Booting Up
Charlemagne woke in the East Wing. The silence was heavy, the house spotless and smelling of cedar. Above, ancestral murals watched with chipped halos, one duke glaring as if collecting taxes.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, his joints popping like old furniture. His body still hurt, though not as much as yesterday. At least his spleen seemed to be staying put now. Small victories.
Then it happened.
A sound filled the air: mechanical, strange, and completely out of place.
Ding.
It didn't resound in the room; it echoed in his head.
Charlemagne Ziglar had never heard a voice in his head before, except for the bitter echo of past betrayals or the occasional internal shouting.
But this?
This was new.
[System starting up... SIGMA Protocol: On]
Biometric Sync: 94%—Error found
Host cultivation was damaged. Starting the adaptive override.
Charles Alden Vale has a soul imprint.
He groaned, half from the stabbing headache and half from the utterly mechanical, smug tone reverberating in his mind.
"Great. Now I'm hearing voices. Was the forest not enough?"
He sat up and immediately groaned. "Ow—don't do that again."
[WARNING] Cognitive dissonance detected. Please avoid sudden movement during integration. Note: You are technically still an idiot.
"What the hell?" Charles, or now Charlemagne, clutched his head as light and data—numbers, names, memories, pain—crashed into his mind. His first death flashed sharp; betrayal stung anew. It wasn't just data; it was loss, and the reminder that his past connections still mattered.
All of it was flooding into his mind like someone had torn open a data dam in the middle of a concussion.
[Welcome back, Founder. You have died. Again.
Would you like to file a complaint? (Y/N)]
"…Very funny," he muttered. "I built a billion-dollar psychotronic interface with neural fusion capabilities, and this is how it greets me?"
[Feeling sarcastic now. Confirmation of personality imprint. Charles Vale, happy to be back. The Strategic Interdimensional Growth and Management AI (SIGMA) has been activated.]
Even though he was in excruciating pain, he sat up abruptly.
Be patient. What is Sigma? Do you mean the model I created for subatomic soul resonance—the one the Warden Alliance deemed "existentially dangerous" and outlawed by four nations?
[Affirmative. You are currently inhabiting the body of Charlemagne Ziglar, almost sixteen years of age, with cultivation aptitude below average. Social status: noble embarrassment. Dantian: shattered. Reputation: laughable. Prognosis: tragic.]
His eyes widened. "My sincere appreciation. Are inspirational ditch analogies next?"
[Upon request, we may provide you with motivational subroutines. Am I to start now?]
"Please don't."
[I get it. Starting the subroutine for silence.]
Instead of staying in bed, Charlemagne (or Charles) got up. The pain lingered, but it felt manageable now—and his thoughts, suddenly sharp.
He opened the window, letting a gust of mountain wind sting his cheeks. Somewhere down in the courtyard, a servant dropped a basket of linens in shock upon seeing him.
He grinned. "Ghosts do walk, apparently."
[Would you like a status report?]
"Hit me."
[SIGMA Report:
Combination of Elements: 98% The data retention rate is 92%.
Consistent support for hosts. Physical Features: Decent
Cultivation has been temporarily halted because of a ruptured dantian. You can take advantage of the following features: strategic planning, mental conditioning, economic simulation, combat forecasting, and passive skill optimization.
Heavenly Skill Archives, Time Travel, and Dimensional Recall Are Off-limits]
"Depressingly accurate. Anything encouraging?"
[Feeling sarcastic now. Greetings! You are very much alive.]
"SIGMA, why are dimensional recall and rift travel disabled? We're vulnerable. This is why I made you."
As if contemplating its reply, SIGMA halted.
[Calculated risk suggests further integration and physical strengthening are advisable prior to unlocking those capabilities.]"
[You are alive.]
"Generous."
He paced the room. This was it. The SIGMA Protocol, once just an idea, was now real and tied to his soul. And he was stuck in a world of magic, strict ranks, and ancient power.
[Would you like a tutorial?]
"No," he said reflexively. "I invented you, remember?"
[Correction: You contributed 64% of my final structure. The remaining 36% was compiled by others after your unfortunate death. You're welcome.]
He rolled his eyes. "You've gotten sassier."
[You've gotten weaker. How are those noodle arms doing, Your Grace?]
The mirror across the room showed him what he already knew. He still looked like a fragile noble with a dramatic past and too many admirers. He frowned at his reflection.
"Alright," he muttered, pacing. "Let's work with what we've got."
He summoned the interface—no vocal command necessary. It responded to thought. A transparent panel shimmered before his eyes, bathed in soft blue light.
[CHARLEMAGNE ZIGLAR] Age: 15 Realm: None (Dantian Shattered – Restoration Pending) Qi Affinity: Unknown Body Constitution: Weak (Restorative Adaptation Underway) Soul Tier: Gold-Soul Fragment (Merged Entity) Status: Recovering / Syncing
[Note: You are the magical equivalent of a decorative vase. Avoid combat, running, shouting, or deep emotional conversations.]
"Oh, go to hell."
[Already did. You're the result.]
He chuckled.
Sarcasm. Snark. Systems.
Yeah. He was back.
But the smile faded quickly.
This wasn't Earth. No lawsuits, corporations, or power launches. Qi and steel ruled here. Titles came through war, respect in blood. Charles craved redemption. Survival meant rebuilding—not just to endure, but to declare his story wasn't over.
Well.
That just made the game more interesting.
[Reminder: Echo Synchronization begins at midnight. Recommendation: Do not die again before then.]
"Noted," he muttered.
A knock came at the door.
