"Young master!"
A shout echoed, followed by the sharp slam of a door. My eyes fluttered open, greeted immediately by a ceiling so white it hurt to look at—whiter than my apartment walls, blinding in its sterility. I groaned, my head pounding as if molten lead had replaced my brain. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and polished wood, mingling with a metallic tang that made my stomach twist. Fever?
The ceiling above me was high, dark wooden beams crisscrossing soft ivory plaster. Shadows shifted gently across the walls as weak morning light filtered through a nearby window.
"Where… where am I?"
I lay on a plain wooden bed, a thick wool quilt pulled up to my chin. Looking down, I noticed cream-colored linen pajamas clinging uncomfortably to damp, sticky skin. Around the room, a wooden dresser and a small desk held neatly arranged trinkets, ink bottles, and quills—an elegance that suggested wealth, but not ostentation.
A woman in a maid's outfit stood beside me, hands clasped over her chest, eyes wide with worry. Who is this person? I tried to sit up, but my limbs screamed in protest. Teeth gritted, a strangled, unfamiliar voice escaped my lips. The maid panicked, swiftly guiding me back to the headboard.
I shivered despite the warmth, my mind swimming. Everything about this room—its size, its quiet, its subtle grace—felt alien. My breath quickened. This isn't my room.
I was about to speak when the door burst open. A woman with snow-white hair stepped in, worry etched into her sharp features. She wore a floor-length burgundy gown with a high lace collar and slightly puffed sleeves. The fitted bodice was cinched at the waist with a narrow belt, her hair pinned neatly in an elegant bun, pearls glinting at her neck and ears.
"Aleksander, my dear!"
She launched herself toward me, enveloping me in a tight embrace. The air left my lungs, my vision danced with stars.
"My lady! Young master Aleksander is going to the heavens if you keep hugging him like that!"
The woman recoiled immediately, pressing a hand to her mouth, tears glimmering in her eyes.
"Oh, I am so sorry, my dear! I am just delighted… delighted that you have finally awakened from your slumber!" She dabbed at her eyes. The maid beside her mirrored the action, hands trembling. What the hell is going on?
Confusion must have shown on my face, because the butler bowed deeply.
"Young master, you have been asleep for a month. The physician says you may never have woken from your illness."
A disease? What disease? Pain throbbed behind my eyes. I raised a trembling hand to my head. The woman who hugged me panicked further.
"Call the physician!" she cried, and the others scurried from the room. I motioned for them to stop—the flurry of panic made my head throb even more.
"I…" My voice was raspy, hoarse. The maid hurried to my side with a glass of water. I drank greedily, silently thanking the gods for such a simple mercy.
"I would like to be alone for now," I rasped. I needed space to think, to make sense of this. Why am I here? Who are these people? The white-haired woman hesitated, but the butler gently guided her out, insisting I needed rest.
Once alone, I forced myself to my feet, faltering immediately onto the floor. My body had been bedridden for a month; my bones were strong, but my muscles had withered away. I stumbled to the nearest mirror stand and stared.
The reflection that met me was not the tired face of a corporate office worker. Instead, a young man with white hair in a short mullet, piercing gray eyes, and a pointed nose stared back.
This isn't my face.
"What the…"
I called out to whoever was behind the door, and a maid hurried inside.
"Young master! Why are you already standing? You should lie down immediately!"
I ignored her.
I ran a hand through my white hair and clenched my teeth. Where the fuck am I?
I snapped my gaze at her, the weight of my expression making her flinch.
"What year is this?" I demanded.
The maid looked puzzled. I repeated the question, my voice low and sharp, brimming with seriousness.
"What year is this?"
Her hands trembled. She probably had never seen this expression on Aleksander's face before.
"Year 1543 of the Kingdom of Elarion, young master."
Elarion? The Kingdom of Elarion?
I stumbled toward the window and threw it open. The maid cried out in protest, but I didn't care. A blizzard roared outside, and snow swirled into my room, momentarily blinding me. I coughed, laughing softly— not with joy, but with disbelief and bitter amusement.
"Ha... ha... Hahaha. Damn it."
I am… inside the novel I have a love and hate relationship with. The Forsaken Blade.
