That’s how long it’s been since I was reincarnated into the royal family of Twaggel—dumped into diapers by cosmic accident, labeled a curse, and nearly murdered at the ripe old age of one.
They say time heals all wounds.
They lied.
The nobles still glare. The maids still whisper. And the royal family?
Well… the ones who aren’t outright avoiding me are probably plotting something.
And me?
I’m Anis Twaggel, Fifth Prince of the Realm, Lord of Sighing at Incompetence, Master of Overkill Spells, and soon-to-be exile.
Parallel Knowledge (∞) – Instantly access anything from Earth and Arth. Want a battle strategy? A bread recipe? Tax evasion loophole? Boom. It knows.
Infinite Magic (∞) – No mana cost. No restrictions. Just pure, unfiltered spellcasting born from imagination. I could summon a lightning moose riding a tidal wave if I wanted.
Item Creation (∞) – If I can dream it, I can build it. Guns, androids, cloaking cloaks, espresso machines with flamethrowers… you get the idea.
Mana doesn’t concern me. Other mages pass out casting Tier 4. I can layer three Tier 5s in a row and still have energy left to critique the enemy’s fashion.
- Tier 1 – Beginner spells. Sparkle, sizzle, and minor inconvenience.
- Tier 2 – Mage college stuff. Flashy and functional.
- Tier 3 – Advanced combat. Serious battlefield material.
- Tier 4 – Royal Guard-level magic. Rare, revered, and risky.
- Tier 5 – World-ending. Restricted. Feared. Gloriously satisfying.
I know hundreds of spells—but I keep my most-used list short. Efficient. Strategic. Dramatic.
And now… I’m being exiled.
Officially.
Publicly.
No matter what the King and Queen say, the Council’s decision is final. Even my parents’ influence can’t save me this time.
But honestly?
I’m not upset.
Because exile means freedom. Opportunity. Secrecy.
A perfect stage to begin the next act of my life.
Let’s review that tragic comedy line-up.
Prince Edmarion – Firstborn. War hero. Sword addict. Muscle-brained thunderstorm in a cape.
I ran into him this morning near the training yard.
He crossed his arms, flexed unnecessarily, and scowled. “Still hiding behind spells, Anis?”
“Still forgetting punctuation when you talk?” I replied. “It’s called a comma. Try one.”
He grunted. “I’d rather fight.”
“Of course you would,” I muttered. “Conversation requires nuance.”
Princess Veliryn – Ice queen. Writes haikus about blood. Collects dolls with names like Whisperscream and Lord Blinks-a-Lot. Once painted a mural using beet juice and someone’s dignity.
We crossed paths in the hall yesterday. She didn’t speak—just handed me a poem.
“A cursed heartbeat,
Flames beneath porcelain mask,
Breathe while you still can.”
Then she smiled.
I hate that smile.
Prince Halvren – The tax demon. Pretends to be a buffoon. Actually smarter than all of us. Smiles like he already owns your soul and is debating resale value.
He walked past me during breakfast, paused, and said:
“Your spellbook’s worth 13,500 gold. But sentimentally? Worthless.”
“And yet I still outrank your personality,” I replied, not looking up.
He just chuckled and walked away. I’m 95% sure he sabotaged my orange juice.
Princess Merasyl – Silent. Pale. Stares like a disappointed god. Nobody’s sure if she’s mute, psychic, or just above speaking to peasants like us.
Yesterday, I sneezed in her presence.
She blinked.
I still haven’t emotionally recovered.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
So yeah. Home sweet hellhole.
But at least I’ve made upgrades.
A soft beep in my ear.
“Sir,” came Michael’s smooth, polished voice, “the buffoon of a brother is en route to your chambers. Shall I put him to sleep?”
“Not this time, Michael,” I said, flipping a page in my Knowledge Book. “Let’s be civil. He just wants to swing a sword near my face again.”
Michael is an android. Looks like a British butler, fights like a ninja, judges me silently like an uncle at a wedding.
I built him after the assassination attempt when I was one. Since then, I’ve trusted no one but the staff I’ve made myself.
Speaking of which—
“Peter,” I said.
My AI flickered into holographic view. He was lounging on a floating chair, wearing a T-shirt that said “I Run On Code and Pettiness.”
“Sup.”
