Salvation of the Scum Fifth Prince

———

"You are... training, master?"

There was a trace of disbelief in Damien's voice as he watched Soren stretch his arms out, dressed in clothing that was easy to move in, often used by the other princes during training.

Well, used by all but Soren, until this moment.

After all, the spoiled fifth prince had been satisfied drinking and flirting with beautiful women all day and all night, not considering training at all. Vincent, by far, was the most talented with swordsmanship in the royal family, because of his diligent and somewhat inhuman discipline. 

Erlen was also quite skilled, and Deimos studied magic instead. The fourth, Atlas, had been average but still reached a satisfactory level.

Damien had seen many changes in his 'master' over the several weeks, but this was something different. For the incredibly lazy Soren, a change of behaviour alone was quite surprising, but a change in hobbies was even more so.

However, Damien didn't know Soren well enough to confirm any suspicions.

Even the other princes wouldn't dare imagine that their much hated youngest sibling had been killed and replaced by a soul from another world.

Soren glanced at him cooly. "I am."

"Is there an event coming up?"

"There is."

"What event?"

Soren paused, stretched his arm out and turned to Damien. He already knew that it was impossible to hide his participation in the fighting ring from this teen, even if he wanted to. "Have you heard of the fighting ring?"

Damien stared. "I have. Do you intend to...?"

“I do.”

Damien stared at him for a moment, deep in thought. For somebody in his line of business, it was impossible not to know of the fighting ring. An illegal competition that somehow swept under the noses of the guards, and couldn't be closed. There was a backer behind them that even Damien couldn't find so easily, and he had never been interested in exerting all his efforts to do so.

The fights were mostly bloody, pointless battles where participants tried to create as large of a scene as possible — a rather disgusting sight. 

It was only worth watching with the top ten, at least half containing considerable skill, using more technique than flare. Damien enjoyed fights, and he enjoyed observing others do so as well, but for anybody under the top ten, it was a boring scene to witness. 

However, it was a dangerous fight that left many for dead. There were no laws to hold people back, and death became a natural occurrence since there were no consequences for murder.

There were also quite the variety of individuals in the participants, ranging from two hundred to three hundred every time.

From those who direly needed the magnificent prize, or those who were simply greedy, to those who craved the attention and thrill or murder.

The issue was, some desperate individuals would often be lured into joining the battle, only to die a forgotten death by the end.

Not that nobles never took part in the fight, but Soren...

Could this young master even fight?

Soren, with his low eq, could still predict Damien's thoughts. It was a little offending, being seen as such a weak being when he had been considerably strong during the apocalyptic time, but it couldn't be helped.

In fact, Soren wasn't entirely sure if he'd win.

The body had certain limitations he could push, even if he trained until he died. The novel had said most of the participants were unskilled, flashy fighters, and the top ten were ones with a fair amount of strength, but little experience. They couldn't be called weak, but there was a reason Raphael could beat them so easily, even if he hadn't reached his full strength yet.

But it was worth a shot.

Plan B was to steal the winner's herbal bag, or try to bargain for it with money. Soren preferred the former option, but he didn't want to draw too much attention to himself as long as he was still a 'prince'.

Not to mention Raphael's suspicion toward him. It was impossible for Raphael to gain any information, but Soren had a feeling that the protagonist would definitely do something about his suspicions.

If it were Soren, he would eliminate the source of suspicion.

Considering things, Soren didn't mind if Raphael killed him since he doubted the other would watch over his corpse for long, and it would give Soren a peaceful escape from the kingdom.

But death wasn't painless, and if Soren didn't have to die, he wouldn't. 

He followed the policy of: if it happens, it happens, if it doesn't, it doesn't. The pain was tolerable after the many deaths he had, but it just wasn't preferable. He wouldn't go out of the way to avoid it, but he wouldn't charge toward it either, knowing he wouldn't die in the end.

The method he was about to use for training was an exception — for the sake of the idiotic host who loved his brothers so.

"For the next two weeks, do not disturb me." ordered Soren, packing a bag of supplies. 

There was a special space made for each of the princes, a training room of the sort. Inside, nobody could disturb them or hear any noise. The King had specially arranged it for his sons to maximize their potential, though Soren hadn't even touched it.

The 'space' was in the castle's basement. If Soren mulled over it, the King undoubtedly had powerful connections to find a space magician who was capable of such a feat.

But he didn't want to think too deeply. 

"Yes, master." said Damien respectfully. "I will deliver your meals at regular intervals in front of the door."

"Okay, thanks."

Soren started toward the basement, the supply bag swung over his shoulder. Damien had already sent equipment down to the 'space' with Soren's permission, so everything was set.

He would train himself to the point of death, and if he accidentally died in the process, it wouldn't be wise to have people around.

An undying body was never easy to explain — that fact, Soren knew all too well.

He sighed. He would definitely die a few times with the training plan in mind, and if he fully utilized the training room to the fullest. It could simulate battles, but also brought upon realistic weapons that could harm the user of the room. 

