The Kingdom of Devon in 280 AD was a tapestry of iron and incense. It was a time when the sun didn't just rise; it was "granted" by the Sun God, Solis. To the commoners and the nobility alike, reality was a script written by divine hands. But to eight-year-old Eizen, the third prince of Devon, the world was not a temple—it was a slaughterhouse disguised as a ballroom.
Eizen sat in the High Library, a room of soaring obsidian arches and stained glass that bled crimson light onto the floor. His light brown hair was meticulously combed, and his green eyes—unnervingly sharp for a child—were fixed on a scroll of blank parchment. He wasn't studying the "Lives of the Saints" or the "Lineage of Kings." He was writing.
He dipped his quill, the scratching sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.
"These fools are everywhere, restrained by emotions and morals. They deserve to be stupidly manipulated by rules."
He paused, looking out the window at the peasants kneeling in the mud as a priest walked by. A cold sneer curled his lips.
"What's sadder is that when they see others not being restrained, they would jump out and criticize, trying to impart these morals to the people, not allowing others to have more freedom than them. In this process, they would even enjoy this ridiculous moral superiority and bliss."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. Queen Elara entered, her silk robes whispering against the stone. She was a woman of "faith," which Eizen translated as a woman of "convenient delusions."
"Eizen, my darling," she said, her voice dripping with the performative sweetness of the court. "The Grand Duke is here with his daughter. They say she has the potential for Water Magic. Why are you hiding in this dusty room?"
Eizen didn't look up. "I am observing the chains, Mother."
Elara blinked, her smile faltering. "Chains? What chains? You are a Prince of Devon. You are the freest boy in the world."
Eizen finally turned his head. His green eyes seemed to pierce through her skin, looking at the mechanical ticking of her heart. "You are more enslaved than the gardener, Mother. He is bound by his hunger; you are bound by what the Duchess of Oakhaven thinks of your embroidery. You call it 'grace.' I call it a cage."
"Eizen!" she gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "That is... that is unfilial. Where is your heart?"
Eizen turned back to his parchment, his quill moving again with ruthless precision.
"These people, they have a body full of abilities and some even have higher magic attributes than me, but for what? They're just pawns, merely restrained dogs. What truly stalls a person's success is not talent, but mindset."
"My mindset," Eizen said aloud, his voice flat and terrifyingly mature, "is one you cannot understand. Go back to your tea, Mother. The Grand Duke's daughter is likely a bore who thinks her tears are magic."
The Queen left, trembling. She felt as though she had just spoken to an ancient, cold entity wearing the skin of her son. Left alone, Eizen finished his thought for the day:
"Any organization, once a person is born, would impart their morals and rules, constantly brainwashing those that want to surpass humanity's achievements. They have to break this restraint on their mindset. Sadly, most people are trapped by this their entire lives, using this to move forward with motivation, and even use their chained collar as a symbol of pride."
He looked at his own reflection in a silver platter. He was handsome, yes. But he saw the face as a mask. To Eizen, the year 280 AD was not an era of magic and kings—it was a laboratory of human stupidity. And he was the only scientist awake.