“Make a clone of me,” I instructed. “Have it argue, win the first two moves, then dramatically lose to Edmarion. Bonus points if it grunts in noble dialect.”
“Done,” he said. “Want it to quote Sun Tzu mid-fight?”
“Only if it makes Edmarion insecure.”
“Affirmative.”
“Also—open the vault.”
“You cooking something up?”
I cracked my knuckles, stepping into the lab’s central platform.
“Let’s cook.”
“Yes, bitch,” Peter grinned.
I should be excited. Confident. Triumphant.
But as the vault opened, humming with the potential of every forbidden invention I’ve created...
I felt it again.
That silence.
That strange, unnatural silence.
Because in all these fourteen years...
No narration.
No sarcastic voice.
No inappropriate commentary.
Not even a whisper.
Where did you go?
Because honestly?
I kind of miss you.
Creating a clone of yourself should be difficult. Philosophically, morally, metaphysically…
Me? I did it on a Tuesday afternoon.
Just a little cheating.
First, I circulated the raw, unfiltered energy of Item Creation (∞) through the lab’s duplication core. Then Peter—bless his code-soul—did the heavy lifting. Scanned my face, vocal tones, mannerisms, internal sarcasm levels, and dramatic timing thresholds. All while sipping pixelated boba tea.
“Clone integrity at 97.3%,” Peter said. “Only flaw—he thinks pineapple belongs on pizza.”
“...Terminate it.”
“Too late. Already scheduled to duel Edmarion in ten.”
Great.
I sat on my private balcony above the royal training yard. Cloaked. Invisible. Tea in hand. Watching the drama unfold through magical HUD lenses.
Edmarion stood in the arena, already sweating with excitement. Sword in hand, shirt halfway off, yelling something noble-sounding about “HONOR” and “TESTING YOUR TRUE SPIRIT!”
Clone-Anis stood across from him. Calm. Smug. Beautiful hair. The full Anis package.
“Ready when you are, brother,” Clone said.
“I was born ready!” Edmarion bellowed, flexing like a motivational poster with rage issues.
They clashed.
First move—Clone-Anis dodged flawlessly. Cast Stone Grasp, summoning a rocky hand to grab Edmarion’s ankle.
Countered.
Next—Mirror Step. A flicker. An elbow jab. Elegant.
“Stop vanishing! Face me like a man!”
“I’m 14, Edmarion. I barely count as a taxpayer,” Clone quipped.
Then—Gale Sphere to the chest.
“Victory secured,” Peter narrated. “Executing Directive: Overly Dramatic Loss.”
Clone-Anis stumbled, rolled backwards, and cast Sparkle Shield.
Glitter. Shame. Perfection.
Edmarion disarmed him and shoulder-bashed him into the dirt.
“You... fought well, Anis,” he panted.
“So... strong... brother... must... nap...” Clone wheezed.
I sipped my tea and whispered, “Oscar-worthy.”
After the clone got carted off by a disguised Michael, I descended into the vault beneath my lab.
Lights flickered on.
Panels shimmered.
The future stared back.
I built this place in secret.
Layered defenses. Dimensional folding. Spell-infused alloy and regret.
And how did I fund it?
Pirate-themed androids.
Because no one suspects a pirate. They just assume you're drunk and fabulous.
They now control 85% of the underground market. They send weekly tribute—gold, cursed cookbooks, and memes. One of them owns a casino named Ye Olde Roll & Rob.
“Total assets up 12%,” Peter said. “And your jellyfish drones are ready.”
“Perfect,” I replied.
It’s a city in waiting.
A revolution in storage.
A middle finger with Wi-Fi.
When exile comes, I won’t just leave…
I’ll arrive.
And then…
Narrator: “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Arth’s most dramatic science experiment with abandonment issues.”
I froze.
No. It couldn’t be.
Narrator: “Fourteen years of silence and THIS is what you’ve been doing? Pirate androids? Clones? Tea? Is this an uprising or a cosplay convention?”
I blinked. My throat tightened. My smile crept in before I could stop it.
“You’re back.”
Narrator: “Regrettably.”
“I missed you.”
Narrator: “You also built a flamethrower chicken. Let’s not pretend you’re emotionally balanced.”
I laughed.
A real, actual laugh.
“Still sarcastic.”
Narrator: “Still watching you. And still 93% convinced you’re the end of this world.”
And somehow?
That was comforting.
I wasn’t alone anymore.