I opened my eyes to the sensation of sinking into an impossibly soft, luxurious bed. For a moment, disorientation clouded my mind—this wasn't my bed, and this certainly wasn't my room. As my gaze swept the space, awe overtook confusion. The room was breathtaking: high ceilings, intricate moldings, rich fabrics draping the windows, and furnishings that spoke of wealth I'd never known.
A surge of vitality coursed through me, electric and unfamiliar. Curiosity drew my attention downward. I eased the waistband of my pants and froze, speechless. My cock was noticeably larger than before—thicker, longer, and already straining with morning rigidity. It throbbed insistently, as if warning that without release, the ache would linger for hours. Even if I tried to handle it myself, I sensed it would demand fifty or sixty minutes of relentless effort before my arm gave out entirely.
I sighed, deciding to leave it for now, and pushed the sheets aside. Rising, I caught sight of a heavy, ornate door—securely locked. The realization sent a quiet thrill through me. Alone, undisturbed.
I stripped off my T-shirt and pants, letting them fall to the floor until I stood completely naked. My erection swayed with each movement, twitching eagerly. Unable to resist any longer, I wrapped my hand around it. The fit was perfect—warm, full, and mine. I began to stroke slowly, deliberately, hips rocking in a gentle rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure up my spine. Ten minutes passed in that steady cadence, yet release remained frustratingly out of reach. My arm burned, then went numb. With a defeated exhale, I let go. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, evidence of how badly I needed more than my own hand.
"Looks like this one needs a real pussy," I muttered under my breath.
I turned and walked toward the large, gilded mirror across the room, ready to see exactly who—or what—I had become.
I stepped forward, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and faced the full-length gilded mirror. The reflection staring back stole my breath.
A young man in his early twenties gazed at me—smooth, pale skin stretched over lean, defined muscle, not the bulky frame of a warrior but the refined elegance of aristocracy. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, deep obsidian eyes that seemed to hold secrets, and dark hair that fell just messily enough to look intentional. I looked... noble. Dangerously handsome. The kind of face that could command a room or break a heart without effort.
A devil in silk, I thought, lips curling into a slow, incredulous smile.
The truth crashed over me moments later, sharp and undeniable.
I had been reincarnated.
Not just into any body, but into the fifth son of a duke in a world of magic and monsters—a fantasy realm straight out of the novels I used to read. For reasons I couldn't yet grasp, memories of my past life were bleeding through, sharp fragments of a mundane world without mana or dragons. The merging felt incomplete, like pieces of two puzzles forced together; some parts fit, others still grated. I would have to wait for the rest to settle.
Then panic spiked, cold and sudden.
Wait—what if I was illegitimate? A maid's bastard? Or worse, the son of some courtesan my father kept on the side?
I clawed through the emerging memories, heart pounding, until relief flooded in like cool water.
No.
My mother was no mistress.
She was a holy knight—one of the highest orders, revered and feared in equal measure.
I exhaled, long and slow, the tension easing from my shoulders.
Whatever game this new life was playing, at least I'd been born on the right side of the sheets.
A few minutes passed in silence, the weight of my new reality settling like dust. Then a practical question cut through the haze: Where exactly am I right now? My father's sprawling, opulent ducal mansion, dripping with silk and gold? Or my mother's knightly fortress—stone walls, banners, and the faint echo of steel on steel?
I closed my eyes and let the memories surface, clearer now, like pages turning in an old book.
My father, the duke, had five wives. Four were classic noble arrangements: daughters of powerful houses, married for alliances, borders, and influence. Dignified, poised women who bore him heirs and secured his power. The fifth—my mother—was the outlier. A holy knight of legendary renown, she had wed him for the same cold reason: politics. A union between sword and crown to strengthen the realm. I was the product of that marriage, the fifth child and third son.
Two elder brothers, two elder sisters—all from the other wives. Legitimate, ambitious, groomed from birth for inheritance and intrigue.
Then came the divorce.
My mother left the duke the moment her duty was fulfilled. She married the man she truly loved—a fellow knight, steadfast and honorable—and bore him twin sons. My little half-brothers.
I did the math aloud, voice soft in the empty room. "Two full brothers, two full sisters from Father's side… and two younger brothers from Mother's." Six siblings in total. Half-blood ties, but blood all the same.
I lifted my hand to the mirror and extended six fingers, watching the reflection mimic me. A small, wry smile tugged at my lips.
My position was… unique. Deliciously so.
As the youngest son of the duke, I had no claim to his title—my elder brothers would fight tooth and nail for that. And with my mother's new family, her twins destined to carry her holy knight legacy, I was neatly excluded from that inheritance too.
But here was the beauty of it: I didn't need to compete.
I had the duke's name, his vast resources, his influence whispering through every noble court. I had my mother's unbreakable protection—the reverence commanded by a holy knight who could fell dragons and inspire armies. All of it, mine by birthright, without the burden of expectation.
A spoiled second-generation heir in the truest sense. My half-siblings would scramble for scraps of power and approval. Me? I just had to exist. Stay out of scandal, avoid disgracing either parent, and the world would remain soft beneath my feet.
I glanced around the room again, really taking it in this time. High vaulted ceilings of pale stone, not gilded wood. Narrow windows designed for archers, not admiration of gardens. Weapon racks in the corner, a crest emblazoned on the tapestry: the holy order's radiant sword and shield.
Not the duke's mansion.
My mother's fortress.
When she left my father, she had taken me with her—her firstborn, her tie to the mortal world before she claimed her true happiness. The duke hadn't fought it; he already had his two prized sons to mold into future dukes.
I exhaled, a quiet laugh escaping me.
Freedom, power, and a front-row seat to everyone else's ambition.
This new life was going to be very interesting indeed.
No wonder, I thought, tracing the sharp line of my jaw in the mirror—noble elegance inherited from my father, paired with the raw, boundless vitality of a holy knight's bloodline coursing through my veins. The combination made me exceptional, a cut above the rest in every way.