The clothes fit better than anything Aron had ever worn. A black silk shirt with silver buttons running down the front. Over it, a fitted vest in charcoal gray with thin embroidered patterns along the edges that he could only see when light hit them right. The pants were dark wool, cut to actually fit his legs instead of hanging loose. Everything felt strange against his skin. Too smooth. Too light.
He adjusted the collar and left the room.
The hallway stretched in both directions, dimly lit by oil lanterns mounted every ten feet along stone walls. Their flames cast shifting shadows across portraits of stern-faced men and women in elaborate dress. Ancestors who'd lived and died in luxury.
Aron walked slowly, his footsteps muffled by a carpet runner that looked hand-woven, its pattern intricate enough that someone had spent months making it. A maid passed him coming the other way. She dropped into a quick bow, eyes down. He nodded and kept walking.
'How does someone get this rich?'
He knew the answer from the story. Duke Greyman's grandfather had started with a single vineyard and built it into the largest wine trade in the kingdom. Three generations of expansion. By the time it reached the current Duke, the Greyman name meant wealth that most nobles couldn't match.
Money didn't buy noble blood, but it bought everything else.
The dining hall doors stood open ahead. Warm light spilled into the hallway. Aron stepped inside.
The room could have held thirty people easily. The table stretched at least twenty feet, dark oak polished until it reflected the chandelier overhead. Forty candles burned in that chandelier, wax dripping slowly onto brass fittings. The ceiling rose high above, maybe fifteen feet, with carved beams crossing in patterns.
Three people sat at the table.
Liam occupied a chair near the middle, leaning back slightly. He glanced up when Aron entered.
At the head sat Duke Greyman. Late fifties, broad-shouldered like he'd been a soldier once. A thick black mustache. He wore a dark jacket without decoration, the kind of simplicity that cost more than flashiness. His presence filled the room.
Beside him sat Gisele. Deep blue dress with multiple layers of fabric, a sapphire necklace at her throat with stones the size of grapes. Three rings on her left hand, gold with smaller gems. Her hair was pulled up in an elaborate style held by ornamental pins that probably cost a year's wages for most people.
Aron took his seat across from Liam.
"Evening, Father."
Duke Greyman looked up. His eyes went immediately to the bandage wrapped around Aron's head. His jaw set.
"What happened?"
His voice was deep, carrying weight. But underneath it was concern. Real concern.
'Just like in the story. Duke Greyman actually caring about his bastard son.'
"Training," Aron said.
The Duke's gaze shifted to Liam briefly, then back. "How did it go?"
Liam started to speak.
"Liam's really strong," Aron said before his brother could answer. He kept his tone even. "One hit and I was down. Didn't stand a chance."
Liam's mouth closed. He stared at Aron like he was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
"Well..." Liam's tone came out cautious. "Thank you."
The words hung awkwardly.
Aron picked up his fork. The chicken in front of him was still steaming, skin golden and crispy. He knew what he'd just done. Aron never complimented Liam. Never acknowledged him like that. He'd broken their dynamic without explanation.
'Let him wonder.'
Gisele set down her fork with a soft clink. "How sweet." Her voice was measured, practiced. "Though I wonder, Aron, if compliments will help you at the academy. You'll need actual skill."
Aron looked at her. "I know."
"Do you?" She tilted her head slightly. "Liam is already in his second year. Making quite a name for himself. But you..."
The academy. Aron knew what it meant. Where young people went to awaken their abilities. To learn how to enter the astral state and fight dimensional monsters. Heroes came from there. And heroes brought honor to families.
For the Greymans, who had wealth but not noble bloodline, the academy was how you proved your family deserved to stand alongside the old blood.
Gisele turned to her husband. "Honey, I worry. Perhaps Aron needs more time. We wouldn't want him to embarrass the family."
Duke Greyman's jaw tightened. "He'll be fine."
"But surely—"
"He'll be fine." No room for argument. He looked at Aron. "Get yourself treated. Rest. You have three weeks before term begins."
Three weeks. Aron had known it was coming, but hearing it made it real.
"Understood."
Gisele's smile was thin. "Three weeks. Such a short time. Liam has trained his entire life for this."
"I'll manage."
"Will you?" An edge crept into her voice. "One has to wonder if it's lack of effort or lack of ability."
"Gisele." The Duke's voice carried a warning.
She raised her hands, rings glinting in the candlelight. "I'm simply concerned for our reputation."
Aron kept eating. The chicken was better than anything he'd had in his old life. Everything here was softer. Easier.
Except the people.
A man in dark clothing entered quickly, moving to Duke Greyman's side. He wore a simple uniform without decoration. He leaned down and whispered.
Aron watched the Duke's face change. Subtle. A tightening around his eyes. His hand paused halfway to his wine glass.
'The blackmail attempt. Right on schedule.'
