Prologue
It had been months since Lelouch vi Britannia and Nunnally vi Britannia were taken from their home—offered up as political bargaining chips to Japan. But that was only the first fracture in the grand façade of the royal family.
When terrorists assaulted the Britannian estate, the world dismissed it as a tragic anomaly. But one of the royal children had been there—caught in the crossfire.
A single bullet shattered a power conduit. The explosion lit up the room, consuming everything in fire and smoke. By the time the flames were extinguished, the body of a fourteen-year-old boy—once vibrant, golden-haired, and full of promise—was left broken.
Now he lay swathed in bandages, his breath wheezing through a mask that fed air to his damaged lungs. His body was a ruin. His memories—fractured. His family? Occasionally present. Some siblings had come to visit, offering hollow words. His mother, though—had she still lived—might have shown real compassion.
But even that thought felt distant. All he could feel now was clarity, forged in pain.
And hatred.
Not just toward the attackers. But toward his father. His siblings. His people. His empire. Britannia had allowed this to happen. In its arrogance, its decadence, it had left him to burn.
He rose from his bed, bandages rustling as he walked across the pristine, sterile luxury of the recovery suite. In the bathroom, he stared at his reflection—his form ghostlike and mutilated. He hated it. Not the scars, but what they represented: weakness. Blind obedience. Decay.
With a snarl, he drove his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass. Blood trickled down his knuckles, but he barely noticed. There was no pain now. Only focus.
Returning to his bed, he noticed a book on the nightstand. Likely left by a doctor, some effort to distract him. He flipped it open aimlessly, but something caught his eye.
Tiberium. A strange, luminous mineral spreading across the globe, harvested and studied, yet never truly understood. It brought wealth—and chaos. Life—and death. And behind its rise, behind the wars, the revolutions, the secret laboratories, and destabilized regimes…
The Brotherhood of Nod.
He read about them with growing fascination. A decentralized yet devoted movement, worshipping not just the future—but a man. A prophet. A visionary. A commander of minds and hearts. Kane.
The boy's breath slowed. His thoughts sharpened. Nod was more than a faction—it was an idea. A rejection of the decaying world order. A rebellion against the chains of tradition. A fusion of ancient belief and future power.
And Kane? He did not ask for change.
He commanded it.
The boy's bandaged lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile.
He closed the book, but the pages had already taken root in his mind. No longer did he see himself as a victim. No longer did he see Britannia as sacred.
It would burn.
And from the ashes, a new order would rise—his order.
For he no longer needed a crown.
He needed a cause.