The last thing Alessandro remembered was the heat.
Not the summer warmth of Palermo, nor the tender embrace of a woman in his Manhattan penthouse suite. It was a specific kind of heat—sharp, searing, and final. The heat of a .45 caliber bullet tearing through his expensive vest, straight into his heart.
Betrayed. By his own Consigliere. His right-hand man for twenty years.
Luciano... you mutt.
The world went dark to the fading wail of New York sirens. Alessandro "The Razor" was ready to face hell. After all, a man like him didn't deserve heaven.
However, when Alessandro opened his eyes, there were no hellish flames.
There was only a stinging cold and the sensation of being smothered.
"Die, you useless pig!"
The voice was raspy and filled with hatred. Alessandro felt a coarse grip on his neck. Oxygen stopped flowing to his brain. His vision blurred, dominated by the pockmarked face of a middle-aged man wearing a filthy velvet servant's uniform.
The man was strangling him with a silk pillow on a bed that smelled of musty decay.
Alessandro's instincts took over before his brain could even process this absurd situation. This wasn't his old body—it felt weak, thin, and untrained—but his muscle memory and the ruthlessness of his soul remained intact.
A Mafia Boss doesn't panic when his throat is gripped; he looks for an opening.
Left arm. Exposed.
Instead of trying to pry away the man's strong grip—impossible with the strength of this frail body—Alessandro did the unexpected. He let himself go limp for a moment, making his attacker believe he had already given up.
The moment the grip loosened slightly in a premature triumph, Alessandro jerked his head forward, slamming his forehead into the servant's nose.
CRACK.
The sound of breaking cartilage rang crisp in the silent room.
"ARGH!" The man howled, stumbling back while clutching his now bloody face.
That was enough of an opening.
Alessandro didn't waste time. He didn't scream for help. He didn't cower in fear. With movements far too fluid for a teenager who had just woken up from the dead, he snatched the only hard object nearby—a heavy brass oil lamp from the bedside table.
As the servant opened eyes watery with pain, the last thing he saw was the brutal swing of the Prince's hand.
THWACK!
Brass met human temple with a sickening thud. The servant collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, convulsing once on the floor before falling still forever. Red blood began to pool on the expensive, worn-out carpet.
Silence.
Alessandro's breath came in ragged gasps. His chest heaved rapidly, not from fear, but from physical exhaustion. This body was truly pathetic. His heart pounded as if he had just run a marathon, even though he had only swung a lamp once.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the corpse on the floor with a flat gaze. Cold. Emotionless. As if he were looking at a bag of trash someone had forgotten to throw out.
"So..." he whispered. His voice sounded young, but its tone was as old as sin. "I'm still alive. Or is this a new kind of hell where I have to take out the trash on my first day?"
He stood up slowly and walked toward a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. The chamber was luxurious yet gloomy. The red velvet curtains were dusty, the gold paint on the walls was peeling, and there was a pungent stench of cheap alcohol.
In the mirror's reflection, he saw a stranger.
A young man of about eighteen. Skin pale like an invalid, messy black hair, and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of a wretched, hedonistic lifestyle. His body was scrawny, almost devoid of muscle. The only thing that looked familiar was his eyes.
The irises were a deep crimson—like dried blood—and the look within them did not belong to a teenager. It was the gaze of a shark scenting blood.
Suddenly, an agonizing headache struck him.
Foreign memories flooded his brain like a burst dam. Name: Alessandro von Vermillion. Status: Third Prince of the Vermillion Kingdom. Reputation: Trash, drunkard, coward.
He saw flashes of memory: His father, the King, lying comatose from a mysterious illness. His uncle, Grand Duke Karlov, smiling slyly while offering him more liquor. Servants spitting in his food. Knights laughing behind his back.
"Ah," Alessandro muttered, massaging his temples. "I've reincarnated as a loser in a kingdom on the brink of collapse."
The situation was classic. The family business (The Kingdom) was bankrupt, the old management (The King) was paralyzed, and the business rivals (The Dukes/Nobles) were attempting a hostile takeover.
The servant dead on the floor had been sent by someone. Likely to make it look like a 'drunken accident.'
As he was analyzing the situation, a synthetic voice chimed directly inside his skull. Transparent blue text floated across his retina, overlaying the mirror's reflection.
[Ding!]
[Compatible Soul Detected.]
[Conditions Met: Betrayal, Death, and Desire for Power.]
[THE ABSOLUTE EMPIRE SYSTEM activated.]
