Riven’s body burned with heat, as though fire had taken root beneath his skin. His head throbbed violently, vision swimming, and every joint ached like it was being torn apart. There was no doubt about it, he was running a high fever.

When he tried to stand, his body wavered. Only then did he realize… he must have passed out under the unrelenting storm the night before.

Now, the sun hung high in the sky, its light piercing through breaks in the canopy, illuminating the earth still soaked from last night’s rain. Riven pushed himself up, slow and reluctant. His head felt heavy and clouded. Sleeping outside during a storm, even with the body of a Lawbearer who had long surpassed human limits, was still a stupid mistake.

His steps were slow, dragging. Each breath was a struggle, pain lacing through every muscle and bone. Something felt heavy at his side. Weakly, he reached for it—his sword, Riftmaker.

He drew it, staring at it in silence. The silver gleam was unchanged from when he first found it, but it no longer held promise. Once, he had hoped to sell the blade—to give Melly a better life, something cleaner than this rotten world.

But now…

Now, all he saw in its reflection was his own failure. Riftmaker was no longer a symbol of strength. Just a reminder. Of wounds. Of ruin. Of helplessness.

Riven exhaled through clenched teeth.

With a hoarse cry—held in for too long—he swung the sword toward the river beside him. The blade cut the air, but nothing happened. No sound. No explosion. Just a hollow whistle through the emptiness.

And in that instant, disgust surged within him. With the last of his strength, he hurled Riftmaker into the river.

The sword pierced the water’s surface with a soft splash, then vanished into the depths without resistance.

Riven stood at the riverbank, breath heaving, chest rising and falling like he was choking on something unseen. The cold current rolled on, quietly devouring the blade as if it had never existed.

He stared at the water for a long time, hoping for… something. Maybe the sword to return. Maybe for all of this to be a dream. But nothing happened.

All that remained was him. Soaked. Shaking. Alone.

Riven lowered his head. Beneath the haze of fever and pain, he felt… empty. As if the last thing tethering him to anything had just been cast away.

He lifted one foot. One step.

The ground was still muddy. Sludge clung to his heel and toes, but he kept walking. Another step. Then another. Each footfall stripped away the remnants of who he had once been.

He walked without aim. Following no path, just wet grass and roots that snaked from the earth. Around him, the forest remained silent. No birds. No wind. Only the sound of his footsteps—slow, dragging, almost a groan.

His body trembled. But he moved forward.

The sky was bright that day, clouds hanging low overhead. The same sunlight that had once broken through the canopy now stung his eyes—eyes that no longer recognized hope. The damp air clung to his skin like a fog of sorrow that refused to lift.

He looked down again, at his dirt-caked feet. One foot in front of the other.

Not because he knew where to go.

But because if he stopped now… it would truly be over.

He had no goal. No home. No future. His sister—the only family he had left—had left him alone in this world.

But he still had Ashtoria.

And perhaps, that alone was enough to keep his legs moving.

One step.

Then another.

Riven kept walking. Through forests, valleys, and empty fields, his journey carried him without meaning. When hunger came, he caught fish from shallow rivers with his bare hands, or hunted small animals using crude traps. He sometimes ate wild fruits—too sour, sometimes poisonous, leaving his stomach twisted through the night. But he didn’t care. He didn’t live for comfort—he moved simply because there was no other choice.

When tired, he slept beneath trees or behind large rocks that barely shielded him from the cold wind. Rain, heat, insects—none of it mattered. The days passed without sound, without purpose. The world stayed grey. The sky remained dim. And Riven… kept walking.

Until one sweltering afternoon, his steps brought him to the edge of a city.

This place was loud, unlike the lifeless villages he’d passed on the road. In the central square, a crowd had gathered, some curious, others excited. Children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, mothers pushed through the crowd, and young men stood tall, puffing their chests as though ready to prove something.

