The blare of a horn, deafening and immediate, had been the last thing Kazou Dela Cruz remembered. One moment, the sterile scent of his car's air conditioning, the next, a kaleidoscope of shattered glass and twisted metal, then… nothing. At twenty-five, a life carved out of sheer grit and endless hours, a life spent balancing ledgers and family burdens, had simply ceased. His deepest regret wasn't for himself, but for the weight he was leaving behind, the future he wouldn't build for his parents and younger siblings. I wasn't ready, he thought, even as the darkness consumed him. I hadn't given them everything.
Then, a flicker. A faint light, like the glow of an ancient monitor. A sensation of being adrift, then a sudden, jarring jolt. He opened his eyes, or rather, a pair of eyes, to a world of muted colors and incomprehensible sounds. Swaddled in fine silk, he was a babe, small and helpless, gazing up at a worried-looking woman whose scent was vaguely familiar. Queen Magayon, as he would later learn, her expression a mirror of the fragile hope clinging to a dying kingdom.
This was the Kingdom of etabsam, a once-proud realm nestled in the verdant heart of the Continent of Sugbu, now a crumbling edifice of what it once was. Its predecessor, King Theodoric, had led a disastrous campaign into Bicol, perishing alongside countless soldiers, leaving his son, Leonidas, and Queen Magayon to inherit a throne teetering on the brink of collapse. Corruption had festered in its veins, economic stability had bled out, and monsters, once a distant threat, now encroached on trade routes, further strangling the kingdom's lifeblood. It was, in essence, a massive, archaic corporation bleeding red, and he, now Crown Prince Mark von Faust, was its newest, most unwilling, executive.
From his earliest awareness, Kazou—now Mark—had observed. His reborn mind, strangely unburdened by infant physiological limitations, possessed a startling clarity and hyper-observational capacity. He could process information at an astonishing rate, his consciousness overriding the limitations of his tiny body. He saw the tattered silks of the royal standard, the hushed, desperate whispers among courtiers, the thin, tired faces of the servants. The grandeur was a veneer, peeling and cracked, over a rotten core.
He spent his early childhood years quietly absorbing, filing away information. Personnel utilization is abysmal, he'd mentally note as a cluster of royal guards gossiped instead of patrolling. Inventory management: non-existent, he'd conclude after observing the casual waste in the royal kitchens. He even mentally "audited" the royal nursery staff's efficiency, ranking them by responsiveness and emotional intelligence (the ones who soothed quickly got higher marks). He devoured every scroll and book available, from dusty historical accounts to arcane magical theories, but his keenest interest lay in the royal treasury reports, which painted a grim, consistent picture of fiscal mismanagement and outright theft. He spent countless hours, often feigning sleep, just listening to the hushed conversations of the palace staff, piecing together the intricate web of court politics and whispers of discontent.
It wasn't until his fifteenth birthday that the abstract observations solidified into an undeniable call to action. The traditional birthday feast, usually a display of royal bounty, was a meager affair. The grand hall felt empty, the tapestries faded. More damningly, a new tax decree was announced—a heavy levy on the common folk, ostensibly for "defense," but clearly designed to plug immediate, gaping holes in the royal coffers. Mark watched the faces of the attending nobles; some grim, some indifferent, none truly empathetic. It was a familiar scene, a desperate scramble to extract more from those who had little, rather than fixing the systemic rot.
That night, alone in his chambers, a sudden, sharp memory surfaced: his father's tired smile after a particularly grueling shift, his mother's worried frown. The same weariness he saw in the faces of etabsam's peasants. The same fear for tomorrow. "Not again," he muttered, his voice hoarse, echoing Kazou's final, unspoken regret. "Not this time."
The next morning, Crown Prince Mark von Faust, who had until then been a quiet, contemplative youth, shocked the Royal Council. He strode into the weekly finance meeting, uninvited, carrying a stack of ledgers and scrolls far too thick for his slender frame. His eyes, usually deep and thoughtful, now held a steely resolve that even King Leonidas, accustomed to his son's studious nature, hadn't seen before.
"Father," Mark began, his voice clear, "and esteemed Council members. I have spent the night examining the recent tax decree and the treasury reports for the last decade."
Lord Valerius, the wizened and perpetually bewildered Royal Treasurer, adjusted his spectacles. "Prince Mark, while your scholarly interests are commendable, these matters are best left to… experienced hands." His tone was polite but dismissive.
Mark ignored him, unrolling a detailed chart he had painstakingly drawn by lamplight. "Forgive my presumption, Lord Valerius, but experience, in this case, appears to have guided us to the brink of insolvency." He pointed to a sharp decline in revenue despite consistent population growth. "The proposed tax increase will only exacerbate the problem. It is a temporary patch, a bandage on a gaping wound, and will crush the very populace whose prosperity we depend on."
A younger noble, perhaps sensing a shift in the wind, snorted. "And what does the Crown Prince propose? More wishing upon a star?"
Mark turned, his gaze sharp. "My proposal, young sir, is a comprehensive economic audit. Starting with the Royal Guard's supply chain, then the kingdom's agricultural output, and finally, the notoriously unquantified monster-hide trade." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Furthermore, I propose the immediate freezing of all non-essential royal expenditures, including the annual 'Royal Hunt' festival, until the treasury shows significant recovery."
A murmur rippled through the room. The "Royal Hunt" was a beloved tradition, a lavish display of noble prowess that consumed vast sums. Freezing it was unthinkable.
Suddenly, a loud, almost theatrical sigh emanated from the doorway. "Bloody hell, Mark, did you skip breakfast or something?"
It was Alfred von Ticao, Young Duke of Ticao, resplendent in finely tailored blue silks, leaning casually against the ornate doorframe. He was a handsome young man, known for his flamboyant charm, undeniable swordsmanship, and a reputation for being… well, pervy. He caught Mark's eye with a mischievous glint. "You look like you're about to declare war on the kingdom's ledgers. What's got your knickers in such a twist?"
Mark merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of exasperation in his gaze. "Alfred. Unlike some, I prefer to keep my 'knickers' untwisted, especially when the kingdom's very existence hangs by a thread of silver."
Alfred sauntered in, oblivious to the tense atmosphere. "Oh, the usual doom and gloom? etabsam is always on its last legs. Besides, worry lines don't suit a future king. What happened to our usual strategy of just… looking regal and letting others handle the messy bits?" He winked at a nearby servant girl, who quickly averted her eyes, blushing furiously.
"The 'messy bits,' Alfred," Mark retorted, a hint of his past life's dry wit emerging, "are why we're almost begging for coin from our neighbors. And looking regal won't fill empty granaries or pay mercenary wages. I'm suggesting we actively manage this disaster, not just observe its progression."
King Leonidas, who had watched the exchange with a mixture of surprise and growing intrigue, finally spoke. "Mark… these are bold claims. And the Royal Hunt…"
"Father," Mark interrupted, his voice respectful but firm, "a bankrupt kingdom cannot afford grand illusions. We need substance, not spectacle. We need to identify where the money is going, why it isn't coming in, and how to generate new, sustainable revenue. We need to work. Overtime, if necessary."
He met his father's gaze, then scanned the silent, stunned council. This wasn't just about financial reports anymore. This was about turning the tide. This was about a second chance, not just for him, but for an entire nation. The breadwinner had been reborn, and the work, it seemed, was only just beginning.