In a luxurious room with heavy drapes and furniture far too elegant to feel comforting, he woke with a start. His breath came in short gasps, his heart pounding violently, as if he had fallen from an impossible height. For a few seconds, he remained frozen, eyes wide open, staring at the intricately decorated ceiling.
"What the hell…?" he murmured.
For months—no, far longer than that—memories had been invading his dreams. At first, they were only fragments: blurred images, senseless sensations, scenes cut off too quickly. But then, they changed. They gained continuity. Depth. Until they began to seep into his waking thoughts, into his reflexes, into his very emotions.
He slowly sat up on the bed, running a hand over his face, trying to bring some order to the chaos in his mind.
So… these are memories from my previous life? And this world… this world looks far too much like the game I used to play.
It wasn't just a vague resemblance. The social structures, the nobility, the names of important figures, the geography, the events, the unspoken rules—even the smallest details—they all matched. Too perfectly.
A world cannot be a game. But… can a game become a world?
His last memory returned with brutal clarity. A road. A routine crossing. Headlights appearing too quickly. The screech of tires on asphalt.
Then nothing.
Am I dead?
Questions swarmed, threatening to overwhelm him. Yet, amidst the mental storm, a conclusion slowly formed. Cold. Logical. Inevitable. A conclusion born from the combined experience of two lives.
He rose from the bed and took a few steps across the perfectly polished floor, then his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees without understanding when or how it had happened. His hands covered his face, as if hoping he could still push reality away. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper.
"I… don't… have my… history…"
A thought emerged.
Tiny.
Ridiculous.
And yet, his stomach clenched immediately.
I didn't delete it.
The silence of the room suddenly felt oppressive. One second passed. Then another. And finally, the realization struck him with a force far harsher than any revelation before.
He lifted his head.
"NOOOOOO!!!"
His scream echoed against the luxurious walls, utterly indifferent to his despair. At that precise moment, he no longer thought of the mysteries of the world, nor of transmigration, nor even of his own death.
He had just understood something far graver.
I left my history intact… and… and…
At that moment, the door burst open.
Freya entered almost running, breath quick, and froze. Her blood ran cold at the sight of Isaac. The young master—the child she had nurtured and cared for all her life—was kneeling on the floor, motionless, eyes vacant, fixed on the wall as if staring at something invisible.
In fifteen years of service, she had never seen him like this. Not trembling, not crying. Simply… absent.
As she moved forward despite her fear, every motion revealed her natural control: her long blonde hair rippled lightly around her delicate, aristocratic face, catching the morning light. Her amber eyes, deep and shifting, betrayed both concern and alertness. Even in her haste, her tall, graceful posture radiated command.
What has he gone through…? What could have possibly broken this child so deeply…?
Suppressing her panic, Freya hurried to him and knelt down, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders.
"Young master! Young master! What's happening?!"
No response.
His eyes were wide open, fixed on her, yet… they seemed to look beyond. As if he were observing a world she could neither see nor comprehend.
"Speak to me… young master… I beg you…"
Her voice broke. Tears welled and ran down her cheeks as she gazed upon the boy she had long considered her own son.
"Young master…"
Isaac's lips parted at last.
"How…"
"Yes… I'm here," she replied immediately, voice trembling. "Talk to me. I'm here for you."
His eyes finally focused on her. For the first time since she entered, his gaze seemed truly present. And when he spoke, his voice was raw with anguish, stripped of all mask or pride.
"How am I supposed to move forward as a man after this, Freya?"
"Huh…?"
Isaac straightened slightly, placing his hands on her shoulders in turn. His gaze was clear but teetering on the edge of breaking.
"Tell me, Freya… how am I supposed to?"
She hesitated. Barely a fraction of a second. Then her expression softened, and a genuine smile lit her tear-streaked face.
"Young master… you are still young."
Her voice gradually regained its stability.
"As a man, you must move forward with your head held high. Proud of your tastes, proud of your actions. The time will come when you can show the world the splendor of your choices. And on that day… no one will dare contradict you."
Isaac remained silent.
