Once upon a time, in a grand estate where chandeliers dripped with crystals and golden staircases spiraled into the heavens, there was born a girl unlike any other. Chantelle Dupont was her name, a world-famous ballerina known for her breathtaking elegance, mesmerizing eyes that seemed to hold the universe within them, and ears—large, expressive, and ever so unique. But more than her beauty and talent, she was known for her big heart.
From the moment she could walk, she danced. Not just any dance, but movements so fluid and graceful that they seemed to defy the laws of nature.
Born into wealth, Chantelle never knew struggle, but she was not one to squander her gifts. She trained harder than anyone else, waking before dawn to practice, her body bruised and sore, but her spirit untouchable. The world took notice of her brilliance. By the age of eighteen, she was the star of the Parisian ballet, performing before royalty and aristocrats who whispered of her divine talent. Her ears, once considered a quirk of nature, became part of her ethereal charm, accentuating the elegance of her every movement. She was adored, envied, and unstoppable.
Then, on the night of her most awaited performance—Swan Lake at the Grand Palais—disaster struck.
A jealous rival, lurking in the shadows of the theater, had long simmered in silent rage. This dancer, Elise Fontaine, had trained just as hard, sacrificed just as much, but had never reached the heights Chantelle had. Fueled by envy, she made a single, cruel decision.
As Chantelle prepared backstage, Elise approached her with a feigned smile, offering a bottle of water infused with something sinister. Within moments of drinking, Chantelle felt her muscles weaken, her balance falter. But she was no coward. Determined to go on, she took to the stage, the lights blinding, the audience breathless. The first act passed in a blur, but in the second act—where the White Swan must leap with ethereal grace—Chantelle faltered. Her vision swam, her limbs betrayed her, and she crashed to the stage in a way no ballerina ever should.
Gasps echoed through the theater. A hush fell. Then, murmurs. Then, chaos.
Chantelle's leg, her most precious instrument, was shattered. But worse than that—her heart slowed, her breath hitched, and the darkness took her.
She died.
But death was not the end.
In the void of nothingness, a glowing text appeared before her:
“Would you like to enter another world?”
With no other choice, she reached out and selected “Yes.”
When she opened her eyes again, she found herself lying in a lavish bed, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and burning candles. The room was massive, adorned with golden tapestries and intricate wooden carvings. Before her stood a trembling maid, eyes wide in shock.
“L-Lady Chantelle! You are awake!” the maid cried, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Chantelle blinked, her head spinning. Something felt off. She swallowed, her throat dry, and asked the first thing that came to her mind.
“What…year is this?”
The maid’s expression twisted in both joy and terror. “It’s—it’s 1402, my lady.”
Chantelle’s breath caught. Her hands trembled as she took in her surroundings, the rich fabric of her nightgown, the unfamiliar sensation of a different body. It felt like she had stepped into a historical manhwa—except this wasn’t a fantasy.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the doors burst open with a loud bang.
“CHANTELLE, MY DEAR! YOU ARE AWAKE!!”
A man, dressed in extravagant royal attire, rushed toward her. Panic seized her as she turned her head, catching sight of herself in a grand mirror nearby. The reflection staring back at her wasn’t quite…human.
Her hair shimmered in an unnatural hue, one she had never seen in real life. Her eyes, though still mesmerizing, held an unfamiliar depth.
“This isn’t normal human hair color...” she whispered, horror creeping into her voice.
Just what kind of world had she entered?
The man, eyes brimming with tears, reached out and grasped her hand tightly. “Oh, my beloved daughter, you have returned to us at last!”
Chantelle’s breath hitched. Daughter? She looked at him again, noticing the same strangely colored hair cascading down his shoulders, the similar ethereal glow in his gaze.
Her mind reeled. If he was calling her his daughter, then that meant…
She slowly turned to her maid, her voice hesitant. “Hui… Where exactly are we?”
Before Hui could respond, another figure stormed into the room, clad in regal military armor, a sword glinting at his hip. “Father, has she truly awakened?”
The moment Chantelle locked eyes with him, her heart pounded. He was breathtaking, with sharp, aristocratic features and an aura of command. But unlike what a normal person might feel, Chantelle wasn’t particularly shocked. She had spent her entire life in the company of celebrities, from models to actors, all with stunning looks and overwhelming charisma.
For a commoner, this man would seem too perfect to exist, but to her? He was just another ridiculously good-looking person in an already surreal situation.
The man—her supposed brother—gazed at her intensely before smirking. “Finally, our dear little sister has returned to us. Welcome back to the Empire of Veylencia.”
Chantelle’s world spun. Empire? Veylencia? Just what had she gotten herself into?
