A bullet tore through Marcus Chen's silk shirt and into his chest. The cold metal burned in his flesh as he looked up to see the smirk on his partner's face.
"Nothing personal," David said, pocketing his gun.
"Just business."
Marcus fell against the tall windows of his penthouse. The city lights of Seattle blurred as his blood spilt onto the white marble floor.
Twenty years as one of the world's deadliest assassins, and now he was dying because he trusted the wrong person.
"The Consortium sends their regards," David continued, fixing his expensive cufflinks.
"Your money is already in my accounts. Your reputation..." he shrugged, "well, that dies with you."
Marcus tried to speak, but only coughed up blood. He had always wondered how death would feel - if there would be fear, pain, or regret. Instead, he felt only tiredness, as if he had been running for decades and could finally rest.
His last thought as darkness took him was about the irony: Marcus Chen, feared by governments across the world, was killed by the very person he had trained.
Then nothing.
Then...
Pain.
But wrong. All wrong.
This wasn't the sharp, hot pain of a bullet. This was deeper, older - a pain in his very bones that spoke of long illness rather than sudden violence. His lungs, clear moments ago, now rattled with each difficult breath.
Marcus's eyes opened to strange surroundings. Gone was his modern penthouse with its clean design and city views. Instead, he found himself in a room lit by candles, lying in a large bed with heavy curtains. The air smelled of herbs and old stone.
"What the hell?"
He tried to move, but his body refused to obey. These weren't his hands - too pale, too thin, with long fingers instead of his strong grip. His chest, where the bullet had entered, now had only pale skin stretched over visible ribs.
Foreign memories rushed into his mind like a flood. Not his memories - or not only his.
Lord Caelan Albrecht, last heir of a fallen noble house. Sixteen years of life spent mostly bedridden, watching his family's influence crumble while his body betrayed him at every turn. The memories felt both foreign and intimately familiar, as if he'd lived two lives simultaneously.
Reincarnation? Possession? Some dying hallucination?
House Albrecht, once among the kingdom of Velderra's most powerful families, now just a shadow. His father, Lord Magnus Albrecht, died three months ago after being imprisoned on false charges of treason.
His mother, Lady Eveline, had gone during the same political attack that had stripped their family of lands, wealth, and influence.
And himself - Caelan - the last Albrecht, too weak and sick to be any threat to those who had engineered his family's downfall.
Especially House Fenn, they had created the false accusations, taken most of Albrecht's holdings, and reduced a once-proud family to little more than a name.
And Magic exists in this world, Caelan's memories told him. Great houses controlled magical arts passed down through bloodlines. House Albrecht once commanded shadow magic, but that power had weakened with each generation. Caelan himself had shown no magical talent at all - another disappointment in a life full of them.
He tried again to sit up, his aching muscles shaking with the effort. This body was disgustingly weak, nothing like the weapon Marcus had maintained through years of hard training. Yet something remained in his mind - the sharp awareness of his surroundings, the automatic checking for threats and exits, the cold thinking that had kept Marcus alive through countless dangerous situations.
I'm Caelan Albrecht now, he realised with growing certainty. But I remember being Marcus Chen.
He managed to push himself up against the headboard, breathing hard from even this small effort. His room was large but sparsely furnished, most valuables long sold to pay debts.
Dust gathered in corners where servants no longer cleaned. A single candle burned on the bedside table, casting weak light against the coming night.
Marcus had always adapted quickly to new situations - it was what made him an effective assassin. Now, as Caelan, he needed that adaptability more than ever. His body was weak, but his mind contained all the knowledge and skills of his former life.
He tested each limb carefully, assessing Caelan's physical limitations. The body was frail from long illness and lack of exercise, and the muscles wasted away.
Even sitting upright was exhausting. But the hands, though weak, were steady enough. The eyes still saw clearly. The ears caught even small sounds.
A killer's most important tools were not strength but perception, patience, and precision.
Those, at least, remained intact.
"In this body, I am weak," he whispered to himself. "In mind, I am lethal."
He would need that lethality.
Caelan's memories painted a clear picture of his situation: House Albrecht stood on the edge of extinction, surrounded by enemies pretending to be allies, with House Fenn openly working to claim what little remained of Albrecht's lands and wealth.
In this medieval world of nobles, magic, and ancient feuds, Marcus Chen's skills might prove more valuable than magic.
No one would expect the frail Caelan Albrecht to be a threat. That misperception would be his first weapon.
He would need to be careful. Hide his true capabilities. Learn the rules of this world. Find allies, if any, who remained loyal to House Albrecht. Identify enemies beyond the obvious threats of House Fenn.
Most importantly, he would need to survive long enough to understand why he had been brought here, to this broken body in this strange world.
The door creaked open, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. An old man entered, bent with age but moving with purpose.
Aldric, the steward of Albrecht Manor for over forty years, one of the few staff members who remained after the fall.
"Young master," Aldric said, his voice low and worried. "You're awake. How do you feel today?"
