy.

  My wall was worse. Posters. Prints. Even a signed portrait—carefully placed like a shrine I pretended was just “inspiration.” Lady Jubeeca stared down at me from every angle, the first demon to walk into the Arena barehanded and make the world respect her for it.

  I stood up and tried to copy what I’d watched a thousand times. Shadowboxing—quick jabs, light footwork, the illusion of confidence. My arms looked thin the moment I raised them, and my shoulders felt like they belonged to someone else.

  “Pathetic,” I muttered, and it tasted true.

  I stepped into the shadowed washroom and cleaned up, scrubbing at my face like I could wipe off weakness. Then I put on my noble clothes—prince clothing, the kind designed to make a fragile body look important. A fitted black tunic with crimson piping, a high collar, silver clasps shaped like talons, and a short cape pinned with the royal crest. Gloves, polished boots, and a look that screamed status even if my bones didn’t.

  I looked like a prince. I didn’t feel like one.

  I walked into the castle hall, and the staff moved like a practiced tide. Servants and maids greeted me in perfect order, voices gentle, eyes careful, smiles measured. They didn’t treat me like a child—more like a fragile artifact.

  “Good morning, Prince Soren.”

  “Good day to you, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile so nobody would worry more than they already did. One maid brightened like she actually meant it when she spoke. “Good morning, Prince Soren.”

  “Good morning,” I replied, and kept walking before the kindness could sting.

  The dining room was already prepared, polished to a shine that felt too clean for a family like mine. The table was long enough to host a war council and empty enough to feel like a punishment. My mother sat waiting, posture steady, eyes soft, like she could hold the whole castle together with nothing but patience.

  I sat beside her and we ate pancakes like we were normal. We smiled and talked about the future like it was something we could plan instead of something that happened to us. For a little while, it felt safe enough to breathe.

  Then I said it—the thing that always lived in my throat.

  “Mom… I’m sorry for not being able to hit my potential. For some reason… I can’t seem to grow into my True Infernal Frame.” The words sounded ridiculous out loud, like I was confessing to being broken. I hated how my voice shook at the end.

  My mother didn’t flinch. “It’s fine, darling,” she said. “As long as you keep doing your best… I’m sure you’ll find it.” Her smile didn’t waver, and that hurt more than if she’d looked disappointed.

  I almost believed her. I wanted to believe her.

  Then the doors opened.

  A guard stepped in fast, like the room belonged to him now. His armor clinked once, and the sound cut through the softness like a blade. “Sorry for the disturbance, Mistress Lady Asura,” he said, voice tight. “And Prince Soren. But Prince… you are being called to the Coliseum.”

  “Huh?” I blinked. “Really?! Me?!” My heart jumped so hard it made me dizzy, because a part of me had always wanted to be seen. A worse part of me knew that being seen in this kingdom usually meant being used.

  My mother stood so fast her chair scraped. “Wait—wait. He can’t just go. Look at him! He hasn’t even awakened his True Infernal Frame!” Her hands lifted, flames threatening to answer for her before words could.

  “Sorry, Mistress,” the guard said. “Orders were from the King himself.” He didn’t say your husband. He didn’t tell his father. In this castle, titles were knives.

  “No,” my mother said.

  The air changed. Her flames rose in a controlled circle around us—elegant, protective, deadly. “My son won’t—” she began, and for the first time that morning, her voice sounded like a queen instead of a mother.

  A shadow hit the room like a verdict.

  My mother dropped. Knocked out in a single clean motion, like someone had done it a thousand times. I turned and screamed, “MOM?!” but the sound barely felt like mine.

  Then I saw him fully.

  My father.

  “Father…?” My voice cracked on the word. He looked at me like my existence was a stain he couldn’t scrub off the bloodline, and his disgust didn’t even bother to hide.

  He grabbed me by my hornless hair and dragged me out of the castle. Not escorted—dragged. Out like trash, out like a lesson. The guards didn’t move to stop him, and that told me everything about who mattered.

  A carriage waited. He threw me inside, and my wrists were bound tight enough to make them throb. A cloth gag was shoved into place, bitter and rough, making my mouth taste like panic. I bucked and kicked, but my body didn’t have the strength to make it mean anything.

  My father stepped back and gave the knights orders like he was ordering lunch.

  “If he loses the fight, he goes to the Pit. No questions asked.”

  One knight hesitated. I’ll remember his name.

  “But sire,” Sir Gideon said, “he can’t even fight for himself!” His voice was careful, like he was trying to save me without dying for it.

  The King stepped forward until Gideon’s spine seemed to shrink. “So you have the gall to question me?” he asked, calm enough to be terrifying. “You’re lucky I know your family, and you got this job because of connection. Question me again, Sir Gideon, and I will end you here and now.”