After a long and elaborate explanation, she learned the shocking truth—she was not a princess but the daughter of the wealthiest Duke in Veylencia, a man who controlled nearly every sector of the kingdom’s economy. From the largest marketplaces to the most exclusive clubs, from weapon factories to high-end trade routes, her family’s power was unmatched.
She also discovered that her mother had long passed away due to illness, and Chantelle herself had been in a vegetative state for three years.
She soon found out that this world had magic, and those who possessed it were specially trained to fight monstrous creatures lurking beyond the kingdom's walls. Even more shocking—there was no concept of ballet or art as she knew it. Determined to change that, Chantelle decided to introduce the kingdom to her true talent. At a grand gathering, she performed ballet for the first time. The fluidity of her movements, the elegance of her form—it was unlike anything the people had ever seen. Whispers of awe spread. They did not simply see a dance; they saw a living masterpiece.
However, her sudden transformation did not go unnoticed. Some began to whisper—was she truly Chantelle Dupont? Or had someone else taken her place? Even the Crown Prince himself took interest in this strange woman who had defied all expectations...
Prince Harrison Théodore Bonaparte, known as Prince Harrison of Veylencia, was a man who commanded both admiration and fear. His golden eyes, sharp as a predator’s, missed nothing. He had grown up hearing about Chantelle Dupont—the childish, spoiled daughter of the Duke who often caused trouble at social gatherings. But now, she was an entirely different person. Graceful, intelligent, and strikingly composed.
It intrigued him.
At the next royal banquet, Chantelle was invited. It was an event hosted by the palace itself, meant to celebrate the kingdom’s greatest warriors—those with magic who had defended the land from the monstrous creatures that lurked beyond its borders. Chantelle, who had only recently awoken from her coma, was not accustomed to such events, yet she carried herself with a confidence that baffled those who once mocked her.
The grand ball was in full bloom, the orchestra playing a mesmerizing tune as nobles twirled in their extravagant gowns. Laughter and conversation filled the air, but one pair of golden eyes remained fixed on a singular figure—Chantelle Dupont.
Prince Harrison stood at the upper balcony, his gloved fingers resting lightly against the rail as he observed her. The rumors surrounding her change were everywhere, and he had come to see for himself. But what he hadn’t expected was to find himself so captivated.
She was stunning, yes, but it wasn’t her beauty that held him in place. It was the way she moved.
The ballroom had fallen into a hush when one of the noblewomen, the Duchess of Brigham, had stepped forward with a charming smile.
“Lady Chantelle, we have all heard of your unique style of dance. But we have never witnessed it ourselves.” The Duchess turned to the crowd. “Don’t you think it’s time we see it with our own eyes?”
A chorus of agreement rippled through the nobles, excitement lighting up their faces.
Chantelle blinked, taken aback.
In this world, her art—ballet—did not exist. Here, dancing was graceful yet structured, meant to display elegance rather than tell a story. But she had spent a lifetime perfecting her craft. If she was going to live in this world, then she would bring a piece of herself into it.
With a composed smile, she nodded. “If it pleases the court, I shall dance.”
The orchestra hesitated.
“There is no need for music,” Chantelle said, stepping forward into the center of the ballroom.
Murmurs of confusion filled the room. No music? What kind of dance required no accompaniment?
And then—she moved.
A single step forward, a gentle rise onto her toes. The fabric of her gown whispered as she glided effortlessly, her movements fluid as water, yet light as air. She leaped, twirled, spun in ways no one had ever seen before. Each motion was a story, every step filled with emotion.
The crowd watched in stunned silence.
The chandeliers above cast golden light against her silhouette, and in that moment, Chantelle Dupont was not just a noblewoman—she was a vision. An art form come to life.
Prince Harrison had never seen anything like it.
He had fought on battlefields, seen great feats of magic, watched warriors move with skill and precision. But this—this was something else entirely. She moved like she wasn’t bound by this world’s gravity, as if she was meant to exist somewhere beyond their understanding.
And for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. A strange, unfamiliar feeling.
Fascination.
But just as quickly as it came, he crushed it.
No one changes so suddenly.
This woman, this Lady Chantelle, was not the same person she had once been. That much was clear. But was she truly reborn, or was this all an elaborate act? He would not be deceived so easily.
Before he could ponder further, a knight rushed to his side and whispered something urgent in his ear. A complication in one of the kingdom’s lands required his immediate attention.
He cast one last glance at the dancing woman below.
Then, without another word, he turned and left.
As Chantelle finished her dance, the ballroom erupted into thunderous applause. She curtsied gracefully, though her mind was elsewhere.
During her performance, she had felt something—a sharp gaze piercing through her every move. She had caught him watching her from above.
The Crown Prince.
Why had he been observing her so intently? And why did he leave so abruptly?
A chill ran down her spine.
That man is dangerous.
She knew his type—calculating, powerful, the kind who could ruin lives with a single command. If she wanted to live peacefully in this new world, she had one option.
