John came up from darkness like a man surfacing from a foul barrel. His throat burned. His tongue tasted of bile and cheap liquor. His breath reeked alcohol. He drew in air, and it scratched on the way down.
When he opened his eyes, he went still. The bed was not his. The room was not his. Thick curtains hung in gaudy folds, heavy enough to smother daylight.
A chandelier sprawled above him like a jeweled spider, all glass teeth and gold ribs. Even the air smelled wrong, perfumed and clean, hiding something underneath.
His head throbbed. Not just pain. Pressure. As if someone had wedged a second skull inside his own and it was trying to hatch.
Then the memories hit. Not his. Sword drills. The weight of a blade that belonged to hands younger than his.
A father laughing, heroic and loud. A mother correcting his stance with a touch that felt like home.
A mansion's layout unfolding in his mind, corridors and courtyards and stairwells, too vast for a few men to live in and too familiar to deny.
John swallowed, and the room tilted a little. He breathed in and out until the tilt slowed.
He pushed himself upright. The sheets slid off his shoulders. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and his feet found a floor that was cold and polished smooth.
A mirror stood near the wardrobe. He stared at it as if it might bite him. The face looking back was strikingly familiar.
His face. Only younger. No softening at the jaw. No tired lines near the eyes. The kind of vigor he had not felt in years.
He yanked off his shirt and stared. His torso was sculpted. He traced the muscle with his hands, admiring the shape.
Then a sharp panic hit John, sudden and stupid. He shoved his pants down and leaned in to inspect it up close.
His junior came into view. He exhaled hard, relief mixing with disbelief.
"Still big down there." He swept the room again, like the walls might explain themselves. "But... No, but where is this? Where am I?"
The question sounded ridiculous the moment it left his mouth. The room did not answer. The chandelier only glittered.
He hauled his pants back up and crossed to the curtains. The fabric was thick enough to fight him. He pulled it aside and light spilled in.
Below, a training yard stretched wide. Men traded blows with swords, their strikes ringing on steel, their armor thick and scarred.
Younger ones jogged in synchronized lines, boots hitting packed earth in a steady rhythm.
Further off, a man raised his hands and flame crawled across his palms like living ribbon.
Another answered with a burst of heat that made the air shimmer.
John squinted until his eyes watered.
"Those... Those are..." He swallowed, eyes locked. "They're wizards, aren't they? Fucking wizards?"
He let the curtain fall back into place and the room went dim again.
For a long moment, he only sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, trying gauge his new reality.
"So this is what they call reincarnation?" His brow pinched. "Transmigration? Is that what this is?"
He had read a few of those novels once. He remembered thinking they were too slow, too easy, too much wish and not enough consequence.
He had dropped them halfway. Now he could only swallow the bitter pill of regret for not reading more.
His eyes moved over the room again, searching for clues.
"What now," he muttered. "If someone finds out I'm in this body... do they kill me?"
He stood and paced, bare feet whispering over the floor. The new memories kept nudging at him, trying to settle into place.
Titles. Names. Faces. Rules he had never learned. The mansion. The estate. The people in it. The dangers outside.
He tried to think like a man in trouble, not a man in a story.
Then something glimmered in his vision. Not in the room. In his eyes.
Letters, pale and bright, hung in the air as if the world had decided to write him a note.
{Sir System commencing… Tarry but a breath…}
John froze. His stomach tightened.
{Lo and behold. A true gentleman's soul is found and known.}
{Welcome, good Sir John of Sins.}
John stared at the floating words, then waved a hand through them. His fingers met nothing. The text stayed anyway.
"What is this fancy-ass prompt?"
He jabbed at the air again, half expecting a menu to pop or a button to click. It felt like trying to grab smoke.
Another line appeared, as patient as a priest and twice as smug.
{Patience was held as a virtue, borne and wielded by a true gentleman.}
{Onward Progress Recorded - 52%}
John blinked. The number sat there like it meant something. Maybe it did. He tried to work out what a sir meant here.
Fancy banquets. Manners like royalty. A gentleman in every move, smiling while knives were hidden under the table.
"So what am I a fancy-pants now? Is that my life?"
His voice sounded too loud in the room. The chandelier did not care.
The words shimmered again.
{The Sir Engine's loading is completed.}
John forced himself to stop touching the air. He waited, jaw tight, like a man watching a fuse burn down.
The loading faded. Two tabs hovered in its place.
{The Honorable Sir} {The Risqué Sir}
John choked on a laugh and smothered it with his hand.
"What are these medieval titles about?" he scoffed. "Risqué? Come on. This is... This is too cheesy."
He composed himself, breathing slow. He had read enough to know this part could go bad fast.
One wrong click and you spent a lifetime doing humiliating errands for a voice in your skull.
He did not want to be one of those poor bastards living in the shadow of shame, forever tasked with unsavory missions.
He clicked the first one.
{The Honorable Sir}
An insignia formed, crisp and gleaming. A golden knight holding a sword straight, posture proud as a statue. It looked almost comforting.
Almost. A box appeared beneath it.
{Worthy and well met, a man of measured grace.}
{First mission: Go forth and greet the mistress of this house, Duchess Rosalind Everhart, with finesse. Hold thy manner steady, thy words well-chosen and warm, and keep discourse with her no less than five minutes.}
John stared, then let out a breath that was half laugh and half relief.
"Easy enough."
The borrowed memories stirred at the name. Duchess Seraphina Everhart. His stepmother, in this life. Not blood, but close enough to cut deep if things went wrong.
She had taken care of him since he was fifteen, after his parents never returned from the front lines.
Her husband had not returned either, and his mind supplied the shape of that grief like a bruise you forgot until you touched it.
Seraphina's beauty surfaced next, uninvited. A face that could turn heads and a gaze that could make men behave. John pushed it down like a hand on a lid.
"Focus," he muttered. "It might just be her makeup. Yeah, don't go there. Don't. Just... Be grateful."