Nate's eyes fluttered open to a ceiling he did not recognize.
Pale ivory stone—smooth, polished, and impossibly clean—shimmered in the early morning light.
Delicate swirling carvings danced across its surface, catching every ray that filtered through the towering arched windows.
Warm gold spilled across polished wooden floors and glimmered faintly against crystal chandeliers suspended high above.
The air carried a soft floral note, mingled with the scent of fresh linen and spotless wood.
A far cry from the lingering aroma of his and Jared's apartment—old chip bags, spilled soda, and the half-forgotten laundry they always said they'd fold "tomorrow."
He pushed himself upright.
The sheets slid away like water—smooth, cool silk that seemed almost too luxurious to touch.
His fingers pressed into them, testing their texture, half-expecting them to vanish like some dream.
The bed beneath him was enormous.
A sprawling expanse of velvet-draped elegance, framed by carved posts and crowned with a canopy thick enough to stop wind.
As he swung his legs free, his feet sank into a plush carpet that swallowed sound and offered a gentle, grounding weight.
His gaze traveled across the room.
Large wasn't the right word. Grand wasn't, either.
The chamber was fit for royalty—bookshelves reaching nearly to the high ceiling, each stacked with immaculate leather-bound tomes.
A polished desk stood near the balcony doors, its surface without a single speck of dust.
Decorative blades—beautiful, ceremonial pieces rather than tools of war—hung displayed beside framed portraits gilded in gold.
Everything radiated wealth. Prestige. Power. The kind of environment someone was born into, not something earned.
Then something caught his eye—a subtle glint of silver on the far side.
A mirror.
Tall as a doorway and framed in dark metal etched with sharp, elegant patterns. It stood slightly angled, waiting—too deliberate to be accidental.
Nate approached slowly. His reflection came into view, and his breath hitched.
Black hair spilled messily over a forehead high and smooth, falling in soft waves he instinctively knew would look good no matter what.
His eyes—the same shape as always, were now strikingly blue—holding a clarity so sharp it almost looked unnatural. Not icy. Not warm.
Something in between, cool enough to intimidate yet bright enough to draw attention.
High cheekbones. A sharp, sculpted jawline. Straight nose. Lips that held a faint, naturally confident curve.
He didn't just look good—
He looked unreal.
Nate raised a hand to his reflection. His fingers touched cool glass, but the face in the mirror felt far too vivid, far too detailed, far too… intentional.
Then—
A sudden pressure behind his eyes.
Memories flooded in—not chaotic, not painful, just arriving swiftly and stacking themselves neatly in his mind.
A parade of tutors' lectures. Proper etiquette demonstrations. Sword drills in polished training halls. Servants bowing as he passed.
Rival heirs sneering during competitive lessons. The vague pride that came with the Veyndral name. The quiet entitlement of someone raised to expect excellence.
One name rose clearly:
Othriel Veyndral.
Nate exhaled slowly. "So that's who I am now."
Sixteen years old. One of the three heirs of the Veyndral Duchy. A noble by blood, upbringing, and reputation.
Strict childhood. High expectations. A life crafted around discipline and status.
But the memories didn't erase him—they merged. Othriel's habits, impressions, and instincts settling around Nate's own thoughts like a coat that surprisingly fit.
A soft chime echoed.
A translucent screen shimmered into existence before him:
⸻
[SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE]
[Othriel Veyndral (Nate Tarius)]
[Titles: None]
[Age: 16]
[Affinity: Death (Tier 1, Level 1) ]
[Talent: Mythic]
[Rank: Novice]
[AP: 0]
[Note: You earn points when your actions have style, force, or unmistakable presence.]
[SHOP: Available]
[QUESTS: Available]
[Note: Quests may be accepted or declined. Completion grants AP and rewards.
Your main quest is to make the story more interesting. The reward for completion shall be succession of the Supreme Primordial's throne.]
[Error… Error]
[Main Quest Deleted]
[SUCCESSOR DESIGNATION: CONFIRMED]
⸻
Nate stared.
"…Successor? Me? Why? Does he think I'm his long-lost son or something?"
The laugh that slipped out was half disbelief, half nerves. "Seriously… why me?"
His eyes drifted to a particular line.
Affinity: Death.
As if sensing the focus, the system responded:
[Death affinity: Natural command over the end of everything. Enables decay, weakening, or forceful extraction of life source. Excessive or reckless use may be dangerous.]
Nate nodded thoughtfully. 'Sounds op enough. I'll take it.'
Another line appeared:
[Observation: The Supreme Primordial is currently observing your aura.]
Nate blinked—then let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.
"…He's watching my aura? Guess I am that amazing."
Nate's gaze returned to the interface. "…Do I have to act like Sung Jin-Woo now? If this were a cultivation novel, I'd be ascending the heavens in one step—young master style, AP stacking, aura glowing…"
He laughed quietly to himself. "…Perfect. Just a casual day stepping into someone else's life."
For a moment, he simply let himself absorb the space around him.
The air smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers, the light refracted through crystal, and the silence carried weight.
Far from home—but not unpleasant.
He turned from the mirror, his movements unexpectedly smooth—Othriel's posture blending with his own.
Mana pulsed faintly inside him, warm and familiar, like something he'd always been connected to.
His senses felt sharper, more grounded, every detail in the room clearer.
Then another window flickered open:
[Starter Pack: Available]
He took one step toward the bed, mentally preparing to open the starter pack—
A knock sounded.
Soft. Controlled. Exact.
A servant's knock.
Nate stilled. The room's silence wrapped around him again—warm, expectant, filled with the weight of a life he had only just stepped into.
The knock didn't repeat. Of course it didn't. A trained servant wouldn't dare be impatient with a ducal heir.
He walked across the room—each step cushioned by the thick carpet, the morning light brushing over his figure like a soft spotlight.
His hand hovered a moment over the handle.
This was the first real moment of his new life.
The first interaction.
The first test.
A faint, subtle smirk tugged at his lips—not Othriel's practiced arrogance, but something calmer. More controlled. More distinctly Nate.
"…Alright," he murmured, fingers closing lightly around the handle. "Let's see what kind of welcome Othriel Veyndral gets."
He opened the door.
And the new life truly began.