Breaking the Multiverse for You

The golden sunlight spilled over the sprawling gardens of the Shelb estate, dappling the vibrant roses, violets, and carefully trimmed hedges in warm, golden hues. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a centuries-old oak tree, under which Micheal von Shelb reclined, seemingly without a care in the world.

His long platinum blonde hair shimmered like spun silver, cascading in loose waves over his shoulders. His relaxed posture—one arm draped over his chest, the other trailing into the soft grass—belied the sharpness in his striking blue eyes, now closed as he dozed in the warm afternoon.

At 6'2", Micheal was an imposing figure, yet his reputation was far from heroic. The youngest son of Duke von Shelb, he was dismissed as idle, unambitious, and uninterested in the family's lofty military legacy. What few realized, however, was that Micheal's sharp mind had quietly turned the Shelb household into one of the wealthiest in the empire. Strategic investments, innovative ventures, and his unparalleled business acumen made him the true architect of the family's financial empire.

But this role brought little respect or gratitude from his family, who were preoccupied with military glory and political alliances. Micheal allowed their underestimation to persist; it offered him a kind of freedom.

Today, however, Micheal's peaceful facade shattered.

In his sleep, Micheal's mind was invaded by a kaleidoscope of intertwined stories—a vision that felt less like a dream and more like an undeniable truth. He was no mere reluctant nobleman forced into an unwanted marriage but a side character in a novel in the multiverse of novels, written by countless unseen authors.

One story stood out: Fake Rose Better Than the Real.

In this novel, Flora, the Emperor's adopted daughter, was the protagonist. Micheal's role? The third male lead, a minor character doomed to serve as a convenient "money bag" for Flora's rise to power. His fortune funded her journey, his efforts went unnoticed, and his ultimate demise added tragedy to the heroine's arc.

The revelation was both humiliating and infuriating. Micheal saw the gears of his life manipulated by forces beyond his control. He awoke abruptly, his chest heaving as though he'd surfaced from drowning.

"This can't be real," he muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead. But the dream's clarity lingered, impossible to dismiss.

As he woke up and his head felt clearer, the narrative unraveled in Micheal's mind with excruciating clarity, a tale meticulously detailed as if it had been etched into his soul.

Flora, the Emperor's adopted daughter was the central figure of the novel. She was the child of Livya Featherfield, a country noblewoman and childhood friend of the Empress. Livya had been a radiant beauty in her youth, with a sharp mind and a loving relationship with her husband, Steffan Featherfield. However, tragedy struck the Featherfield estate when financial ruin loomed over them.

Steffan, burdened by debt and disgrace, could no longer shield pregnant Livya from the toll of their crumbling house. In a gesture of compassion and kinship, the Empress, who was herself nearing the end of a difficult pregnancy, summoned Livya to the palace to shield her from the stress. Livya, grateful yet desperate, saw this as an opportunity to secure a brighter future for her unborn child.

The imperial palace was an ethereal marvel, its grand halls glimmering with crystal chandeliers and golden embellishments. Yet, within these splendid walls, anxiety brewed. The Empress's pregnancy had taken a toll on her health, and her mana levels were dangerously low. Whispers of her impending demise filled the palace corridors, unsettling everyone who held her dear.

Livya, watching her friend endure the strain, felt a pang of dread. She worried not only for the Empress but for her own precarious situation. If the Empress were to die, would the Emperor continue to support the Featherfield estate, as he had promised through his wife? Or would Livya's child be condemned to a life of obscurity and hardship like her own?

When news of the Empress's labor reached her, Livya was overcome by fear. She had already secretly procured a potion known to induce labor—a dangerous concoction forbidden in the capital. As the Empress's labor began, Livya steeled herself and drank the potion.

Her child, Flora, was born hours before the Empress's. The midwives, overwhelmed by the Empress's critical condition, paid little attention to Livya. This lapse allowed Livya to enact her desperate plan.

Under the cover of night, Livya bribed a midwife to exchange the infants. The midwife, fearful yet enticed by the gold pressed into her hand, complied reluctantly. Flora, with her blonde hair and green eyes, was placed in the cradle meant for the imperial child.

When the Empress's daughter was born hours later, she had jet-black hair and striking crimson eyes—traits that unmistakably marked her as the Emperor's. The midwife handed the imperial child to Livya, who was too weak from labor and the potion's effects to notice the enormity of her actions.

Livya's logic had been simple, albeit cruel: if the Empress died, her daughter would be raised as a princess under the Emperor's care. But Livya had not accounted for the physical disparities between Flora and her supposed parents, nor for the absence of magical abilities in her daughter.

Flora's childhood was a bittersweet tale, far removed from the bright and carefree life her mother, Livya, had envisioned for her. She grew up in the grandeur of the imperial palace, surrounded by gilded opulence and perfumed halls, yet her existence was marked by profound loneliness. Though titled a princess, Flora was seen as an unwelcome addition to the imperial family—an emblem of betrayal in the Emperor's eyes.