A high-quality, realistic simulator. 

The princes could decide what level to turn it to, as to not risk their lives, though Vincent was the one who turned it to the max. Today, and in the following two weeks, Soren would do so too.

He sighed. Dying really wasn't any fun, but he didn't enjoy owing a debt to the original even more.

As he thought that, he bumped into something.

'Deja vu.'

He stepped back, blinking a few times before looking up at the person who he had run into. Fierce amber eyes with undisguised disgust and flaming red curls that had a temper just as wild as their owner—

"Prince Erlen." said Soren, stepping back again as he swiped at his face. 

He decided to at least greet them, courtesy of the original, but that didn't mean any of his other words had to be polite. Him acknowledging their existence was already bothersome.

As expected, Erlen scowled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Is that of any business to you?"

"Ha! Do you think I care? I just don't want you blowing up the castle and embarrassing us anymore." he seethed, lips curving into a snarky smile.

Soren didn't even blink. "If you don't care, then move."

"You better not be messing around. I already know what a mess you've made in town."

Soren recalled a certain text regarding Erlen Rosenbaum.

[The third prince, Erlen Rosenbaum, despised nobility. He preferred the wild adventures and encounters with commoners and often spent time out of the castle with his friends. However, this was a secret from the royal family, who prided themselves in their identity.]

Erlen had met Raphael a few times out of the castle, and it was during Erlen's adventures into the town that he had become acquainted with Raphael. Not that it mattered at this time, but Soren really didn't want to be bothered.

"Did your friends tell you?" asked Soren languidly as Erlen's eyes widened in surprise.

The third prince did a brilliant job of hiding his ventures from the others, though the rest of the family cared little to investigate. Erlen hid his identity well that no rumours spread, so there was no need for suspicion. It was a well-kept secret, now revealed by the one person he had never thought would find out.

Erlen choked before he snapped, "What are you saying?!”

“I will find other ways to entertain myself if you stop me.”

"Is that a threat?"

"Do you take it as one?"

"Soren Rosenbaum, you...!" growled Erlen, knitting his brows in anger as he took deep breaths to calm down. "If you dare, I'll make your life a living hell!"

Soren stepped forth, rummaging through his bag before he lazily handed Erlen a knife. "If you want to kill me, do it quick. Don't waste time."

"What?! What the hell!" Erlen threw the knife that had been handed to him on the ground, fuming. "What's your problem, Soren?! Are you crazy?"

Soren was a little surprised. He had been certain that Erlen hated him more than anything, and would likely attack out of anger. It would be easier that way, since then Soren would have a reason to fight back and could be on his way. 

'If you liked your brothers any less, I wouldn't stop myself from hitting first.' thought Soren to the original, who had faded in time.

"You continue to bother me, don't let me go back, and won't kill me. The one with a problem, isn’t it you, Prince Erlen?"

"That...!"

"If there is nothing, then move to the side." Soren narrowed his eyes. "If you don't, then what I said before, you can take it as a threat."

"How dare you...!"

"Prince Erlen." interrupted Soren through uncaring, icy eyes. "You're irritating, and I don't like you. Since our feelings are mutual, we should keep it that way. Move."

Sugar-coated truths or acting was never something Soren was good at.

Erlen cursed and stomped past Soren, rudely shooting him a glare as he passed. Soren didn't even look at him, but reached down to toss the knife back into his bag and continue walking to the basement. 

He had successfully avoided most encounters with any of the other members of the Rosenbaum family outside of dinner, but his luck had worn out. Erlen, of the three annoyances, Atlas excluded, was the one Soren wanted to avoid the most, and also had the least feelings for.

Deimos' treatment of the original wasn't the best, but it wasn't the worst either, Vincent stayed silent mostly, but Erlen would go out of the way to pick a fight.

Soren reached the door engraved with his name as he thought that, giving one last sigh before he opened it. 

Once inside, the door couldn't be opened from the outside unless somebody had an emergency access permission. The King had it, but the possibility of him appearing was low.

Even if Soren was about to die.

He stepped into the room and the surroundings immediately changed, the expansive white walls twisting and turning before his eyes. Before long, a forest appeared in the air, towering, enormous trees of pure white and mystical blue. It seemed endless, with the dropping blue branches stretching towards the ground, crystal apples hanging like a treasure.

Light blue flowers glittered like gems, mixed in with the leaves and fruit.

Soren paused — the scenery would form to last place recorded, but could be changed to a place from memory. 

The forest was likely the base design inputted by the person who created the rooms to begin with. His respect for the unknown magician rose — someone could not easily create such a scenery, embodying the soothing calmness and blinding beauty as vividly as it did. 

It was like he was really there.

But such a place wasn't fit to be his battleground. Soren stopped for a moment, taking in the freshness of this illusion, and then closed his eyes. To adjust the scene, one would have to pull it up from memory.

