Lembang,
West Java – Indonesia. Friday, 9:00 PM.
Torrential
rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Villa Cempaka.
Outside, the thick fog typical of the Lembang mountains blanketed the pine
forest, hiding the world from view. Inside, however, the atmosphere was warm
and unmistakably luxurious.
The aroma of
savory Nasi Liwet, salted fish, and the smokey scent of grilled Maranggi Satay
filled the dining room, a space dominated by antique teak wood.
"Come
on, Dad, blow out the candles! The cake is gonna melt!" exclaimed Rafidha
(12), the youngest daughter, pointing impatiently at the massive chocolate tart
in the center of the table.
Sanusi
Sudrajat (55) laughed heartily. Even in his fifties, the founder of the
Sudrajat Group looked imposing in his long-sleeved silk Batik shirt. He gazed
around the long dining table. His wife, Rully (46), smiled gently, a cake knife
in hand. All seven of their children were present tonight—a rare occurrence
given their busy schedules.
"Patience,
Neng," Sanusi said with a thick, soft Sundanese accent. "I want to
pray first. It's rare for us to gather like this on the Night of One
Suro."
"The
Night of One Suro, Dad?" asked Rizki (22), adjusting his thick
prescription glasses. He had just set down his work tablet. "No wonder the
air feels... heavy. The cell service has been dead for a while now."
"So
mystical, Dad," chirped Roihan (18), recording an Instastory. "But
aesthetic. Carry on."
Sanusi
closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer for his family's safety. Then, he
blew out the candles shaped like the number '55'. Thunderous applause echoed
through the spacious dining room.
"First
slice goes to the First Lady," teased Rifki (32), the eldest, sitting at
the head of the table with a sturdy posture built from routine gym sessions.
Rully
accepted the plate with a shy smile. "Thank you, dear. I hope you stay
healthy and keep watching over the kids."
"There
is one more thing," Sanusi said suddenly. He pointed to a dimly lit corner
of the room.
Standing
there was an object Sanusi had won at an antique auction in Jakarta just this
morning. A two-meter-tall Bronze Mirror. Its frame wasn't wood, but a black
metal intricately carved into the shape of three intertwining wolves.
"Cool,
right?" Sanusi asked proudly. "They say it's 14th-century, an Eastern
European relic. I plan to put it in my study."
"It's
creepy, Dad," muttered Rumaisha (15), shivering slightly. "The
wolves' eyes... it's like they're watching us."
Suddenly,
lightning struck.
BOOM!
It wasn't
the sound of normal thunder. It sounded like a bomb blast, deafening and
violent.
The crystal
chandelier above the dining table flickered once. Twice.
Then, total
darkness.
Blackness
swallowed Villa Cempaka. Only the strobe-light flashes of lightning from
outside provided any illumination.
"Rafa
is scared!" screamed little Rafardhan (10).
"Calm
down. Rifki, check the fuse box," ordered Lukman—Sanusi, his voice calm
but firm.
"On it,
Dad." Rifki moved to stand, but froze. "Dad... look at the
mirror."
In the
darkness, the bronze mirror did not reflect the shadowy room. Instead, the
bronze surface was glowing. A reddish-purple light pulsated from within the
mirror, like a heartbeat.
A low
humming sound began to resonate. Vrrrmmm... It grew louder and louder, making
their teeth ache and the glass windows rattle violently.
"Everyone,
get back!" Rizki shouted, his logical brain instantly detecting a physical
anomaly. "That's not a light! That's radiation or—"
Rizki's
words were cut off as the villa's floor tilted. Not physically, but gravity
itself seemed to be forcibly dragged toward the mirror. Porcelain plates slid
off the table and shattered.
"Mom!
Kids!" Sanusi no longer cared about his expensive mirror. His fatherly
instincts took over. He jumped, spreading his sturdy arms wide. "Hold on!
Form a circle! Don't let go!"
