On a luxurious bed draped in silk, a youth of fifteen or sixteen lay drenched in sweat. His lips trembled, opening and closing as faint murmurs drifted from his throat.
Ron tried to force his eyelids open.
Before he could make sense of his surroundings, a voice burst beside him—speaking a language he should have never understood, yet every word was clear.
"The Young Master is awake! Thank the God Noens!"
A young maid in uniform stood by the bed, eyes reddened as tears slipped down her cheeks.
At once, an elderly man beside her snapped, "Aileen! How many times have I told you? Address him as Lord, not 'Young Master.' He is the head of the household now!"
"M-Mr. Egbert, I'm sorry… I'll remember," Aileen stammered, shrinking like a frightened rabbit. Egbert was no ordinary servant—he was the butler of the Arnold family, serving them for four generations. His authority was absolute.
Egbert held his stern stare on the maid a moment longer before exhaling heavily. When he turned to the youth on the bed, the harshness in his eyes softened.
"My Lord," he said gently, "are you feeling better? I've already ordered some meat dishes to be brought up."
Ron finally forced his eyes open.
Nothing was familiar.
Within three seconds, he formed his conclusion.
He had transmigrated.
The unfamiliar room, the unknown faces, the alien-yet-understandable language—everything made sense in the most impossible way.
Egbert waited for a response.
Ron, already a cautious man, quickly chose the safest option: speak little, move little, observe everything.
He kept his face stiff, nodded faintly, and shut his eyes again—pretending exhaustion so no one would see the panic swirling within.
Seeing Ron unwilling to speak, Egbert sighed and said quietly, "The Master and Madam have passed away. I know your heart must ache, but the honor of the Arnold family, and the livelihood of the people in this territory, require your courage."
"You are the sole heir to the Baron's Manor. If you do not stand firm… who else can?"
"Please, take heart, My Lord."
After offering a few more words of comfort, Egbert ushered everyone out of the room. Many affairs in the territory awaited him. Before leaving, he entrusted Aileen with preparing food for the young Lord.
The door closed.
Ron cracked one eye open.
After ensuring no one remained inside—
"Holy crap. I really transmigrated!"
His heart pounded wildly.
Questions barraged his mind—
How did I get here? Why does everyone look like medieval westerners? Why can I understand their language? Why can I speak it? Most importantly… what's the name of this body's original owner?!
He replayed Egbert's words in his mind.
He was the heir of the Arnold family. The Baron's only legitimate successor.
He recalled the ranking of western nobility: Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount… and the lowest—Baron.
"Well… lowest is still higher than commoner," Ron muttered, rubbing his forehead in relief. At least he wouldn't be starving or working the fields. A noble's life—even the poorest one—was heaven compared to his previous life.
Provided no one discovered his identity as a transmigrator.
That thought sharpened his expression.
"I need to be extremely careful. I can't let anyone suspect a thing."
Just then—
Knock, knock.
Ron instantly lay back down and resumed his weak, half-conscious posture.
Aileen entered pushing a food cart. Seeing Ron struggle to sit up, she hurried forward.
"My Lord, let me help you."
With her aid, Ron sat up against a stack of cushions. Aileen began preparing his meal while Ron studied her quietly.
She looked younger than him—fourteen at most. Well-trained, diligent, but undeniably talkative. During the earlier commotion, she had already called him "Young Master" several times despite Egbert's scolding.
She could be a valuable source of information, Ron thought.
"My Lord? Did you say something?" Aileen asked.
Do you have ears of a rabbit?! Ron almost slipped.
Looking at the steaming dishes, Ron's stomach growled fiercely. He wanted to eat—but he didn't dare. He had no idea how nobles ate, what etiquette they followed, or what the original Ron's habits were.
One mistake could expose him.
So he simply stared silently at Aileen.
After a moment of confusion, realization dawned on her face. "My Lord, you've been unconscious for days. You must not have the strength to eat on your own. I will serve you."
See? Lovely little maid. She even gave a perfect excuse.
And thus, Ron enjoyed his first privileged meal—fed directly by a maid. He remained expressionless and silent, but inwardly, he sighed in comfort.
When Aileen finished and began to push the cart away—
"Aileen."
She froze, eyes widening. He spoke!
She turned back excitedly. "My Lord, do you have any instructions?"
Ron lowered his voice into a hoarse, weary tone. "While I was unconscious… was the territory alright?"
His voice carried just enough sorrow and strain to suggest a grieving young lord forcing himself to be strong.
Aileen's eyes softened instantly.
And she began talking. A lot.
Everything—events in the manor, gossip between servants, movements of the head maid, the knights' daily routines—poured out in messy waves. But Ron sifted useful information from the chaos.
"Young Master, the Head Maid left the manor again last night. She always sneaks out! I'm not reporting her because she deducts our wages, definitely not—"
After a painfully long torrent of her chatter, Ron finally dismissed Aileen and lay down to process everything.
—
A week passed in a blur.
Aileen tended to him daily. Ron moved around the manor, especially favoring the study. Every person he encountered matched Aileen's descriptions—confirming the maid's value despite her endless chatter.
Ron sorted the people of the manor into three groups.
First, Egbert the butler—the true manager of the territory.
Second, the knights under the knight-captain.
And speaking of which—
"My Lord, heading to the study again?"
Ron turned to see a group of knights training in the backyard. A tall knight with a sunny face and golden buzz cut waved at him excitedly.
"Oh, Abel."
Abel Guy—the second group's leader. The strongest knight in the manor, according to Aileen.
"My Lord, would you like to see today's training results?" Abel asked, practically wagging like a golden retriever.
Ron smiled politely. "Abel, I have urgent matters in the study. Next time, definitely."
Watching sweaty men swing swords? Pass.
Continuing through the corridor, Ron passed by cleaning maids. Their supervisor, the Head Maid—Elva—was among them.
He had only seen her once this entire week, and that encounter felt… wrong. Something was off about her. Her constant secret outings didn't help.
Ron mentally flagged her as suspicious.
Upon reaching the study, he told Aileen, "Prepare things."
She immediately went to arrange desserts and coffee.
Ron opened a book. The writing was unfamiliar, yet every symbol made perfect sense to him.
"The three great empires of the Osna Continent… Carlo Kingdom…" he read quietly.
He soon confirmed that this was no version of Earth's history—but a completely different world.
The Baron's Manor belonged to the Carlo Kingdom, a small, barren kingdom under the Olivia Empire—one of the three major empires on the continent. In terms of prestige, Carlo was insignificant. And this Baron's territory was practically the countryside of that countryside.
Still, compared to other Barons, it wasn't terrible.
Ron skimmed book after book, searching for something—anything—that proved his name.
There was nothing.
Not a letter, not a signed document, not even an embroidered initial.
A full week, and he still didn't know what people called him.
Ridiculous.
Pressing a hand to his forehead, he muttered, "If only something would just tell me my name…"
The next moment—
A translucent screen materialized before his eyes.
What the—?!
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