It has been months since Lelouch vi Britannia and Nunnally vi Britannia were taken from their home, hostages in diplomatic negotiations with Japan. Yet this was not the only tragedy to befall their family. When terrorists attacked their residence, another member of the royal bloodline was caught in the violence.
Gunfire shattered a lamp and tore through the body of a once ordinary black-haired fourteen-year-old prince. But it was the experimental chemical compounds in the attackers' incendiary devices that would truly transform him.
Now he lies in a hospital bed, specialized bandages concealing his ravaged face and torso. The chemicals had seared his skin crimson, tightening it against his skull in a grotesque mask of his former self. As he recuperates, various siblings visit his bedside, barely masking their horror at his transformation. He cannot help but imagine how his mother would have seen past his disfigurement, had she survived. Despite the comfort their presence attempts to offer, a calculated rage crystallizes within his brilliant mind.
Weeks pass. Though he can now walk, the bandages remain necessary—not just to hide his appearance but to apply the experimental treatments developed by the royal scientists. The damage to his respiratory system requires a specialized breathing apparatus that hisses slightly with each intake of air.
He steps from his opulent medical chamber and makes his way to the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, he slowly unwraps the bandages, revealing the crimson skull that was once his face. As he stares, cold analytical fury builds within him—directed at his father, his siblings, even the entire Holy Britannian Empire. Their weakness allowed this to happen. Their complacency bred the chaos that destroyed him.
"Order comes through pain," he whispers to his reflection, his voice now carrying a chilling resonance. With methodical precision, he smashes the mirror, noting how the fragments fall in a pattern reminiscent of a branching organization.
Returning to his bed, he notices a book left by the medical staff—an ancient text on military strategy. He picks it up, scanning pages with newfound clarity until he reaches a section on infiltration and subversion. His eidetic memory now catalogs every word, every concept for future use.
The tactical genius that once made him a formidable chess player now turns to grander designs. He envisions a new order rising from within the corrupt empire—a network of loyal operatives extending like tentacles through Britannia's power structures.
"Cut off one head," he murmurs to himself, recalling an ancient symbol of resilience, "and two more shall take its place."
Beneath the fresh bandages he carefully reapplies, a smile forms. Unlike his scattered, emotional siblings, his purpose has become crystal clear. The cobra may wait to strike, but the hydra grows stronger with every wound.