Someone was trying to extort money from the family. Aron knew how this played out. In the story, it dragged on for about a month before Duke Greyman tracked down the blackmailer. The man's head ended up on a pike outside the estate as a warning to anyone else with similar ideas.
'No reason to interfere. The bastard threatens Liam and Gisele too before Father catches him. Let it play out.'
Duke Greyman stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me."
He left without explaining. The guard followed. The door closed with a heavy thud.
Gisele picked up her wine glass, the crystal catching light. "Your father coddles you, Aron. It's rather pathetic."
Aron set down his fork. "Is it?"
"A grown man needing his father's protection." She swirled the wine. "Your mother raised you poorly. Though I suppose that's expected from a woman of her station."
Something cold settled in Aron's chest.
"My mother's dead."
"Yes. A mercy, really. At least she doesn't have to witness what you've become."
Liam laughed, sharp and mean. "A disappointment in expensive clothes."
Aron looked at Gisele. The candlelight made her jewelry sparkle. Made her look refined.
"What are you?" he asked quietly.
Her smile faltered. "Excuse me?"
"You married money. Wear nice things. Talk like you're better than everyone." His tone stayed even. "But you just got lucky. Same as anyone else."
Gisele's face flushed. "How dare you."
"You started it."
"I am trying to help—"
"You're not my mother," Aron interrupted. His voice didn't rise. "So stop acting like you have authority over me."
Liam's chair scraped back as he stood. The sound echoed. "Watch your mouth."
"Why?"
"You think because Father's soft on you, you can disrespect her?" Liam's voice went cold. "You're nothing. A bastard who got lucky."
Aron looked at him. "Why do you care what I think?"
Liam crossed the distance fast. His hand shot out and grabbed Aron by the front of his shirt, yanking him half out of his chair. Pain shot through Aron's head where the bandage covered his wound.
"Say that again." Liam's face was inches away. "I fucking dare you."
Aron looked at him without flinching.
He could break Liam's wrist from this position. Had done similar moves before. But his body felt wrong. Unfamiliar. He didn't trust it yet.
So he just stared.
"Master Aron."
The voice came from the doorway. Mara stood there, hands folded.
"Your father requests your presence."
Liam's grip tightened. His knuckles went white.
" Liam." Gisele's voice cut through. "Let him go. If his father wants him, let the bastard run along."
Liam shoved Aron back hard. The chair scraped and nearly tipped.
Aron stood slowly. Straightened his shirt. Walked toward the door without looking at either of them.
His head throbbed.
'I'll remember this. Every insult. Every hand on me.'
---
Mara walked beside him as they left. Her footsteps were quick, nervous.
"Are you alright, Young Master?"
"Fine."
She glanced at him. "You shouldn't provoke them like that. They'll make things difficult."
"They already do."
"But now they'll be worse."
Aron knew she was right. But he didn't care.
"Where does my father want me?"
Mara slowed. Then stopped. She looked down at her hands.
"He doesn't, Young Master."
Aron turned. "What?"
"Your father didn't request you." Her voice was quiet. "I just thought you needed a reason to leave."
Aron studied her. This girl who'd cleaned his wound. Who'd just lied to help him.
"Thank you."
She looked up, surprised. "You're not upset?"
"Why would I be? You helped me."
Mara smiled slightly and bowed. "Of course, Young Master."
She left him alone in the hallway.
Aron stood there, then made his way back to his room.
---
Inside, he walked to the window. Lights dotted the city below. Lanterns marking homes and businesses.
'Three weeks until the academy.'
In the original story, Aron died before he even arrived. An assassination targeting someone else. Wrong place, wrong time.
But Aron also knew Duke Greyman had loved his son. When Aron died, the Duke went on a rampage. Forgot about profit. Spent his fortune hunting everyone connected to the assassination. The wine trade suffered. The family collapsed.
All because he'd lost the son everyone else considered worthless.
'He actually cares. That part of the story wasn't exaggerated.'
And that blackmail attempt. The worry on the Duke's face.
'Father will handle it. Within a month, that blackmailer's head will be on display outside the estate. No need to interfere.'
Things were already moving according to the story. But Aron being here, in Aron's body, already changed things. Small things, maybe. But changes nonetheless.
"System."
Blue text appeared.
[Yes, Host?]
"I accept the quest."
[Quest accepted]
[Ultimate Quest: Prevent The Last Bargain]
[Time until academy enrollment: 3 weeks, 4 days]
[Prepare accordingly]
The text faded.
Aron touched the bandage on his head. It still hurt. A reminder that this body was weaker than his old one. Softer.
Three weeks wasn't much time.
But it would have to be enough.
Because David Smith knew one thing for certain.
He wasn't going to die in some alley before the story even started.
He'd survived four years hunting monsters in his old world.
He could survive this one too.