Something sharp pressed against his ribs.
No—inside his ribs.
Leonel's eyes snapped open. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—high, wooden, and cracked by age. Faded banners drooped along stone walls. Somewhere nearby, a candelabra guttered, wax dripping onto tarnished silver. His mouth tasted like iron and dust. His throat ached like he'd swallowed nails.
Where the hell was he?
A wave of nausea rolled through his gut as he sat up—too fast. The room tilted violently. Pain knifed through his skull.
Groaning, he clutched his temples, trying to breathe through it. His skin felt wrong—tight in some places, tender in others. When his fingers brushed his jaw, he flinched. Swollen. Bruised. There was a cut at the corner of his mouth, scabbed over.
What…?
The blanket slipped from his lap, and his gaze followed it down to hands that weren't his.
These were too thin. Pale. Not scarred like his old ones, not marked by years of handling blueprints and soldering irons. The nails were clipped short, but dirty. His wrists were bony. Weak.
Panic bloomed in his chest.
He stumbled off the bed, legs buckling beneath him, and half-fell into the wooden mirror leaning against the wall. The frame cracked as it caught his weight.
The reflection that stared back wasn't Leon Hartley.
It was a younger man—maybe seventeen, with unkempt black hair, sunken eyes, and bruises blooming across his face like rotten fruit. Blood crusted one nostril. His collarbone jutted from beneath a half-open shirt, and there was a strange birthmark on his neck: a crescent of dark skin just above the collarbone.
Leonel staggered back. His knees hit the edge of the bed.
This wasn't a dream.
A knock, sharp and impatient, shattered the silence.
"Leonel!" a woman's voice barked through the door. "Lord Varnhart demands your presence—now, you little wretch!"
The door opened without permission. A middle-aged maid stormed in, her brows drawn so tight they nearly touched.
"You've already missed morning call," she snapped. "If you think nursing a hangover earns you pity—"
She froze mid-step, her glare faltering.
Leonel had straightened. The confusion in his eyes had shifted. Whatever she'd expected—groveling, defiance—this was neither. This wasn't the same boy who'd passed out drunk three nights in a row.
This was someone else.
"…Well?" she finally managed.
Leonel's voice rasped from his throat, hoarse but even. "Where am I?"
The maid frowned. "Still drunk, I see."
"I'm not drunk. I asked you a question."
"Don't play clever. Your father's expecting you in the solar."
His eyes narrowed.
My father?
The words echoed strangely in his head. Not my father. But then again… whoever this body belonged to, it had a father. And Leonel had no choice but to play the role.
"I need five minutes," he said flatly. "And clean water."
She scoffed, but after a pause, set a dented pitcher on the bedside table before storming out. The door slammed hard enough to shake dust from the beams.
Leonel crossed the room slowly. Each step felt borrowed.
The pitcher was warm from sitting too long, but the water helped. He poured it into a cracked basin and splashed his face, watching red swirl down the drain. The sting woke him up more than the cold ever could.
Leaning on the edge of the table, he forced himself to breathe.
This isn't Earth.This isn't my body.But it's mine now.
As the fog cleared, memories slipped through cracks in his mind—faint, flickering, like someone else's dream. A name. Leonel Varnhart. Only son of a failing noble house. Known drunk. Public fool. Disgraced heir.
Damn.
So much for an easy second life.
He searched the room for clothes. Found a faded vest and pulled it on over the wrinkled shirt. His shoulders ached when he moved—fresh bruises, tight muscles. Someone had worked him over not long ago.
When he turned, the edge of a trunk caught his eye.
Curious, he knelt and lifted the lid.
Empty.
Except…
A journal sat at the bottom, spine cracked and pages warped from damp. The handwriting was wild and erratic—notes scrawled between lines of poetry and rants. Names of taverns. Nobles. Women. Debt tallies.
And a final entry, the ink darker, heavier:
"They say I'm not my father's son. But I'll show them. Even if it kills me."
A grim chill settled in his chest.
Did someone beat him for it?
Leonel closed the book. Stood.
He didn't know what role the old Leonel had played in this world—but it didn't matter anymore. He had work to do. If this family was drowning, someone had to be the one to swim.
Even if the world expected him to sink.
He stepped into the hallway.
Dark stone walls rose around him, lit by torches mounted in rusting sconces. Servants passed by without meeting his gaze, though a few cast sidelong glances—fear, suspicion, amusement.
Whatever reputation he had, it wasn't a kind one.
At the far end of the corridor, tall oak doors waited. Leonel squared his shoulders. Took a breath. And pushed them open.
Inside, the solar was all angles and shadow—thick drapes drawn half-closed against the morning sun. A long table dominated the room, covered in maps and ledgers. A man stood behind it, broad-shouldered, gray-haired, dressed in black.
He didn't look up as Leonel entered.
"You've finally decided to wake," the man said. His voice was low. Tired. Like it had been carved from stone and buried in war.
Leonel approached slowly. "Lord Varnhart?"
The man glanced at him—and frowned.
"Don't call me that," he muttered. "You're not a guest. You're my son. Or what's left of him."
Leonel said nothing. His heart thudded once, heavy.
"You've wasted enough of your life drinking and whoring," Lord Varnhart continued. "I won't speak for long. Either change, or you'll be sent to the mines to earn your keep. Even a failure can swing a pickaxe."
The words were brutal—but not cruel. Just… empty. Like someone who'd long since run out of hope.
Leonel nodded once. "Understood."
His father blinked.
No excuses. No tantrum. Just… obedience.
Interesting.
"You may go."
Leonel turned—then paused.
His fingers brushed his ribs again. Under the shirt, beneath the bruises, something pulsed faintly. A warmth. A flicker. Like a heartbeat… not his own.
No one else saw it.
But he felt it.
The first spark of something waiting.
As he stepped back into the corridor, Leonel rolled up his sleeve. Faint, purpled bruises bloomed along his forearm—shaped like knuckles.
Someone had tried to beat him to death.
He just hadn't stayed dead.