Her blonde hair and green eyes bore no resemblance to the Emperor's raven-black hair and crimson eyes or the late Empress's silver hair and golden gaze. To the court, she was a walking scandal, the supposed product of the Empress's infidelity. What made it worse was her lack of magical abilities, a stark contrast to the Emperor's powerful mana as a Mage and the Empress's renowned healing abilities.

Whispers plagued the palace.

"She doesn't look like them," courtiers murmured behind their fans.

"Perhaps the Empress wasn't as virtuous as we thought."

The Emperor, though convinced of her illegitimacy, could not bring himself to harm Flora. She was his last connection to the late Empress—the woman he had loved with every fiber of his being. To destroy Flora would have severed his final tie to the woman who had made his world whole. Instead, he allowed Flora to live but treated her with cold indifference.

From an early age, Flora learned that her presence in the palace was tolerated, not celebrated. She grew up in an environment that demanded perfection while constantly reminding her of her inadequacy. Her days were dictated by a strict regimen of lessons designed to mold her into the perfect princess. From etiquette classes to political studies, Flora's schedule left little room for the joys of childhood.

"Keep your chin high, Princess," one tutor would instruct.

"A true royal does not show emotion," another would say, their tone clipped.

"Smile, Princess," her tutors would remind her incessantly. "A smile hides all weaknesses."

Flora obeyed, presenting a polished façade to the world, but beneath the surface, her heart ached for acceptance and understanding. Her peers either ignored her or mocked her subtly, cloaking their jabs in faux politeness. Other noble children avoided her, their parents warning them to stay away from the "illegitimate princess." Even palace servants treated her with caution, their smiles forced and their bows shallow.

Despite her struggles, Flora bore it all in silence. She desperately wanted to belong, to make the Emperor proud, but his emotional distance only deepened her sense of isolation. Her childhood was far from the warmth and joy Livya had imagined for her. Instead, it was a cold, unyielding landscape where every interaction felt like a battle for survival.

Flora's one escape from the suffocating expectations of court life was the palace gardens. Beyond the towering palace walls, the garden was a sanctuary of blooming roses, trickling fountains, and winding paths shaded by ancient trees. Here, she could shed the expectations of being a princess and simply exist.

At twelve, during one of her frequent escapes, Flora stumbled upon a boy tending to the roses. His hands were dirtied with soil, and he worked with quiet diligence. His simple clothing suggested he was a gardener's son.

"You missed a weed," Flora said, pointing at a clump of grass near the rose bush, her tone playful but mock-serious.

The boy looked up, startled, his wide blue eyes meeting hers. "I—uh, sorry, Princess," he stammered, quickly brushing his hands on his trousers in an attempt to clean them.

Flora grinned for the first time in weeks. "You're forgiven," she said, her voice softening. "What's your name?"

"Fredrick," he replied hesitantly.

"Fredrick," she repeated, testing the name. "Well, Fredrick, you'd better be more thorough next time. The roses deserve only the best."

What Flora didn't know was that Fredrick wasn't a gardener's son. He was the only surviving child of the Duke of the North. His mother has been semi-paralyzed, and his elder brother had been killed by barbarians from beyond the northern wastelands during the previous winter, leaving him as the heir to the Northern Dukedom. His father, a strict and unyielding man hardened by years of battle, had sent Fredrick to the capital to learn courtly manners. Working in the gardens was his father's idea of teaching humility.

For Fredrick, the lonely girl who spoke to him with unexpected warmth became a curious mystery. She treated him with kindness, untainted by the politics of court life. Their chance meeting planted the seeds of a connection that would shape their futures.

Despite these fleeting moments of happiness, Flora's childhood remained a delicate balancing act of strength and vulnerability. Her interactions with Fredrick and the kindness of a few compassionate tutors gave her hope, but they could not erase the pervasive loneliness she felt.

Livya had dreamed of a life for Flora filled with love, joy, and endless possibilities. Instead, Flora navigated the treacherous waters of the imperial court, bearing the brunt of whispers, suspicion, and isolation. Her life was not the fairytale Livya had imagined but a harsh lesson in survival.

As Flora grew older, she developed a charm and resilience that disarmed even her harshest critics. Yet beneath the polished exterior was a girl who yearned for genuine connection, carrying the weight of secrets she did not yet understand. Her childhood shaped her into a complex figure—one who would later become the heart of Fake Rose Better Than the Real, the tragic story Micheal von Shelb now knew with painful clarity.

When Flora turned fifteen, an event shook the imperial court, one that would mark her as even more of an outsider. The Emperor, in a rare public declaration, announced a historic change to the royal succession process. Instead of following the time-honored custom of passing the throne to the next of kin, he introduced a competition—the Race for the Throne.

