THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 2: THE REBIRTH

It is far past midnight in Nagoya.

The office tower of Nahori Weapons stands like a sentinel in the industrial district, glass glinting beneath the sallow hue of streetlamps. Inside, the 34th floor is silent, save for the faint mechanical hum of computers and the soft clink of a porcelain mug being set on a desk.

Kadai Tadahisa, a 29-year-old weapons engineer with the demeanor of a war veteran and the hair of a boyband star, sits in a cubicle that should have been vacant five hours ago. A cold cup of Americano rests half-drunk at his elbow, surrounded by crumpled napkins, a half-empty bowl of boiled green beans, a plate once bearing dumplings, and a glistening remains of fried chicken skin. His last supper: a fusion feast of caffeine and cholesterol, ordered from the nearby 24-hour Yoru-Café.

"Damn it," Kadai mutters, rubbing his temple. "I'm so tired I could pass out in the server room and wake up in a metal coffin."

His long fingers slide over blueprints displayed on the massive screen before him. It's the latest prototype: the Barrage Storm 1, a next-gen sniper rifle designed to fire both incendiary grenades and submachine-grade rounds in tight, seamless succession. Its schematics glow pale blue in the low light. It is sleek, deadly, illegal in half the known world. But it is beautiful.

"Trigger... reinforced. Scope... stable. Auto-feed... reliable. No defects." Kadai ticks off the checklist with the efficiency of a surgeon, his voice a tired monotone. "This bastard will kill gods if we ever need it to."

He leans back, weary eyes blinking at the monitor.

Click.

With a tap, he finalizes the P*F, attaches it to a short email to the Head Engineer, and hits send.

A weight falls from his shoulders. Not metaphorically. Literally.

His body slumps. Head hits desk. Breath slows.

Before darkness takes him, one last thought flickers like a dying star:

So this is how I die. Kadai Tadahisa, top-tier weapons engineer and former military officer. Dead of overwork, alone in a cubicle. At least I died doing what I love. If there's a next life... I want to be the main character. I want to shape the world, not be used by it.

Light floods his senses. Not office fluorescence. Something older. Something warmer.

He wakes on silken sheets that smell faintly of spiced wine and expensive perfume. His fingers curl into embroidered pillows. His eyes open to see high-vaulted ceilings and gilded furniture, an opulent room too perfect to be his own.

Then the memories flood in. Not his.

But the body's.

Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria.

Exiled to the icy, forsaken province of Frostmark by royal decree. Officially, "to govern and restore the province to prosperity." Unofficially? Banishment. Political exile. Disposal of a drunken, arrogant, third-born embarrassment.

Kadai, no, Cain now, blinks, brain recalibrating. The transition from modernity to medieval absurdity is jarring.

So I’m in one of those reincarnation manhwas I used to binge on weekends, he muses, sitting up. Predictable. Border province? Check. Corrupt local officials? Check. Looming winter? Magic beasts? Barbarian raids? Double check.

His sharp eyes sweep the chamber.

Garments of obscene luxury lay strewn across the floor—silks, brocades, fur-lined capes. Empty goblets and half-eaten pastries litter the tables. The previous Cain lived like a pig in a golden sty.

"Fucking disgrace," he mutters with aristocratic contempt. His voice, now smoother, deeper than before, fits this body of princely youth perfectly.

Then he sees it.

A shimmer in the air. A flicker of sleek sci-fi against feudal decadence.

A floating holographic interface, glowing in cobalt-blue pixels, materializes before his eyes. The air buzzes slightly as its digital form settles, sleek as any military-grade HUD he’d used in his past life.

“ DING! “

“ Welcome, Third Prince Cain Vailtair Thaloria.

You have acquired: Illegally Modified Blueprints System.

Access granted to all blueprints Kadai Tadahisa knew in his past life, including forbidden and classified weapons. All categories unlocked. Blueprint selection is instantaneous. Funds and resources may be conjured directly. Use with caution (or don’t. It's your empire now).

Tap to Materialize: Blueprint | Item | Funds.”

Cain smirks. "So I get cheat codes. Of course I do."

He taps the floating menu, which expands like a blooming lotus, revealing a sleek arsenal of options. Weaponry. Infrastructure. Cryptography. Masonry. Telecommunications. Even the Space Age.

"They really handed me god-mode, huh?" he murmurs.

He scrolls to weaponry, selecting something subtle. No need to turn the entire province's heads just yet.

“ Item Materialized: Modified 50-Caliber Musket (Exploding Rounds, Scope, Rapid Reload)

Item Materialized: Modified Flintlock Pistol (Same Mods)

Combat Knives (Poisoned, Reinforced Steel, 18th Century Design)

Military Attire: Khaki, Reinforced, Adorned with Umbralith Insignia (Anti-Magic).

Holsters, Ammunition Pouch, Sling, and Basilisk-venom knife sheaths added. “

He dresses quickly, discarding the gaudy princely garb for something sleek and efficient. The uniform fits like a second skin. Elegant, dangerous.

The musket slings across his back with a satisfying click. The pistol rests on his hip like an old friend. The knives slide into place. The dark military vest, etched with runes and Umbralith threads to ward off holy magic, completes the transformation.

Goodbye, drunken princeling. Hello, military god.

Cain strides to the mirror.

What stares back is not Kadai Tadahisa, nor the pathetic prince he replaced.

It is something more.

"I look like a warlord who fucks nobles and kills cardinals," he says, amused.

He turns back to the glowing interface.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Non-Electric Typewriter: Materialized.

He places it on the desk.

He replaces the chamber's hideous furnishings with more pragmatic choices, wooden table, high-backed chair, a lockbox for weapons, wool bedding. Clean, functional, austere.

Frostmark Province was a wasteland.

But beneath the snow and corruption, Cain sees its potential. Resource-rich. Strategically placed. Unloved, but not unredeemable.

Except for the rats.

The so-called "secretaries" of Frostmark: corrupt appointees of the Church and the Crown Prince, busy feasting in the Winterkeep's Great Hall, blind to the storm approaching.

Bloated ticks sucking the lifeblood of this province. Useless as priests in a brothel, Cain thinks coldly.

He doesn't need to gather evidence. He doesn’t need a trial.

He needs results.

Tonight, justice will not be blind. It will be well-armed.

Cain checks the lock on his musket. Loads his pistol. Ties his cloak. Then, he turns on his heel, bootheels echoing in the empty hall.

He moves with precision through Winterkeep Citadel, passing guards too afraid to meet his eyes. They see something in him now that they didn’t before. Power. Purpose. Madness.

Snow whips at his cloak as he emerges into the courtyard. The moon above is full and pale, like the eye of a dead god.

At the far end of the square, the Feast Hall blazes with firelight, laughter, and the sounds of gluttony.

Cain approaches.

Each step is calm.

Measured.

Inevitable.

He reaches the door.

Places one hand on the handle.

And kicks.

CRACK.

The grand oak doors explode inward.

Gasps erupt from within. Goblets clatter. A roast boar topples from its tray.

Cain Vailtair Thaloria, reborn from the ashes of Kadai Tadahisa, steps into the hall.

His cloak billows. Musket gleams.

His mocking voice cuts through the shocked silence like a dagger through silk.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I trust the food is worth your treachery."