Anya's voice followed. "My lord, breakfast has been sent from the main kitchen."
"I'll be there shortly."
He glanced once more at the system panel.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's rebuild an empire."
Finally. I was getting bored.
The boy whose life he now wore had been discarded like garbage. Beaten. Betrayed.
Not again.
Not this time.
Charles Alden Vale may have died in his world, but here, with SIGMA whispering in his ear and vengeance boiling in his blood, he would rise.
And everyone who laughed at Charlemagne Ziglar?
They wouldn't be laughing for long.
Calculations and Conspiracies
Charlemagne strolled down the corridor of the East Wing manor like a ghost pretending to be noble.
Every creaking floorboard, every flickering lantern along the walls seemed to flinch from his presence. The few servants he passed averted their eyes with practiced deference, though one boy tripped over a mop and whispered something about "resurrection magic."
Good. Let the rumors spread. Fear was a fantastic currency—no credit score required.
His bare feet padded softly on the stone. Robes too large, but now he carried himself straighter, quieter, finished caring what others thought—he was calculating how to dominate.
[SIGMA: Neural Sync at 99.2%. Emotional Dampeners recalibrating. Would you like assistance suppressing homicidal urges toward your assassins?]
"No need," he muttered. "That'll be dessert."
He turned a corner toward the lesser study—a place no one sane visited anymore. The room had once belonged to his grandfather, a war strategist obsessed with maps, birds, and poisoning people with honeyed wine. It had remained untouched since the man's suspicious death by "falling onto sixteen arrows."
Perfect place for thinking.
The door creaked open with a reluctant sigh, revealing dust-choked shelves and parchment maps yellowed with age. A cracked inkpot sat on the desk, congealed like coagulated blood. It smelled of parchment, old ink, and secrets.
He stepped inside and shut the door.
Light filtered through the lattice window just enough to make the air shimmer with dust motes. He sat, exhaled slowly, and summoned the interface.
The panel flickered back to life.
[ Strategic Mode: Enabled
Objective: Rise from obscurity to dominance
Resources Available: One beleaguered body, no cultivation, a tarnished noble title, one AI companion with unsentimental wit.]
Charles grinned.
"Let's make a business plan."
He swiped open the first tab: Local Politics.
House Ziglar. Northern Duchy. Ruled by the Iron Duke, Alaric Ziglar, a father in title only—military glacier, deadly serious, smiles reserved for executions.
Then there were his siblings:
Garrick Ziglar – Firstborn, heir apparent, built like a siege weapon and only marginally more articulate. Could punch through walls. Probably couldn't spell "subtlety" without help.
Seraphina Ziglar – Secondborn. Brilliant, deadly, and rumored to have read Art of War backward just to challenge herself. Could probably decapitate you with a spoon.
Both of them likely assumed he—the Third Son—had died. Neither had visited.
"Sweet of them," Charles muttered.
[SIGMA: Current family standing – non-existent. Recommend feigned weakness and emotional manipulation until sufficient strength is acquired.]
"Oh, you sweet, cynical machine," he murmured. "You do know me."
Next tab: Enemies.
Marcus Drekor – Second son of Count Thomas Drekor. Sword talent. Charismatic. Trusted him like a brother. That ended with a blade to the skull.
Amelia Gayle – Daughter of Baron Arnold Gayle. Fiancée. Beautiful. Deadly. Masterclass in sociopathic charm. Shattered his dantian with a smile and a kiss.
Both were now at the top of his spiritual tax audit list.
He tapped the table slowly. "They'll never see me coming."
[SIGMA: Shall I begin outlining a revenge strategy? Include public humiliation, economic ruin, or lethal poetic justice?]
"Yes."
[Elaborate.]
"All of the above."
Then came the final tab: Cultivation.
Charles stared at the entry:
[Qi Core: Shattered]
[Meridian Pathways: Damaged]
[Dantian: Inactive]
[Estimated Recovery Time: Unknown]
Well.
That was inconvenient.
But it's not impossible.
Not with SIGMA. Not with a soul born from strategy, baptized in betrayal, and given a second life with a vengeance clause.
He opened the subdirectory labeled "Forbidden Recovery Theories."
A soft chime echoed.
[Warning: These techniques have been deemed catastrophic by at least 9 spiritual governance bodies and 1 interdimensional peace accord.]
Charles hesitated, his finger hovering over the scroll. One entry stood out—whispered arcane syllables and chaotic power that promised dominance yet threatened ruin. The weight of choice pressed heavily upon him. Could he risk mercy for the allure of power? His eyes lingered on the words, the tension between what was right and what was necessary tightening with each passing second.
Then another ping.
[You have unlocked a starting capital of 100,000 Arcana gold coins directly converted to this empire's currency from SIGMA's Interdimensional Survival Vault. You may withdraw the resource as gold coins from the interdimensional inventory.]
Charles blinked. "Wait, I have a starter pack?"
[SIGMA: Even reincarnation comes with benefits. You're welcome.]
He barked a short laugh. "I died, and I'm still better funded than half this noble estate."
[Correction: You are now richer than 84.2% of the empire's Tier 4 duchies.]
"I've missed you," he muttered.
Someone knocked twice at the door.
He tensed—then relaxed as the voice floated in, muffled but sharp.
"Brother," came Seraphina's voice, "word spreads fast. I heard you rose from your grave."
He didn't answer immediately. Just stared at the dusty window.
"Still collecting myself," he finally said, voice cool.
"You always were slow," she said sweetly. "I'll visit tomorrow. Try not to die again."
Her footsteps faded, light and deliberate.
He chuckled darkly.
"I won't. But some people might."