—-
The maid left the room, and I slumped into the chair by the desk. My finger tapped rhythmically against the wooden surface.
Okay, think. Let's think. Panicking won't get us anywhere.
I inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
This is the year 1543. That means… I have three years before the Academy entrance exams. Three years to prepare.
I drummed my fingers again, trying to recall every trope I could remember from the novels I'd read. Most transmigrators get a system, right? A floating window, a guide, a voice in their head… something. Maybe I have one too?
"System."
…Nothing.
I frowned, tilting my head, then tried again.
"System."
"Open sesame."
"At this rate, I do hope that I don't accidentally summon a demon here."
"Abracadabra."
"Hocus pocus."
Still nothing.
I groaned and ruffled my hair in frustration. "Great. I might be the unluckiest transmigrator alive. Not even a damn tutorial."
But then I clenched my fist and gave myself a light slap across the cheek. "No. I can do this without a system. I know this novel like the back of my hand. I know every event. I will survive this."
My jaw tightened as a name slipped from my lips, thick with venom.
"Cael Bravestone."
The sound of it alone made my blood boil. My nails dug into my palms, sharp enough to sting.
"I'll cut you down… eventually."
But reality hit me just as quickly. Not at this level. I glanced down at my frail limbs and scoffed. "First, I need to get stronger."
Then, out of nowhere, a word surfaced in my mind— something my coworker once taught me.
"Aperio."
The air shimmered. A faint chime rang in my ears, and suddenly, a translucent blue window appeared before me. My eyes widened.
"This is it! The system!"
In my excitement, I slammed my fist on the table and immediately regretted it. "Ow—shit, that hurts."
"But why Latin? Is there some kind of language trigger for this thing?" I murmured.
Lines of glowing text formed before me.
---
[ Congratulations on your successful transmigration. You have now transmigrated to the body of the fallen noble, Aleksander Rivenheart ]
---
A pang of guilt hit me. Whoever this "Aleksander" was, he probably didn't make it through his illness. His family's tears weren't for nothing.
"Don't worry," I muttered. "I'll take care of your body."
The screen flickered again.
---
[ To open your personal information, press Y/N. ]
---
I pressed Y, and another page unfolded before my eyes.
---
Name: Aleksander Rivenheart
Age: 15
Height: 170 cm
Appearance: White short mullet, gray eyes. Athletic build—though muscle mass has
deteriorated from prolonged illness.
House: Second son of House Rivenheart
Affinity: Ice Magic
Known for: Inheriting Lady Athena's ice magic and Lord Rivenheart's combat prowess.
Predicament: His elder brother, Lucien Rivenheart, the house's heir, squandered most of their property funds on gambling.
---
STATS
STR: 60 < 70
END: 45 < 68
INT: 70
AGI: 50 < 61
LUCK: 60
---
SKILLS
🗡️ Weapon Mastery
Master of Arms: Trained in multiple weapons—sword, spear, dagger, and bow. Prefers the sword for its versatility.
Flowing Edge: A fluid fighting style emphasizing speed and precision over brute strength.
Phantom Step: A footwork technique allowing swift evasions—almost like gliding on ice.
❄️ Cryomancy (Ice Magic)
Frost Veil (🔒): Surrounds the user in cold mana, reducing damage and numbing pain.
Ice Barrage: Conjures a volley of ice shards that rain down on enemies.
Frozen Lance: Launches a condensed spear of frost mana capable of piercing armor.
Glacial Domain (🔒): Creates an icy field that strengthens magic and slows foes.
Winter's Requiem (latent 🔒): A rumored ability that freezes everything within range when the user's life is in danger.
[Other affinities and skills are locked until quests are completed.]
---
My jaw dropped.
"This guy's supposed to be an extra… but these stats are insane."
Even with the debuffs from being bedridden, he was leagues above an average starting protagonist. Cael didn't even have this kind of head start.
A grin tugged at my lips. "Alright then. Time to rebuild this body."
I stood up, wobbling slightly as I made my way toward the window. The blizzard still raged outside, snowflakes battering against the glass, but somehow… the cold didn't bother me anymore.
It was almost comforting.
The corners of my lips curled.
"I'll change the history of this novel. Just wait, Cael Bravestone." I whispered.
"I refuse to be just an extra."