Similar to the Forest of Beginning and Ends, only, it was an illusion. The details of the room were vague, but Soren understood the general idea and came to conclusions on his own. A minute later, the beautiful visuals of the snow-coloured trees faded, replaced by the empty, broken streets of the apocalypse.

Even in its emptiness, Soren could feel the sense of despair and death that lingered around, even in memory. 

It wasn't his despair.

But it was certainly his death.

This hellish, collapsing world also happened to be the place he was the most comfortable. Although that was debatable... he was the most used to it, but also recalled the most nightmares. But thinking back, it really had been comfortable — better than wandering on his own in his daily life for so many years.

Soren stretched his body on a jagged slab of stone, looking at the surrounding scene. It was truly realistic, from the atmosphere to the details. 

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Damien had programmed the fighting ‘sims’ according to his request, and Soren changed their appearance to fit the scene. 

The only difference was, the ability to use magic — Soren asked Damien to input that information since the teenager most likely knew more of it. 

He closed his eyes, standing on a pile of ruin as a buzzing, mechanical sound surrounded him.

The beautiful blue eyes opened.

A hundred people surrounded him, carrying an assortment of weapons as they stared up at his figure.

They were fake.

And Soren knew that.

But the feeling came to him like an instinct, as easy as putting socks on in the morning or combing one’s hair, and he stretched an arm out as a deadly black chain coiled around his wrist, creating a shocking contrast with his skin.

Damien had only set the skill level, and added in abilities — Soren set the overall level, and the amount.

MAX level.

He rushed forward, metal flying in the air like a second arm.

As expected, he only charged in for a few minutes, killing two of the hundred before his body was overwhelmed and he was buried under the hundred.

He died once.

But it was only the beginning.

Thankfully, the death didn’t take long and gave Soren a reasonable amount of pain that he could deal with. 

After the twentieth death, he found that the time he was taking to revive reached six seconds. One second wasn’t a lot, but the five seconds had been a norm for him.

He flexed his hands, tapped his chest and stretched his arms. No extra pain or strain — he felt fine.

Maybe it was a side effect of being in a body that wasn’t his own.

Soren rushed out once again, chains smashing against flesh, blood splattering everywhere. In every cycle, he killed one person more. Then, he started killing two more people, and then three and so forth.

However, he knew, simulation could only go so far. 

The primary purpose was to retrain this body’s instincts and build up muscle — his body would revert to its last appearance before death, keeping all his gained strength. Slowly, it built up.

He also wanted to get used to this body, as everybody had different strengths. In the past, he had extremely fast legs, and could outrun almost anyone.

Once he set his eyes on his prey, it wouldn’t be able to escape.

In this body, he lost the natural, explosive speed but gained flexibility. Soren moved his body as if he were dancing, flipping and leaping over bodies, spinning his body around to its maximum efficiency.

Once again, he grew familiar with this body — his body. From the feeling in the tip of his finger to the top of his skull, this was all his to own. He had to fully understand that to use it properly.

Strength wasn't just recklessly charging in over and over, and building muscle. 

Even if he could simply run wildly into the crowd without thinking and become stronger, it wasn’t the best method. To begin with, the natural strength of this body had its limitations.

Soren needed to understand his body, the way it moved on instinct, the weakness it showed when he moved, everything.

He ducked under a swinging blade, sweeping his chain around their several legs as the people flipped over like dominos. Tossing the chain up, he caught the blade and swiped at the crowd, cutting through skin like butter.

The boy died, over and over again.

And then he revived, over and over again.

Dying wasn’t painless, and it was a recklessly foolish method. There was something even worse than pain — mental anguish.

The emptiness that made a person feel so far, like somebody had gouged out their heart and left a gaping hole, like being in a crowd of people and not being seen; death was painful.

In an inexplicably unexplainable way. 

In a way Soren was well adapted to.

After three hundred or more deaths, he directly collapsed to the ground, huffing. His clothes were drenched in blood, corpses surrounding, littered around the collapsed world.

He stared at the strange red sky that he was once so used to seeing, huffing.

Soren blinked, and slowly closed his eyes as he took in the air, free of pollution and free of life. The stench of rotting bodies didn’t exist in this illusion, but he could still vaguely smell it.

Suddenly, a ray of light shot into the room, blindingly bright.

The young prince squinted, frowning.

How long had it been, even he didn’t know. The figure was like a dream, entering this scene of carnage.

A tall, looming shadow stood at the end, slowly becoming clearer in Soren’s eyes. Familiar blonde hair, cold-hearted amber eyes, and an imposing stance that would make a person tremble.

Soren looked away. “Why are you here, First Prince?”

“You... what is this...?” asked Vincent in a bewildered tone as he took in the bloody sight in front of him, and his very alive brother who was soaked in blood.

“Why are you here?”

“...Deimos is injured.”

Soren raised his head, his frown deepening. “What?”

Vincent rubbed his temples, but his voice was steady.

“He is in critical condition.”

“Soren, he wants to see you.”

“Immediately.”