Caelan considered his response carefully. This servant had known him—the original Caelan—for his entire life. Any dramatic behaviour change would raise suspicion.
"Tired, Aldric," he replied, mimicking the soft, slightly bitter tone from Caelan's memories. "But no worse than yesterday."
Aldric nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response.
"I've brought your evening medicine, though I fear we're running low on the willow bark."
Another detail from Caelan's memories: constant medicines, herbs, and potions to manage his various ailments. Most expensive, all increasingly difficult to obtain as House Albrecht's resources dwindled.
"Thank you," Caelan said, accepting the small cup of bitter liquid. He drank it without complaint, though it tasted like dirt and old leaves.
"There is... news, my lord," Aldric said hesitantly.
"What is it?"
"They're here. House Fenn's delegation... they've come for their tribute."
The name sent a chill through Caelan that had nothing to do with his illness.
House Fenn.
The architects of Albrecht's downfall.
The family that had orchestrated his father's imprisonment and death.
"How many?" he asked, setting aside the empty medicine cup.
"Lord Vaeron himself leads them, with twelve armed guards." Aldric wrung his hands.
"What do they want?"
Aldric's hands twisted together nervously.
"They say it's about the quarterly tribute, my lord. They're demanding to speak with you directly."
The "tribute"—a cruelly named payment House Fenn had imposed after seizing most of Albrecht's lands.
A slow bleeding of what resources remained, ensuring House Albrecht would never recover its former strength.
Marcus would have killed them all without hesitation. Caelan had to be smarter.
Marcus—no, Caelan—processed this information with an assassin's clarity.
Physical confrontation was impossible. The dozen guards could overpower him without effort. But they hadn't come to fight—at least, not openly. Lord Vaeron was too clever for such obvious moves. This was likely intimidation, perhaps setting the stage for seizing the remaining Albrecht holdings.
Thirteen men suggested they expected resistance. The personal appearance of Lord Vaeron indicated this was about more than money.
They'd come to finish what they'd started.
If he appeared too weak, too frightened, they would push further. If he showed unexpected strength, they might eliminate him immediately as a potential threat. He needed to find the narrow path between—appearing physically frail while displaying just enough backbone to make his elimination politically inconvenient.
"Help me dress," he commanded, pushing back the bedcovers.
"My lord, you're not well enough for visitors," Aldric protested. "I can tell them you're too ill—"
"No," Caelan interrupted.
"They'd see that as weakness. Or worse, an excuse. I'll see them. In the study, not here."
Aldric hesitated, then nodded. "As you wish, my lord."
As the old servant helped him dress, Caelan's mind worked quickly.
This meeting was both a threat and opportunity. He couldn't match House Fenn's physical or political power, but he had something they didn't expect: the mind of an assassin from another world who had navigated deadlier situations than this.
His body might be weak, but Marcus Chen had rarely relied on strength alone.
His greatest weapons had always been information, manipulation, and the careful application of fear.
"Tell me quickly," he said as Aldric helped him into a shirt, "what's the latest news from the capital? Any changes in alliances among the noble houses?"
The servant looked surprised at the question. The old Caelan had shown little interest in politics, too consumed by illness and bitterness.
"Little changes, my lord. House Thornecrest still holds the king's favour.
Houses Ellowyn and Viremont continue their trade dispute. The usual games of the powerful."
Information to file away for later use. In Marcus's world, knowing the players was essential before entering any dangerous situation.
Dressed in the faded finery of a fallen noble house, Caelan allowed Aldric to help him stand. His legs shook, threatening to collapse, but he forced them to hold his weight.
"Ready?" Aldric asked, concern evident in his lined face.
Caelan nodded, adopting the mask he would need to wear: a sickly noble heir, proud but beaten, dangerous only in name.
Inside, Marcus Chen's cold calculation was already analysing angles of attack, escape routes, and pressure points to exploit.
"Remember, Aldric," he said softly as they moved slowly toward the door, "they expect weakness. Sometimes, giving people exactly what they expect is the most effective deception."
The old servant gave him a curious look but nodded.
They were about to meet something far more dangerous: a predator in prey's clothing, an assassin reborn, a silent blade that would cut through their assumptions before they even realised they were bleeding.
He allowed the old servant to support him as they walked slowly to the study—the once-grand room where his father had conducted house business, now stripped of its most valuable furnishings. Once-proud bookshelves stood half-empty, valuable tomes sold to keep creditors at bay. The great oak desk where his father had conducted house business bore scratches and stains. But the room still held an echo of authority.
"Announce me," Caelan instructed as they approached, "then help me to the desk."
"Yes, young master." Aldric looked uncertain but did as instructed, stepping into the study ahead of Caelan.
"Lord Caelan Albrecht," he announced with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Let's see what House Fenn wants from the last of the Albrechts."
Aldric nodded and stepped forward to open the door.
Caelan entered, leaning heavily on his servant.
The game had begun.