In the solemn palace hall, a crystal coffin rested at its center, embraced by white daisies and lilies.

*"I am a gift exchanged among loved ones,

I am the crown of weddings,

I am the final offering from the living to the dead."*

—Khalil Gibran, *Song of the Flower*

Flowers carried ritual weight—not just symbols of grief and parting, but of reunion and rebirth.

Leborne gazed sorrowfully at his father’s peaceful face. Memories of moments shared with Mobius flickered in his mind. From this day forth, life and death would separate them. He’d never again fulfill his filial duty.

Mobius lay still within the coffin, his expression free of pain—only serene, composed. *Had this sage of life long prepared for this day?* Leborne wondered. After all, every king was a recognized wise man, never mistaken.

Could he, Leborne, truly fill this throne after his father’s passing? He’d heard tales of royal houses abroad, where siblings schemed and slaughtered for power. Yet his father had only one son. *Was this his father’s design—to spare us that cruelty?* If brothers existed, they’d surely brawl over the crown by now. But here, in this mourning hall, only two figures remained: son and father.

*Father truly was a sage.* Leborne marveled again at Mobius’s foresight.

He studied the old king: closed eyes, a faint smile, deeply lined face, silver hair still vibrant… and a right hand twitching ever so slightly.

*Wait…*

*It moved?*

*His hand is still moving?!*

"Father! You’re alive!" Overjoyed, Leborne rushed to the coffin, threw open the lid, and lifted Mobius up.

Mobius coughed twice, muttering something under his breath.

Leborne leaned closer, ear to the old man’s lips. "Father? What did you say?"

Softly, Mobius whispered into the young prince’s ear: "Leborne will be a good king."

"Don’t speak like that! You’re alive—you’ll always be king!" Leborne clutched his father tightly, mistaking this for a deathbed confession.

"I said—I am king. And Leborne is king…"

"Because—I shall become you, Leborne!"

The hand stroking Leborne’s back suddenly clenched. A dagger, pulsing with raw magic, materialized in Mobius’s grip. It plunged deep into Leborne’s back.

"Agh!" Leborne staggered back, clutching his chest. Blood bloomed across his robes. "Father… why? No—this face… who *are* you?!"

The mask slid from Mobius’s face. Wrinkled skin smoothed away like shed bark. The disguise melted completely.

"Heh heh heh! Leborne—I was once the father you revered. But now… I am *you*!"

"What?!" Before the bewildered prince could react, Mobius—now radiating ancient power—lifted him into the air with an invisible force. An unseen grip crushed Leborne’s throat. Words choked off into gasps.

"*Cough… ah…*"

"*Father… why…*"

A Silver-tier warrior was nothing before a millennia-old monster. Mobius felt no need to explain. Any paternal warmth had long since turned hollow—a performance repeated across dozens of princely lives.

Leborne went limp. His eyes dimmed, frozen wide with confusion and betrayal. Even in death, his hands remained locked around his throat, trapped mid-struggle.

Mobius placed the corpse back in the crystal coffin. He pressed a mask firmly onto Leborne’s face. The prince’s youthful features withered instantly—skin sagging, hair thinning to brittle silver. Infused with Mobius’s magic, the disguise would hold… as long as the wearer stayed still.

*Which he no longer could.*

Now, the figure in the coffin bore the aged face of King Mobius.

The real Mobius—no, *Leborne* now—arched an eyebrow. His eyes rolled upward. Pearly teeth flashed as his lips parted in a grin. His tongue darted out, viper-quick, to lick them. Unintentional facial contortion twisted his features into pure, giddy delight.

*No more worrying about hiding my youth for decades.*

*No more pretending to be a frail old man while holding such power.*

He’d endured enough.

Now, it was time to activate his Innate Talent: **Talent Theft**.

Leborne’s palm pressed against the corpse’s forehead. Prismatic light erupted, swirling around the body. Shards of raw talent—like fractured stardust—streamed into him. One skill coalesced: **Resilient Soul**. The dozens before it blurred in his memory.

The stolen power was always weaker than the original. Limitations existed. But the ability itself? Undeniably formidable.

Leborne’s eyes snapped shut. Madness and confusion flickered across his face before settling into eerie calm. Each theft scarred his mind—a psychic backlash that once nearly shattered him. He’d long since crossed into true madness. To preserve some shred of self, he now limited thefts to once per century.

Prince after prince. Bloodline talents varied, but his collection grew chaotic, overwhelming.

When his breathing steadied, Leborne resumed his vigil beside the coffin. Tears glistened in his eyes—a perfect mask of grief. Beneath it swirled bottomless madness and cruel amusement.

Thanks to **Resilient Soul**, the prince’s spirit lingered. Trapped, he watched helplessly. *What happened? Was that an imposter wearing Father’s face?* No time to unravel the truth. His soul was fading. He needed an anchor—a vessel to cling to.

He fled westward, a ghostly streak across the kingdom. Consciousness frayed at the edges. As dissolution neared, a warm glow beckoned from the desert sands. He surged toward it without hesitation.

---

"Hey, Witt—your sword hilt’s glowing!" Kaelxi chirped, hugging an ice block to her chest.

"Huh? Is it?" Witt lifted the hilt. The faint shimmer vanished. He’d been polishing it moments ago but missed the glow entirely.

*He’d been too busy stealing glances at the Elf girl.*

Kaelxi, hugging that ice like a little hamster guarding its food, was utterly adorable.

And the fact she’d noticed the glow? She’d clearly been stealing glances at *him* too.