They grabbed
each other's hands amidst the supernatural earthquake. Rifki grabbed Roihan's
collar. Rully hugged Rafardhan and Rafidha. Rumaisha pulled Rizki's arm. Ridha
grabbed Sanusi's hand.
"What
the hell is this?!" screamed Ridha (26), her hair whipping around as if a
hurricane was raging inside the closed room.
From within
the mirror, a voice emerged. It wasn't Indonesian. It wasn't English. The voice
was ancient, heavy, and sounded like a thousand swords being drawn from their
sheaths simultaneously.
[The Lineage
returns. Awakening initiated.]
The mirror
exploded in silent light. There were no glass shards. Only an overpowering
vacuum force.
Villa
Cempaka vanished. The Lembang pine forest vanished.
Their modern
world collapsed, replaced by a tunnel of time that smelled of cold iron and
blood.
Iron Hearth
Castle, Northreach Territory. Kingdom of Aethelgard – Year 844 of the Solar
Era.
Cold.
That was the
first thing they felt.
Not the cool
breeze of the villa's AC, but a damp, bone-chilling cold mixed with the smell
of wet moss, burning beeswax, and overly salted smoked meat.
Sanusi
gasped. His eyes snapped open.
He was no
longer standing and holding hands. He was sitting on a massive, hard mahogany
chair with a bear-skin backrest that towered over his head.
His hands...
these were not the smooth hands of a CEO accustomed to holding Montblanc pens.
These hands were rough, scarred, and calloused. On his ring finger sat a large
silver ring bearing the crest of a three-headed wolf.
His head
felt like it was going to split open.
Pain.
Excruciating pain.
Alien
memories flooded his brain like a flash flood breaking a dam.
My name is
Lucian Sudrath. Duke of Northreach. Former General of the Northern
Expeditionary Force. My first wife died of the plague. I married Aurelia. I
have debts. Oh God, so many debts...
"Urgh..."
Simultaneous
groans echoed around the table.
Sanusi—no,
Duke Lucian—lifted his face. Under the dim light of a rusted iron chandelier
lit by only twelve gloomy candles, he saw his family.
They had
changed.
Rully, his
gentle wife, now wore a dark blue velvet dress that was faded yet regal. Her
face was gaunter, sterner, but the eyes were still the Rully he knew. In her
head, she now held the memories of Duchess Aurelia, a noblewoman seasoned by
palace intrigue.
Rizki, his
skinny, glasses-wearing son, now looked paler. The glasses were gone, but his
gaze was sharp, sweeping the room with terrifying calculation speed. He wore a
simple gray robe. Sir Rianor.
Rifki, the
eldest, now looked like a giant. His shoulders were twice as broad, clad in
hardened leather armor with a greatsword resting against his chair. His face
bore a thin scar across his left cheek. Sir Riven.
And the
others... Roihan (Roland), Ridha (Rhea), Rumaisha (Rumina), Rafidha (Raveena),
Rafardhan (Raphael). They were all there, frozen in their seats, clutching
their heads, struggling to merge two souls into one body.
"Dad...?"
Rumaisha's voice—now Lady Rumina—trembled. She stared at her dress full of
dirty lace. "Where are we? Why is my head full of images of people being
beheaded?"
Lucian
slammed his fist onto the thick wooden table. BAM! The sound jolted them back
to reality, forcing them to focus.
"Calm
down!" Lucian's voice came out deeper, a baritone filled with a military
authority he never possessed back on Earth. "Breathe. Don't fight the
memories. Accept them. Let them flow."
He didn't
know why he said that. It was the original Lucian's instinct—the instinct of a
veteran who knew how to handle shell shock.
Slowly,
their breathing regulated.
Rianor
straightened his back. He looked at his father. "Father. We moved. Isekai.
Transmigration. Whatever the term is, we are in the bodies of House Sudrath.
And based on the data in my head... our condition is critical."
"Critical
how?" asked Roihan—now Sir Roland—reflexively adjusting the collar of his
tunic which felt itchy. "Stocks crashed?"