[Welcome, Host.]
[You have crossed the boundary of death. From this day forward, the fate of the Vermillion Kingdom is tied to your life.]
A status panel appeared.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Alessandro von Vermillion
Class: Godfather (Level 1)
Power: F (Highly Vulnerable)
Reputation: Disgraced (Poor)
Wealth: -50,000 Gold Coins (Personal Debt)
[EMERGENCY MISSION COMPLETE]
Mission: Survive the First Assassination.
Rank: S (Brutal kill without hesitation).
Reward: System Currency (+100 Points), Passive Skill: [Killing Intent].
"A system?" Alessandro chuckled softly. His smirk was crooked, displaying a terrifying arrogance on the Prince's handsome face. "The world gave me a managerial assistant. Good."
BAM!
The double bedroom doors slammed open with force.
Alessandro didn't flinch. He calmly turned his head, hand still gripping the blood-stained brass lamp.
Standing in the doorway was a young woman who looked as if she had stepped out of a mythological war painting. Her silver hair was tied in a high ponytail, and she wore sleek silver armor that hugged her athletic frame. A blue cloak bearing the crest of the Vermillion royal family was draped over her shoulders. Her hand rested on the hilt of a rapier at her waist.
Her face was beautiful, with sharp features and ice-blue eyes. But currently, that face was filled with a mix of shock and disgust.
Valeria Ironheart. Captain of the Prince's Guard. The only Knight who hadn't abandoned this "Trash Prince" out of a vow of loyalty to the late Queen, not out of any respect for Alessandro.
Valeria's eyes widened as she took in the scene before her. The servant dead with a shattered skull. Blood everywhere. And Prince Alessandro—the man who usually cried when he got a paper cut—standing there with a terrifying calmness.
"Your Highness..." Valeria's voice caught. Her right hand reflexively drew her sword halfway. "What... what happened? I heard a commotion. Did you..."
She wanted to ask 'did you kill him?', but the sentence died in her throat.
Alessandro looked the woman up and down. In his memories, the original Prince had always whined to Valeria or tried to woo her in pathetic ways that ended in cold rejection.
Not anymore.
Alessandro set the brass lamp back on the table with a soft clack. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the blood splatters from his hands with slow, methodical movements.
"An uninvited guest entered without knocking, Valeria," Alessandro said. His voice was calm, deep, and carried an authority that made the hair on Valeria's neck stand up. It was not the tone of the spoiled brat she had known yesterday.
Alessandro walked toward the corpse, nudging its leg slightly with his foot. "His name was Giles, wasn't it? The servant who brought me wine every night."
Alessandro looked Valeria straight in the eye. Those red eyes were smoldering. "Giles tried to strangle me. Tell me, Captain... How does a servant carry murderous intent into a Prince's chambers while you are on guard?"
Valeria's face turned pale, then flushed with anger and shame. "I... I was patrolling the east hallway because of reports of an intruder. It must have been a diversion! I swear, Your Highness, if I had known—"
"Shut your mouth."
Two words. Left hanging in the air. Valeria fell silent instantly, her mouth snapping shut out of disciplined reflex, but her eyes flashed with confusion. This Prince... was commanding her?
Alessandro walked toward Valeria until they were only a step apart. The scent of blood mixed with royal perfume wafted from him.
"I don't need your vows right now, Valeria. Vows are cheap. On the streets where I come from, oaths are often broken before sunrise," Alessandro whispered coldly. He leaned in slightly. "What I need is efficiency."
"Giles didn't work alone. Someone opened the door for him. Someone gave him courage." Alessandro pointed at the corpse with his chin. "Wrap this trash up. Don't let any other servants see it. Then, summon the Royal Butler to my study in one hour."
"B-but Your Highness," Valeria stammered, the man's dominance shattering her common sense. "We must report to the Council of Nobles! An attempted assassination on the royal family is—"
"—Is proof of weakness," Alessandro cut her off sharply. "If you report to the Council, tomorrow they will send a more professional assassin because they know I survived. No."
Alessandro walked past Valeria toward the exit, pausing for a moment at the threshold without looking back.
"We will not report to the law, Valeria. In this palace, from this moment on... I am the law."
"Clean up this mess."
Alessandro stepped out into the dark corridor, leaving Valeria standing frozen beside the corpse, staring at the back of her master who felt so foreign, so dangerous, and somehow... so majestic.
The death of the Trash Prince had occurred tonight.
And a Monster had been born to replace him.