"All descendants of the royal bloodline under the age of twenty-five," the Emperor proclaimed, "shall have the opportunity to prove their worth. The one who demonstrates the most all-rounded excellence, wisdom, and strength shall ascend as the next crown prince or princess."

The declaration was revolutionary. For centuries, succession had been determined by birthright. While some hailed the Emperor's decision as a meritocratic step forward, others saw it as an unspoken condemnation of Flora. After all, why would the Emperor disregard his only child as the presumptive heir unless he doubted her legitimacy?

The court wasted no time in whispering their speculations.

"Surely, this is because of the Princess's questionable lineage," murmured one noble.

"He doesn't trust her to carry the legacy of the empire," said another, their fan hiding a smug grin.

Flora felt the weight of their stares, the judgment in their whispers. Though she had long grown accustomed to the court's disdain, this public slight from the Emperor—a father who had never acknowledged her as his own—was a wound deeper than any other. She was left to navigate a palace where every glance seemed to say what no one dared to speak aloud: "She is not the Emperor's daughter."

The Emperor had his reasons for this unprecedented decision. Though Flora's presence reminded him of the Empress he had lost, he could not fully see her as his own daughter. The whispers of her illegitimacy, her lack of resemblance to either him or the Empress, and her absence of magical abilities had long plagued his mind. In his heart, he harbored doubts he refused to confront. Yet, he could not bring himself to exile her or strip her of her title entirely. Flora remained a tie to the woman he had loved, and for that alone, he allowed her to stay.

The Race for the Throne was his way of ensuring the empire's future. He loved his Empire and it was more like his first child with the late Empress than Flora could ever be in his mind. The late Empress worked tirelessly for the Empire till she could no longer work in her late pregnancy. He believed that by allowing all eligible royal descendants to compete, the strongest and most capable candidate would emerge. The competition, he reasoned, would unite the empire under a worthy leader, free from the constraints of tradition.

For Flora, it was yet another blow to her already fragile identity. While other royal descendants saw the announcement as an opportunity, she viewed it as a dismissal of her very existence. Her place in the palace, already tenuous, became even more uncertain.

Magda Featherfield grew up in the shadow of her family's former glory, far from the gilded halls of the imperial palace. The crumbling Featherfield estate, once a symbol of nobility, became a grim reminder of their fall from grace. The young girl assumed the role of acting head of the household, caring for her father, Steffan Featherfield, whose descent into grief and alcohol left him a shell of the promising noble he once was.

Steffan, a once-ambitious country noble, had faced what could have been a temporary financial crisis. But the sudden death of his beloved wife, Livya, and the arrival of a child who bore no resemblance to him or his family destroyed him. Magda's black hair and crimson eyes, starkly contrasting the Featherfield lineage, hinted at a royal heritage, a possibility Steffan both resented and feared.

He blamed Magda in quiet moments, the anger festering alongside his guilt and gratitude. The child he suspected wasn't his blood was the only one who stayed by his side, tending to his needs when the rest of the Featherfield relatives abandoned them. Yet, her uncanny resemblance to the Emperor was a constant reminder of Livya's possible betrayal.

Magda earned the title "Witch of Featherfield" in the countryside due to her eerie red eyes and her prodigious talent in magic which set her apart. Despite lacking formal training, she displayed an affinity for magic that was unheard of in a girl from an impoverished noble house. From a young age, she had a knack for understanding the arcane, despite the lack of formal instruction. Her talent became her escape and her shield, a way to carve a path for herself.

At sixteen, her magical potential caught the attention of an imperial scout, earning her a scholarship to the prestigious Academy for Special Talents in the capital. For the first time, Magda left the estate and stepped into a world far removed from the one she knew.

Her first months at the Academy were isolating. The capital's nobles looked down on her rustic manners and plain clothing. Yet Magda's talent was undeniable, and even her harshest critics begrudgingly respected her abilities. She stood out in every class, her mastery of advanced spells and mana manipulation leaving both peers and instructors in awe.

A routine evaluation at the Academy revealed the truth behind her extraordinary abilities. During a demonstration, the examiner, an experienced mage, watched as Magda conjured an intricate magical barrier with barely a flick of her wrist.

"That's impossible," he muttered, his hands trembling as he measured her mana reserves. They were nearly infinite, dwarfing even the Emperor's legendary capacity.

"What do you mean?" Magda asked, her voice steady, though her crimson eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

The examiner struggled to respond, his mind reeling. Finally, he stammered, "You… you're of royal bloodline."

Magda froze. The room fell silent, save for the hum of magical instruments still calibrating her immense mana levels.

Within hours, the Academy's headmaster was notified. Understanding the gravity of the situation, he carefully approached the matter. Claiming to have discovered the most promising mage in a thousand years, he requested an audience with the Emperor. Privately, the headmaster feared that Magda's existence might point to a scandal—a possible illegitimate child of the Emperor.