"Worse,"
Rianor answered flatly. "We are bankrupt. The territory is starving. And
Father's enemy, Duke Varkas..."
Before
Rianor could finish his sentence, the double doors of the dining hall were
thrown open roughly.
BANG!
The
bone-chilling night wind blew in, carrying snowflakes from the dark corridor.
Three
figures walked in without invitation.
At the front
was a short, fat man with a greasy face, wearing a bright red silk robe that
contrasted sharply with the castle's poverty. Behind him were two soldiers in
full plate armor bearing the crest of the Iron Boar on their chests. Their
hands rested on their sword hilts.
Lucian's
memories instantly recognized the man.
Baron Gorm.
The loan shark. Duke Varkas's lapdog.
Gorm walked
with an arrogant stride, his boots clicking clack-clack-clack on the cold stone
floor. He stopped right at the end of the table, directly facing Lucian. He did
not bow.
He smiled,
revealing yellow, sparse teeth.
"A
very... humble dinner, Duke Sudrath," Gorm sneered, his eyes glancing at
the dried meat on their plates with disgust. "Is rat meat in season up
here in the North?"
Riven's
blood boiled. His right hand moved to grip the hilt of his greatsword. But a
sharp glare from Lucian stopped him.
Gorm
chuckled, then tossed a leather parchment scroll onto the table, landing right
in front of Rianor's plate. The scroll landed with an insulting slap.
"Duke
Varkas sends his regards," Gorm said, his voice dripping with venom.
"The sun has set, My Lord. The deadline for the war debt from ten years
ago expires today."
He leaned
forward, staring at Aurelia (Rully) with a gaze that made Lucian's stomach
churn.
"Pay
50,000 Gold Coins right now," Gorm hissed. "Or hand over the deed to
the Northern Iron Mine... and Lady Rhea must come with me to Duke Varkas's
estate tonight as collateral."
Silence.
The
atmosphere at the dining table turned suffocating.
Back on
Earth, this would be the moment to call a lawyer or security.
But in
Aethelgard, the law was written in steel and blood.
Rhea—a
former national fencing athlete—slowly reached for her dining knife. Her eyes
narrowed, locking onto Gorm's fat, exposed neck. In her mind, the human anatomy
appeared clear as day, like a practice target.
However, it
was Rianor who moved first.
Calmly,
Rianor picked up the parchment scroll. His slender fingers broke the red wax
seal. His eyes moved rapidly, scanning line after line of the ancient
handwriting.
Rianor's
genius brain worked twice as fast.
One side of
his brain read the ancient Aethelgard language.
The other
side—the brain of a Cum Laude Business graduate—analyzed the figures with
modern mathematical logic.
The corner
of Rianor's lips curled up slightly. A thin, cold smile.
"Why
are you smiling, Book Rat?" snapped Gorm, offended.
Rianor
closed the scroll slowly. He turned to Lucian.
"Father,"
he said in a tone that was formal yet relaxed. "This document is legally
flawed. The interest calculation uses the compound method which is prohibited
under Royal Decree Article 12, and the stamp expired two days ago."
Rianor
turned his head toward Roland.
"Roland,
it seems our guest needs a lesson in... negotiation etiquette."
Roland
Sudrath stood up.
The
charismatic aura of a "Student Senate Chairman" blended with the
cunning of a noble diplomat. He smiled, a smile that was sweet but deadly.
"Sir
Gorm," Roland greeted softly, walking around the table to approach the
envoy who was starting to look confused. "You barged into our home without
knocking, insulted our food, and just now you threatened to kidnap my
sister?"
Roland
stopped right next to Gorm. He patted the fat man's shoulder as if brushing off
dust.
"Brother
Riven," Roland called out quietly.
"Yes?"
Riven stood up. His height reached 190 cm; his shadow completely swallowed
Gorm's small frame.
"Close
the door," Roland ordered coldly, his eyes never leaving Gorm's face which
was beginning to pale. "Our guest doesn't seem to want to go home just
yet."