  Gideon swallowed hard. “Yes, sire.”

  “Now go,” the King said. “No more questions.”

  Gideon climbed into the carriage with me. He saw me struggling, the gag biting my mouth raw, my wrists already starting to burn under the rope. His eyes flicked away like he couldn’t stand to look too closely.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said quietly. “All I can do is… let you say goodbye to your mother.” He lifted me and pushed my head out the window before I could understand what he meant.

  My mother was running after the carriage—awake now, flames roaring, cutting down demon soldiers who tried to block her. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner, and her expression was pure fury and love. “SOREN!” she screamed, and the sound ripped straight through me.

  I screamed back through the gag. “MOM!”

  My father stepped in front of her like a wall made of law. “Settle down,” he said, like she was a pet misbehaving.

  “How dare you take away my son!” she roared. “Have you no shame?!” Her flames climbed higher, the heat warping the air, and for a heartbeat I thought she’d burn the entire road into ash to reach me.

  “He is my son too,” the King said. “And he has a position to withhold.” His voice stayed flat as stone. “Your precious son tried to blood-bind Lady Jubeeca. A contract. A leash.”

  My mother’s expression twisted, not in fear—in disgust. “And she killed him because he deserved it,” she snapped back, every word sharpened. Then she pointed at him like a blade. “That’s not my son’s fault—your other mistresses raised that boy wrong.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The King’s face tightened. He didn’t argue. He just smacked her—hard enough that her head snapped to the side and the road fell silent.

  I stared at all of it while the carriage dragged me away. My chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left leaking. Then my father looked at me, and for the first time his eyes weren’t disgusted.

  They were empty.

  He pulled a sword from his back. It wasn’t regular steel. It was a blade made of ice—too clean, too bright, like winter itself had been sharpened.

  He turned and stabbed my mother.

  The ice crawled instantly, wrapping her in a frozen prison. Not shattered. Not dead. Just… sealed. He looked back at me with a piercing stare, like he was carving the lesson into my bones.

  For a moment, I forgot I was a demon. Tears started rolling down my face before I could stop them.

  I shoved the carriage door open slightly, desperate and stupid. Gideon grabbed me just in time, forced me back, and shoved the gag into place again. “I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered, like the words mattered.

  Moments later, we arrived at the Coliseum.

  Gideon carried me toward a door that said:

  ARENA

  My heart did something stupid. I mean… I was excited to be here, because I’d watched this place through glass my whole life. But I wasn’t excited to go through the Arena entrance like this, tied up and trembling.

  Posters lined the corridor—Jubeeca, champions, monsters of history, and faces I’d never seen before. The closer we got, the louder the crowd became, the noise pressing against my skull like a hand. My stomach twisted with a hope I hated myself for having.

  No. No, no…

  Gideon set me down behind the barricade. “Easy,” he hissed, more for himself than for me. Then—quietly, fast—he crouched beside me.

  The gag came off first. Then the restraints.

  Not kindness. Procedure. Like he didn’t want the crowd seeing a prince dragged in like a hostage. He yanked me upright by the arm and kept his voice low. “Let’s go. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

  He pulled me forward. We passed through a red curtain.

  I stepped through.

  Lights. Crowd. Noise so heavy it felt like it had weight. The arena was a boxed ring surrounded by a sea of demons—laughing, shouting, hungry. A human stood in the center rolling his shoulders like this was a warm-up.

  As I walked in, a hand grabbed my cheek.

  I flinched and looked.

  Lady Jubeeca.

  Up close she was worse than the posters. Sharper. Bigger presence. Horns polished like weapons. Eyes like a person who never forgot what fear tasted like. She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Before I could breathe around the question, Gideon nudged me forward. I stumbled and hit the floor on my shoulder, the impact sending a dull shock through my ribs. Then I stood—free-handed—in front of a human who looked happy to be here.

  The announcer’s voice slammed into the arena:

  “HEAR THAT, COLISEUM?!”

  “THIS HERO WANTS A SECOND REINCARNATION LIKE IT’S A DRINK REFILL!”

  “BUT THE GODDESS OF REINCARNATION DOESN’T SERVE SECONDS TO GREEDY LITTLE SAINTS!”

  “SO WE DO THE DIRTY WORK—DEMONS UNDER CONTRACT—KEEPING THE CYCLE CLEAN!”

  “SECOND-TIME REINCARNATION GETS ONE THING IN THIS ARENA…”

  “JUDGMENT!”

  “WELCOME TO… THE REINCARNATION GAMES!”

  The crowd roared, and my stomach dropped so hard it felt like falling again.

  “PROVE YOURSELF! PROVE YOURSELF! PROVE YOURSELF!”

  The human didn’t look like a hero from the stories. He looked like a man who’d learned the joy of winning. His eyes met mine and I realized he was happy to see fear.