Avoid the prince at all costs.
She took a deep breath and steadied herself.
“Yes,” she murmured to herself. “From now on, I’ll stay far, far away from him.”
The next morning, Chantelle awoke with a newfound sense of purpose. She had always danced for herself, for the stage, for the beauty of it. But now, she realized she could share that beauty with the world.
If ballet did not exist in this kingdom, then she would be the one to introduce it.
With determination in her heart, she used her wealth and influence to establish “Chante”—a school where people of all ages could learn the art of ballet.
At first, it was met with skepticism. The nobles, ever traditional, found the idea strange. Why would one need to move in such exaggerated yet graceful ways? What purpose did it serve?
But then, they saw it.
They watched as Chantelle herself demonstrated the movements—how her body told a story with every leap, every turn. They saw how the human form could be both powerful and delicate, how one could express emotions without words.
And just like that, Chante became a phenomenon.
Noble families sent their children to train under her guidance. Scholars came to study this newfound art, and soon, “Chante” was written into the history books as a groundbreaking cultural revolution.
Within months, her name became synonymous with elegance and grace. The once “childish” Chantelle Dupont was now a respected visionary.
But success often attracted unwanted attention.
One evening, at yet another grand noble ball, Chantelle found herself amidst the swirling gowns and glittering chandeliers of the aristocracy. Conversations of politics, trade, and magic filled the air, but it wasn’t long before she caught the attention of someone new.
A man approached her with an effortless charm, his smile smooth as silk.
“Lady Chantelle Dupont,” he said, his voice like velvet, laced with amusement. “The legend herself.”
She turned to face him.
He was handsome—almost too handsome. With golden-brown hair that fell just slightly over his forehead and deep green eyes that shimmered with mischief, he looked as if he had stepped out of a romance novel.
She recognized him immediately.
Charles Carter.
A man known not only for his noble bloodline but for his role as a medical hero of Veylencia.
His family had long served as the kingdom’s greatest physicians, but Charles was more than just a doctor. He had marched onto battlefields, healing wounded soldiers and saving countless lives. A war hero in his own right, respected by warriors and adored by noblewomen.
But there was something unsettling about him.
He carried himself with an effortless confidence, his smile never faltering, his gaze steady—too steady. He was watching her like a man who had already figured her out.
Chantelle’s instincts whispered a warning.
This man is dangerous.
Not in the way Prince Harrison was—Harrison was a warrior, a ruler, a man who saw the world as a chessboard.
But Charles?
Charles was the kind of man who never played fair.
Still, she curtsied politely. “Sir Carter, it is an honor.”
His smile widened, eyes glinting with something unreadable.
“The honor is mine,” he said smoothly. “I must say, you are quite different from what the rumors claimed.”
“Ah,” she said, feigning ignorance. “And what did the rumors claim?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if enjoying their little game. “Oh, nothing too unkind. Just that the young Lady Dupont was… frivolous, impulsive. Childish, even.” He chuckled. “But now, I see nothing of the sort.”
Chantelle held her smile, though her spine stiffened slightly.
“I suppose people can change, Sir Carter.”
His eyes gleamed. “Indeed. But such drastic changes…” He took a deliberate sip of his wine. “They do make one curious, don’t they?”
Her heart skipped a beat.
He was probing. Testing her.
Did he, too, suspect that she was not the same Chantelle Dupont as before?
She knew the game he was playing. And she refused to lose.
Placing a delicate hand over her heart, she smiled, her voice sweet yet firm.
“Life has a way of teaching us lessons, Sir Carter. I simply learned mine.”
Charles’ laughter was smooth and rich, yet there was an edge to it—like a blade wrapped in silk.
“I must say, Lady Chantelle,” he mused, swirling his wine. “You truly are an enigma.”
Chantelle only smiled, not willing to give him any more satisfaction.
But before she could excuse herself from the conversation, Charles leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear.
“Tell me, have you ever considered… seeking answers about your past?”
Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her gown.
“What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her expression neutral.
His gaze sharpened, watching her reaction like a hunter studying prey.
“Well,” he said, voice casual, “it isn’t every day that someone wakes up from a three-year coma with no clear cause. And yet, you seem perfectly healthy—almost unnaturally so.”
Chantelle forced herself to remain composed, but inside, her mind was racing.
He was right. Why had she been in a coma for so long?
Why had she suddenly awakened with no apparent side effects?
“Perhaps it was fate,” she said lightly, attempting to brush off his words.
Charles, however, was not so easily deterred. “Or perhaps,” he murmured, “it was something else.”
A chill ran down her spine.
This man was too sharp. Too perceptive.
But… he wasn’t wrong.
If anyone could help her find the truth, it would be Charles Carter—the kingdom’s greatest doctor.
And so, with great reluctance, Chantelle made a decision.
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