Atop a large wooden platform stood a broad-shouldered man clad in light armor, his gear glinting under the sun. His beard was thick, his presence bold, and his eyes burned with a fierce energy. He raised a scroll high and roared with a voice that tore through the air:

“HEAR ME, PEOPLE OF ISKANDRITE!”

His voice echoed, jolting the front rows. The crowd fell silent. Even the creak of wagon wheels stopped.

“This is an age of war! An era of blood and reckoning! The Three Kingdoms have moved to destroy us! And the noble traitors… yes, those you all know, have stabbed our Queen in the back!”

Shouts erupted. Some cursed the nobles. Others simply jeered.

“BUT!” the soldier bellowed, raising a single finger to the sky. “From this destruction, a new strength shall rise! FROM TREACHERY, COMES OPPORTUNITY!”

The crowd shifted, murmurs growing. The word “opportunity” always roared louder than war.

“The Kingdom of Iskandrite is RECRUITING! The Queen herself has decreed a MASSIVE DRAFT! This is your chance—your chance as common folk to become HEROES! Not just soldiers… but NOBLES!”

The murmurs surged into cheers.

“Lands lie vacant! Territories stand leaderless! The Queen…—” he raised his hand as though lifting a sacred relic, “has purged the traitors! AND THEIR LANDS WILL BE GIVEN TO THOSE WHO PROVE WORTHY!”

Cheers. Applause. A young man lifted a wooden sword high, yelling, “I’LL BE A NOBLE!”

The armored man pointed at him with a grin. “That’s the spirit! Today, you’re not just farmers or laborers! Today, you become part of history!”

Amid all the chaos, Riven stood still. At the edge of the crowd, unsmiling. His eyes dim. His face unreadable.

A burly man, rough and brutish like a street thug, brushed past him—perhaps by accident, or maybe to provoke him.

“Oi, watch it—”

The words died in his throat.

He saw Riven’s face.

That twisted grin formed by deep, grotesque scars on his cheek. A cold, pale expression. Dark eyes that stared back like bottomless pits.

The man took a step back.

“Uh… my bad, man,” he mumbled, and quickly fled like a frightened boy.

Riven didn’t move. He watched the crowd like someone observing a world that no longer belonged to him.

And then, without emotion, he walked toward a large tent on the western side of the square, where men and women lined up in a single file. The recruitment tent.

Inside, the scent of parchment, sweat, and steel clung to the air. The clerk behind the table looked exhausted, red-eyed, hand moving quickly as he scribbled names onto a long scroll.

When Riven’s turn came, the man glanced up, quill ready.

“Name?” he asked, flatly.

Riven opened his mouth. “Riv—”

But he stopped.

Then, in a calm, low voice, he said:

“Zerachiel.”

“…What?”

“… “

After a moment of thought, Riven realized how strange that name sounded. And then a memory surfaced, his name from his previous life.

“Bastian. That’s my name.”

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[Prologue Ends]

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Hey guys, author here! Thanks a ton for sticking with me all the way to this final chapter. Honestly, I’m surprised you made it this far, especially with a main character who was super weak and only awakened after chapter 150.

I know this novel has its fair share of issues. Some parts are weird, awkward, cringe, or just off. And yeah… it didn’t get a contract, probably because this is a remake of my older version. Still, I’m grateful, because this one taught me a lot.

And to be real with you, I never planned to quit. But if I want this story to reach its full potential, I need to rebuild it the right way. So I’m working on the next novel, it’s technically a continuation, not a reboot, but with better worldbuilding and a more refined plot.

Right now, the temporary title is I’m the Yandere Queen’s Mad Dog. Yeah, I know, it sounds ridiculous. I’ll probably change it later. The next version will be stronger, better structured, and way more engaging. Don’t worry, the story will still continue directly from here. It’s not a restart; it’s a polished version.

And you can already check it out.

Thank you so much for reading, commenting, supporting, and just being here. I truly couldn’t have come this far without you.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep