The room was painfully white.
White walls. White ceiling. White bed.
The only thing that wasn't white was the machine beside it, its steady beep… beep… beep… echoing like a countdown that no one bothered to say out loud.
Lying on the bed was a child who looked no older than seven.
Thin arms. Fragile chest. A body so weak it seemed like a strong breeze might finish the job.
Outside the room, a middle-aged woman clutched her hands together, tears running freely as she faced the doctor.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kleinz," the doctor said gently. "Your son only has a few days left."
The woman trembled.
"His brain is… exceptional," the doctor continued, hesitating before speaking the truth. "Too exceptional. His body simply couldn't keep up. You should prepare yourself."
With that, the doctor turned away, shaking his head.
Such a shame, he thought. Born a genius, only to die young. His brain was a gift… and a curse.
Inside the room, the boy lay still.
Despite his closed eyes and fragile breathing, his mind was calm—almost amused.
So this is it, he thought. Terminal diagnosis. Efficient delivery.
He had known this day would come. When your brain runs faster than your body was ever designed for, something was bound to give.
In the days that followed, his mother never left his side.
She read to him. Held his hand. Talked endlessly, as if trying to fill the silence before it became permanent.
In his final moments, the boy slowly tightened his fingers around hers.
"Mom…" he whispered.
She leaned closer, sobbing.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I'm really happy you brought me into this world."
She tried to speak, but he continued.
"Thank you for loving me. And for letting me learn everything. I loved all the books you gave me."
A weak smile formed on his lips.
"…Thank you."
The luster in his eyes faded gently.
The boy died smiling.
Darkness followed.
Complete and absolute.
Then—
Light.
The boy slowly opened his eyes.
Huh.
Didn't I die?
He blinked.
No hospital bed. No machines. No pain.
Instead, he found himself lying inside a moving carriage, the rhythmic sway unmistakable. The smell of wood and leather filled the air.
"Young lord… you're awake."
He turned his head.
An old man sat across from him, dressed in elegant yet old-fashioned clothes. The posture was perfect. The expression restrained.
A butler, his mind concluded instantly.
"Where am I?" the boy asked.
He looked down at himself.
Small hands. A healthy body. About ten years old.
No pain.
No weakness.
His eyes widened—just slightly.
Oh. This body actually works.
Before he could celebrate internally, a torrent of unfamiliar memories crashed into his mind.
A noble house.
Once proud.
Now fallen.
Accused of treason and forbidden practices.
An emperor's decree.
Exile.
"Young lord," the butler said carefully, "we are currently in the vicinity of the forbidden forest known as Urst."
The boy glanced out the carriage window.
Towering trees. Dense fog. An atmosphere that screamed you will absolutely die here.
He nodded calmly.
"I see. Thank you, Butler Tom."
Tom stiffened. "Y-you remember me?"
"Yes," the boy replied. "You're loyal, underpaid, and deeply worried right now."
"…Young lord?"
The boy leaned back against the seat, processing everything with unsettling calm.
So I transmigrated, he thought. Fallen noble bloodline. Same name. Exiled by the emperor.
He paused.
Then nodded again.
Acceptable.
Outside, the forbidden forest loomed ominously.
Inside the carriage, a ten-year-old child smiled faintly.
Well then, he thought. Let's see what a fully functional body and a medieval magic world can do for an overqualified mind.
He turned his gaze back to the window.
The carriage rolled forward, and the trees outside slowly shifted, their branches swaying as sunlight filtered through the leaves. Mist curled lazily along the forest floor, and for something called a forbidden forest, the scenery was… exceptionally beautiful.
Birds fluttered between branches. The air looked fresh. Peaceful, even.
"…They really oversold this place," the boy muttered.
Tom, seated across from him, said nothing.
The old butler watched the young lord carefully, his chest tightening.
Poor young man, Tom thought. Made a scapegoat the moment the lord died.
The memories were still fresh in his mind.
A once-proud noble house brought to ruin overnight. Accusations spoken louder than truth. The emperor's will passed down without trial.
The nobles wasted no time. Like vultures, they divided the fallen lord's territory among themselves, each claiming a piece as if it had never belonged to another.
And the child?
Exiled.
Sent into Urst Forest—a place whispered about in taverns and feared by soldiers. A land no one returned from.
A deathtrap, Tom thought grimly.
He clenched his gloved hands.
"Young lord…" he began, then hesitated.
The boy didn't look frightened. He didn't look angry either.
He looked… curious.
As if he were being shown an interesting problem rather than marched to his execution.
The boy tilted his head slightly, still watching the trees glide past.
"So," he said calmly, "how far until you're required to abandon me to my tragic fate?"
Tom choked.
"Y-young lord, please don't say it like that!"
The boy glanced at him, puzzled. "Is there a better phrasing?"
Tom had no answer.
The carriage continued onward, wheels creaking softly, carrying a fallen noble child toward a forest meant to erase him—
—and toward the beginning of something the empire would one day regret.
Tom finally spoke, his voice trembling.
"Young lord… don't worry. I won't abandon you…"
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as he lowered his head.
Though I am old, he thought, I will accompany you until death.
The boy turned to look at him.
For a moment, he simply observed—the shaking hands, the forced composure, the loyalty that had survived the fall of an entire house.
Then he nodded.
"Fine," he said calmly. "How far are we from the designated place?"
Tom blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the lack of dramatics.
"The… designated place?" he repeated.
"Yes," the boy said. "The village outpost."
What he was referring to was the settlement hidden deep within Urst Forest—a forgotten village, much like himself. A place officially labeled by the empire as a frontier outpost.
The emperor had announced it publicly:
'To protect the empire, sacrifices must be made. We will place people there to reclaim the land.'
In reality, it was something else entirely.
A dumping ground.
A place where nobles and royalty sent anyone they found inconvenient—failed heirs, disgraced families, political eyesores—under the noble-sounding excuse of land reclamation.
No support.
No reinforcements.
No expectation of survival.
Tom swallowed. "At our current pace… we'll reach the outskirts before nightfall. But young lord… the village itself is barely holding on."
The boy leaned back into his seat, absorbing the information effortlessly.
Exiled noble.
Abandoned village.
No imperial oversight.
Surrounded by forbidden forest.
His lips curved slightly.
"…So," he said, "minimal supervision, abundant resources, and people desperate enough to cooperate."
Tom stiffened.
"That's… one way to describe it, young lord."
The boy looked back out the window at the endless forest rolling past.
They wanted me erased, he thought calmly. Instead, they handed me a blank slate.
The carriage rumbled onward, carrying an old butler prepared to die—
and a child who had already begun planning how to live far too well.
A few hours passed as the carriage pressed deeper into Urst Forest.
The sunlight dimmed, filtered through towering branches, until finally—through the thinning mist—a wall came into view.
It was made of logs.
Old ones.
Crooked, uneven, and visibly dilapidated, as if it had been repaired more times than anyone could remember. Moss clung to the wood, and several sections looked one strong kick away from collapsing entirely.
The coachman slowed the carriage.
"We've arrived," he announced.
They stopped before the village gate.
Standing in the middle of the path was a single man.
He wore worn-out armor, scratched and dented from countless battles. It no longer shone, and several plates had been crudely repaired, but it was clean—maintained with care rather than wealth.
In his hands were a sword and shield.
Both were old.
Both were scarred.
Both were still sharp.
The man straightened his posture and shouted with a voice that carried surprising strength.
"STOP! NAME YOURSELVES!"
He looked to be in his late thirties. His face bore faint scars, his eyes sharp and alert. Despite the tattered armor, there was something unmistakably heroic about him—someone who had stood his ground many times and lived to do it again.
The boy inside the carriage tilted his head.
Gate guard, he assessed instantly. Understaffed. Underpaid. Overworked. Still professional.
That alone impressed him.
Tom leaned forward slightly and called out, "This carriage carries the young lord of House—"
The boy raised a hand.
Tom stopped.
The man at the gate tightened his grip on his sword.
The carriage door opened.
A small boy stepped down onto the dirt road.
Ten years old. Calm expression. Straight posture.
The guard blinked.
"…You?" he muttered before catching himself. "State your name and purpose!"
The boy looked up at the man, then at the wall behind him, then at the gate hinges, then at the watchtower that was missing half its roof.
He nodded once.
"My name is—" he paused, then decided honesty was more efficient, "—your new problem."
There was a long silence.
Tom inhaled sharply.
The guard stared.
"…I'm sorry," the man said slowly, "could you repeat that?"
The boy smiled politely.
"I'm the exiled noble you were warned about," he clarified. "And judging by the state of your fortifications, I'd say you could use the help."
The man's eye twitched.
Behind him, the village gate creaked ominously in the wind, as if agreeing.
The guard exhaled.
"…By the gods," he muttered, lowering his sword just a fraction. "They sent a child."
The boy nodded again.
"Yes," he said. "I noticed."
And just like that, the fallen noble stepped into a forgotten village—
one guard, one broken wall, and one empire-sized mistake at a time.
The boy took a small step forward.
"I apologize for being rude earlier," he said calmly. "Please forgive me."
He placed a hand over his chest in a gesture that was surprisingly proper for someone his age.
"I am from the Barony of Pherenell. Baron Theo du Kleinz, of the House of the Eternal Hyacinth."
As he spoke, the boy offered the man a polite smile—neither arrogant nor fearful, but composed.
The man at the gate studied him closely.
His gaze shifted briefly to the carriage behind the boy—simple, unadorned, clearly meant for exile rather than ceremony. Then he looked back at the child standing before him, far too calm for someone who had just been thrown away by the empire.
After a moment, the man straightened and rested his shield against the ground.
"Bron Thadeuss," he said. "Former general of the empire. Now…"
He glanced at the crooked wall, the worn gate, and the lonely road behind him.
"…a man who runs this so-called 'frontier village.'"
Bron's eyes returned to Theo, sharp and assessing.
"So," he said slowly, "you're the new village head they decided to dump on us?"
Theo blinked once.
Then nodded.
"That appears to be the case," he replied. "Unless the empire intends to apologize and take me back."
Bron let out a short, humorless laugh.
"…Don't hold your breath, kid."
For a brief moment, the forest wind howled through the broken palisade, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and old battles.
Bron studied Theo again—really studied him this time.
A child, yes.
But one who stood straight.
One who didn't flinch.
One who had introduced himself like a noble even after losing everything.
"…Hah," Bron muttered. "Looks like Urst just got more interesting."
He stepped aside and raised his voice toward the gate.
"Open up! We've got a new lord!"
The gates creaked open slowly, revealing the village beyond—worn, tired, but stubbornly alive.
Theo looked past the gates, eyes calm, mind already working.
Fallen general. Abandoned village. No imperial oversight.
His smile returned, just slightly sharper this time.
This will do nicely.
As soon as I entered the village, I noticed it immediately.
There were too few people.
The streets were wide enough for more, yet only a handful of villagers moved about—thin figures with tired eyes, pausing in their work to stare at the unfamiliar carriage and the child stepping out of it.
The houses were dilapidated.
Roofs sagged. Walls were patched with mismatched wood and stone. Some structures leaned at angles that suggested they had given up on standing properly a long time ago.
Poor living conditions were evident everywhere.
Tools were old and worn. Clothing had been repaired so many times that the original fabric was barely recognizable. Even the air felt heavy—not with magic, but with exhaustion.
I took it all in quietly.
Low population.
Minimal infrastructure.
No defensive depth.
High risk, low morale.
…A textbook example of what happens when a place is meant to be forgotten.
Whispers followed us as we walked.
"Is that him…?"
"A child?"
"Another one sent to die…"
I ignored them and continued observing.
The soil looked fertile but untended. The forest pressed in close, yet there were no proper wards or watchposts. Resources were everywhere, yet nothing was being fully utilized.
I see, I thought.
They weren't left here to reclaim land.
They were left here to disappear.
I stopped walking.
Tom halted beside me. Bron turned, watching quietly.
"This village," I said slowly, "isn't failing because it lacks resources."
The people nearby froze.
"It's failing because no one expected it to survive."
I looked around once more—at the broken homes, the weary villagers, the forgotten walls.
Then I smiled.
"That's fine," I continued. "I wasn't expected to survive either."
For the first time since entering Urst Forest, something shifted.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But curiosity.
And in a place abandoned by the empire, that alone was dangerous.