Magic Witch

Beginning today, I shall embrace my role as a prince.

Cheng Yan felt someone calling out to him.

"Your Highness, awaken..."

He turned his head away, yet the voice persisted, growing louder. He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve.

"Your Highness, Prince!"

Cheng Yan's eyes snapped open. The familiar computer screen was gone, as was his desk and the wall plastered with notes. In their place lay an alien landscape — low stone houses, a bustling circular plaza, and a gallows erected in its center. He sat not on a plush swivel chair but a cold, hard iron throne, surrounded by an attentive audience. Among them, several women, garbed like medieval European nobles, covered their mouths, stifling their laughter.

What sort of bizarre place is this? Shouldn't I be rushing a blueprint? Cheng Yan's mind was a blank canvas, his body and spirit pushed to their limits after three days of overtime. He last remembered collapsing over his desk, his heart erratic...

"Your Highness, please pronounce the verdict."

The speaker was the one who had pulled at his sleeve. His visage was aged, around sixty, clad in a white robe, resembling Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings.

Is this a dream? Cheng Yan licked his dry lips. Verdict? What verdict?

But he soon understood. The crowd's eyes were fixed on the gallows, their fists waving, occasionally hurling stones.

Cheng Yan had only seen such archaic execution devices in films — two tall pillars, about four meters high, with a wooden beam across the top, embedding a rusty iron ring. A thick hemp rope ran through the ring, one end tied below the gallows, the other looped around the convict's neck.

In this eerie dream, he found his vision astonishingly sharp. Normally nearsighted, he could now discern every detail of the distant gallows.

The convict wore a hood, hands bound behind, dressed in a rough, dirtied tunic. Her slender frame, frail ankles visible, suggested a woman. Despite shivering in the wind, she stood with a defiant straightness.

Alright, what crime has this poor soul committed to warrant such public wrath, eager for her execution?

As the thought crossed his mind, memories flooded back, painting a clear picture.

She was a "witch."

Seduced by the devil, an embodiment of impurity.

"Your Highness?" The Gandalf-like figure, actually named Barov, the assistant to the Minister of Finance, urged cautiously.

Cheng Yan glanced at him. Ah, not Gandalf but Barov, sent to assist him in governance.

And he, Cheng Yan, was now Roland, the fourth prince of the Graycastle Kingdom, sent to oversee this land. Local residents had captured a witch and brought her to trial — not to the police station but the judiciary. As the ruling prince, it was his duty to sign the execution order.

His newly accessed memories laid out all the answers he needed, seamlessly integrated into his consciousness as if lived experiences. Cheng Yan was baffled; no dream could be this detailed. So, this wasn't a dream? Had he traveled back to medieval Europe to become Roland? From a draftsmen working through the night to a noble prince?

Though his kingdom seemed barren and backward, and the name Graycastle unfamiliar in history books, what next?

For now, Cheng Yan had to stop this farce — blaming tragedies on unfortunate souls was a hallmark of unenlightened civilizations, but executing them to satisfy a crowd's dark psyche was beyond his acceptance.

He snatched the execution order from Barov's hands and tossed it aside, stretching languidly. "Tired, let's adjourn this for another day. Everyone, disperse!"

His actions were not impulsive but a careful emulation of the prince's known demeanor, embodying his capricious and reprehensible nature. After all, what could one expect from an uncontrollable, early-twenty-something prince?

The nobles, accustomed to such behavior, showed little reaction. However, a tall, armored man stood, objecting, "Your Highness, this is no jest! Once a witch is identified, immediate execution is imperative. What if other witches come to her rescue? The Church will not overlook this."

Carter Lannis, his chief knight, stood righteous before him. Cheng Yan retorted with undisguised scorn, "Are you afraid?" His words were no longer an act; a man with arms thicker than others' bodies fearing an escape attempt was ludicrous. "Wouldn't it be better to catch more at once?"

With Carter silenced, Cheng Yan motioned to his guards to lead him away. The nobles rose, bowing, but Cheng Yan noticed their undisguised disdain.

Back at his quarters in the castle, he ordered the anxious assistant minister to be held outside. Only then did he breathe easier.

For someone who spent 90% of his time withcomputers, performing such a role in front of others was an achievement above his usual capacity. Cheng Yan located his bedroom as per his memory and sat there, calming his racing heart. The immediate priority was to understand the situation. As a prince, why was he in this desolate land instead of the royal castle?

The more he thought, the more stunned he was by the answers that came to him. Roland Wimbledon had come to vie for the throne. The bizarre decree of King Wimbledon III of Graycastle sparked this competition: The right to the throne would not go to the eldest prince but to the most capable ruler. The king's adult children were sent to govern different territories, and after five years, their governance would determine the heir apparent.

It sounded progressive - meritocracy and gender equality. However, the execution was far from equal. How could one ensure a level playing field for all five? This wasn't a real-time strategy game. As far as Cheng Yan knew, the territory given to the second prince was far better than this remote town. In fact, no place seemed worse than this remote town, starting at a significant disadvantage.

Furthermore, how would governance be evaluated? Population? Military? Economy? There were no set standards, nor limits to the competition. What if someone resorted to assassination? Would the queen mother watch her children kill each other? Wait... he remembered, another bad news, the queen mother had died five years ago.

Cheng Yan sighed. Clearly, this was a barbaric and dark feudal era, as evident from the indiscriminate witch hunts. Becoming a prince was a high starting point. Even without winning the throne, his royal blood still made him a lord.

And what then, being a king? Without the internet or modern civilization, would he end up like these natives, burning witches for amusement, living in a city where filth was dumped at will, dying from the Black Death?

Cheng Yan pushed aside the chaotic thoughts and approached the floor-length mirror in his bedroom. The reflection showed a man with light grey curly hair, a distinct trait of the Graycastle royal family. His features were fair, though his demeanor lacked refinement, appearing unimposing. Pale, unfit, whether given to debauchery, he recalled, seemed not too bad. Several consensual lovers in the royal city, no forced relationships.

The reason for his transmigration, Cheng Yan surmised, was likely the inhumane pressure from clients and overnight work arranged by his boss, leading to a sudden death - a common tale among coders, draftsmen, and engineers.

Nevertheless, it was akin to an extra life, and he shouldn't complain. Perhaps he could gradually change this life, but for now, the priority was to play the role of the prince, not to arouse suspicion and end up tied to a stake for being possessed.

"So be it, let's survive first," he whispered to his reflection, "From this moment on, I am Roland."

For days, he locked himself in his room, thoroughly revisiting his knowledge of this world, taking his meals alone, served by the servants. Driven by a strong desire to survive, Roland forcefully suppressed his fear and discomfort in this unfamiliar environment. He knew all too well that gathering more information quickly could reduce the risk of exposure.

Regrettably, the Fourth Prince's mind was filled with nothing beyond frivolous pursuits. Roland's efforts to recall anything of value, such as noble insights, political dynamics, or foreign relations, were futile. Even basic knowledge like city names and significant historical events seemed disjointed from his own understanding of European history.

It seemed the prince was destined to never ascend the throne. Perhaps the King of Grey Castle knew this, relegating him to this forsaken place—knowing well that even his reckless behavior couldn't cause much harm here.

Reflecting on