  Aisha appeared above the arena like a divine system notification given form.

  “My name is Aisha,” it said. “AI referee. All combat data will be recorded. Verdicts are final.”

  The hero cracked his neck. “You better be ready, demon,” he said. “I don’t care who it is. I’m getting my second reincarnation.”

  I looked up.

  My father sat in the private booth, bored, chin resting on his fist—like he was watching weather. He didn’t look angry or proud.

  He looked uninterested.

  Aisha’s eyes lit once.

  “BATTLE START.”

  The hero charged, and my legs refused to cooperate. Not because they were broken—because my brain kept waiting for someone to stop this. No one did.

  Everything went black.

  Not black like sleep. Black like my body shutting doors I didn’t have permission to open. Then pain brought the world back in pieces.

  This wasn’t even a fight.

  It was a beatdown.

  “Get up, Prince!!”

  The hero stomped me out like I was nothing. My HP dropped drastically, numbers bleeding away faster than I could understand. He laughed between hits like this was the easiest day of his life.

  “Man, this is EASY!”

  I didn’t know where my father went after that. It was like I was already dead to him. I couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t think, couldn’t even scream properly.

  All I could do was apologize to the world like the world cared.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry for being weak…

  But underneath the panic—deep, ugly, and quiet—something in me stopped begging… and started remembering.

  “Aisha — Match over,” the AI said. “Prince Soren has lost the will to fight. Reincarnation process approved. Farewell, hero.”

  The hero exhaled like he’d just finished a chore. “Man, this was easy. Thanks for being my fight, man.” He turned into dust, and the dust rose into the sky until light swallowed it whole.

  And he was gone.

  I lay in my blood. My ears rang so loud it felt like the arena was underwater. All I wanted was for everything to go back to normal.

  Jubeeca was still here.

  She walked toward me and kneeled down like she was visiting something she owned.

  “Soren,” she said softly. “I was impressed. From here on out… if you survive the Pit, I’ll be waiting for you. Alright?”

  Why is she being so nice to me? I just lost.

  I couldn’t speak. I just stared at her, and that’s when I saw it—her expression. Obsessed. Hearts in her eyes. Her hands pressed to her chest like she was watching something precious.

  Her horns were as beautiful as they were on my glass TV and in my posters.

  I think I can die happy now.

  I closed my eyes, thinking this was it.

  Then she grabbed my leg and started dragging me.

  I snapped my eyes open and forced my voice through the pain. “Where… are we going?”

  She blinked like she’d forgotten I was conscious. “Huh? You didn’t understand what I said?”

  “Huh?”

  “Alright,” she said, dragging me harder. “I’ll repeat myself while we’re heading out.”

  “Heading out?”

  I tried to grab the ground and resist, but my fingers couldn’t find anything to hold. Other demons watched—some concerned, some amused. There was one guy smiling.

  I’ll remember his face for later.

  “You are going to the Pit,” Jubeeca said. “Where the demons that lose their matches go as punishment. It’s a dungeon, and usually they only get sent down five floors.” She glanced back at me, and her grin widened. “But you… you’re going to do what I went through.”

  My blood ran cold. I had her signed biography—her training was twenty days in the Pit. I started flailing, fighting back, trying to crawl away.

  She didn’t even struggle.

  “Don’t worry,” she said casually. “If you don’t survive, it’s fine. No one would care. Us demons live by one rule—those that are strong shall survive.”

  For a moment, I forgot I was a demon.

  Because I had no horns.

  Jubeeca stopped.

  “Alright. We’re here.”

  The Pit.

  The door looked like a skull holding an entrance. Like the dungeon itself had a mouth. I forced myself to speak, small and shaking.

  “Please… no…”

  She snapped her head down. “What was that?!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You have no choice,” she said, and then her voice lowered, almost kind—almost. “Your mother is encased in the Demon Sword of Ice. It won’t melt. She won’t be harmed. Nothing will happen to her.”

  She leaned closer, eyes gleaming like she was feeding me hope on purpose.

  “It all depends on you. If you survive these floors.”

  “So use that as fuel, alright?”

  She pushed me toward the hole, sat me on the edge, and whispered into my ear:

  “I’ll also be waiting for you.”

  She kissed my cheek.

  Then I was tossed.

  I fell past a sign saying Floor 5—then 10—then 15—

  Then—

  SLAM!

  I landed in water clean enough to know I could drink it at least. But there was a thick smell of miasma, and my lungs felt like they were on fire the moment I inhaled.

  I wiped my face with shaking hands and looked up through the dark. The ceiling was jagged stone, dripping slow like the dungeon was counting time. Then I saw the sign, half-submerged, carved into rock like a threat.

  Floor 20.

  See you next chapter!