Head held high… proud… of my tastes…
The tension in his shoulders slowly eased. The despair that had clouded his eyes faded, replaced by something familiar. A smile. His usual smile.
"You're right, Freya."
A laugh escaped his chest.
"Ahahah… I have nothing to be ashamed of!"
Before she could react, he pulled her into his arms. Freya froze for a second, surprised, then returned the embrace gently. She didn't fully understand what he meant… but it didn't matter. He was smiling again.
And that was enough.
Isaac rose, regaining a straight, assured posture. He moved to his wardrobe, dressing in his day clothes with calm, deliberate motions.
"Bring me breakfast in my study," he said as he left the room. "I have much to do today."
"Very well, young master," she replied with a faint smile.
The door closed softly behind him, and Freya lingered for a moment, heart still tight… but relieved.
Isaac slowly pushed open the heavy library doors.
The ancient wood groaned lightly, almost respectfully, as the room unfolded before him. Now that the memories of his first life were clear and fully anchored, the view of his personal study took on an entirely new dimension: a two-story library, shelves crammed with rare volumes, a massive desk placed at the center like an anchor… everything exuded abundance, time, and privilege.
In my first life, I came from a modest family. A life where everything had a price, where every comfort demanded justification.
And yet, here he stood. Son of a count. Heir to a name, a domain, a future that many could never hope to touch.
He felt neither shame nor excessive pride. Only a newfound clarity.
I finally understand just how immense this fortune is.
He approached the desk, laid a hand on the polished wood, then turned toward the window overlooking the front of the estate. Beyond it stretched the garden as far as the eye could see. Hedges cut with almost unreal precision, trees maintained flawlessly, flowerbeds bursting with color, arranged with an eye for harmony he had never known before.
Even the public gardens in my hometown weren't this immaculate.
The sight was nothing ostentatious. It was simply… controlled. Thought out. Maintained by the invisible labor of dozens of people.
He let his gaze wander, absorbing every detail.
There is so much I will rediscover. Not because it is new… but because I finally see it differently.
This new perception of life stirred in him a strange mixture. Genuine excitement at the idea of rediscovering the world, even in its most mundane aspects. And, at the same time, a quiet humility. Nothing around him was owed to him by default.
Perhaps these memories are here to teach me that as well.
As he stepped slightly away from the window, a sharp sound broke the calm of the room.
A knock at the door.
Isaac inhaled slowly and straightened.
"Come in."
It was Freya, pushing a discreet cart with perfectly silent wheels. She crossed the library without a word and brought it to Isaac's desk, carefully setting out a breakfast worthy of a morning feast. Steaming hot dishes, neatly cut fruit, and a cup of black coffee whose aroma spread instantly through the room.
When she was done, Isaac nodded slightly.
"Thank you, Freya."
The words slipped out reflexively, a habit from his first life. She paused briefly, surprised by the spontaneous familiarity, before resuming her usual composure. Isaac noticed, but paid it no mind.
He then gave his instructions in a calm voice.
"No one is to enter here for the next few days. Bring me meals at the appointed times. Include snacks… and coffee."
"Very well, young master."
She was about to leave when she stepped back and placed a small, finely crafted object on the desk.
"If you need anything, use this."
Isaac examined the object for a moment.
An invention of this world… outwardly a simple bell. In reality, a magical system powered by a mana stone, linked to the bracelet the servant wore.
As long as she remained within a hundred meters, the signal would reach her instantly. A device that could serve far more than domestic calls… yet here in the County of Clairombre, where wealth flowed freely, its sole purpose was simple:
To make life easier for its occupants.
Isaac set the bell aside.
"Thank you for bringing it, Freya. You may rest these few days. Take advantage."
She lowered her head slightly, a fleeting expression of surprise mixed with gratitude crossing her face, then left the room, pushing the cart and gently closing the door behind her.
Silence returned.
Isaac inhaled deeply, pulled several blank sheets and a quill from a drawer, and stretched his arms above his head in a relaxed gesture.
"Alright… let's get to work."
His eyes settled on the blank paper. This time, there was no room for doubt. Only decisions.