When I looked at the clock, it was already past noon.
Sunlight filtered dimly through the faded curtains, cutting across the floor in dusty beams. I'd holed myself up inside this small apartment all morning—lying still, half-awake, half-lost.
Well, I can't really blame myself. It takes time to process the fact that I've reincarnated—or transmigrated, or whatever this is—into an entirely different world. That's not something you just wake up from, stretch your arms, and carry on like it's a normal Tuesday.
It's not just a new place. It's a new body, a new name, a new life with someone else's memories bleeding into mine. Or maybe I'm the one who's bleeding into his.
The apartment I'd rented in the northern district of Thornebrook was small and modest—just a single bedroom, a narrow kitchen, and a tiny bathroom that smelled faintly of herbs and old soap. Still, it was leagues better than the cold marble halls of that mansion. Here, no one expected anything from me.
Still, it was leagues better than the cold marble halls of the Brightwill mansion.
There, the walls echoed with silence. Expectations weighed heavier than the chandeliers. And every step I took felt like trespassing in a house that was never truly mine.
But here… no one expected anything from me. No footsteps pacing outside my door. No formal invitations to dinners I didn't want to attend. No father seated at the head of the table—stern, silent, and always looking through me rather than at me. He didn't need to speak to make his disappointment known. His silence was enough. Always enough.
For the first time in a long time, that brought me a strange kind of comfort.
With a tired sigh, I pushed myself off the bed and shuffled to the shower.
Warm water cascaded over me, steam curling against the fogged glass. I closed my eyes and tilted my head up, as if hoping the water would wash more than just sleep from my skin. Maybe it would carry away the confusion that still clouded my mind—the grief that lingered like smoke, the fragments of Edward Brightwill's life that clung to me like second skin.
It was foolish to think a shower could cleanse a soul.
But it helped. Even if only a little.
Once I was dressed, I stepped out into the city.
Thornebrook was vibrant in a way that made it easy to forget this wasn't Earth. Towering buildings lined the paved streets, their architecture a seamless blend of enchanted design and modern engineering. Some shimmered faintly with rune patterns carved into the stone; others pulsed with embedded mana circuits like veins under skin.
Automobiles hummed along the roads—some powered by old-fashioned combustion engines, others propelled by compact mana cores that glowed faintly blue. Above, streetlights floated gently midair, their soft light flickering even in daylight. Public transport platforms hovered inches off the ground, stabilized by silent enchantments.
It was strange. Too familiar.
If it weren't for the knights patrolling the sidewalks in polished armor, or the enchanted scrolls displayed in storefronts—hovering and rotating like holographic screens—I could almost mistake this world for the one I left behind.
Almost.
But the magic in the air betrayed it. It had a rhythm. A pulse. I could feel it in the cobblestones underfoot, in the wind that carried faint whispers of power. Like a heartbeat—steady, ancient, alive.
I walked without destination, letting my feet drift through the city's buzz and chatter.
At some point, I ended up in front of a quaint restaurant tucked between a secondhand bookstore and a tailor's shop. The building had ivy climbing its stone walls and a crooked little sign above the door that read "Everleaf Diner" in warm golden lettering.
It looked… safe.
As I opened the door, a brass bell chimed overhead, announcing my presence.
A young woman behind the counter glanced up and smiled, her voice as gentle as her expression. "Welcome! Please, sit wherever you like."
I nodded silently and chose a corner table by the window.
Soft instrumental music played from enchanted speakers, weaving through the air like a lullaby. The room was decorated with potted plants and dried herbs hanging from wooden beams, their scents mingling with the warm aroma of freshly baked bread and something sweet—maybe cinnamon or nutmeg.
Outside, the world moved on. People laughed. Talked. Lived.
It felt distant, like watching life through glass.
Still not a part of it… but at least not forgotten by it.
When my meal finally arrived—seasoned roast, a medley of glazed vegetables, and a bowl of creamy herb soup—I hesitated. The steam rose in little tendrils, and the smell tugged at something old and soft inside me.
It tasted good. Better than expected. Rich and balanced, like something prepared with care rather than duty.
But it wasn't perfect.
The food back at the Brightwill mansion… that had been art. Meticulously plated, flawlessly prepared. If nothing else, the chefs knew how to make even an empty home taste like heaven.
A shame the meals were always served in silence.
As I ate, my thoughts began to wander.
Edward Brightwill.
He wasn't just any noble. He was a first-year student at Apogee Academy, one of the most prestigious institutions in all of Lumania. The kind of place where genius bloomed—or wilted under pressure. A place that trained the next generation of heroes, nobles, strategists, and monsters.
To be admitted there meant you were either incredibly gifted… or incredibly connected.
Edward was both.
And yet, now… here I was, sitting in this humble diner, watching strangers pass me by. Not as Edward the noble heir. Not as the academy prodigy.
Just… someone else.
Someone new.
I guess this was his way of escaping the suffocating weight of Brightwill expectations—renting this apartment far from home to spend the weekend alone, with no eyes watching, no voices whispering behind his back.
And maybe… that's why I found myself here now too.
A quiet place to breathe.
A soft beginning for a new life I never asked for.
Lumania…
This world is vast. Alive with magic and monsters, legends and lore. I could write pages just describing the systems of power, the races that walk its lands, the relics buried in its soil. But those details can wait.
What matters is that it's not Earth.
And yet, for all its strangeness, something about this world feels like a second chance.
Not for greatness. Not for glory. But something more personal.
Something I've never really had.
Peace.
A chance to just exist. Not as a tool. Not as a disappointment. Not as a shadow in someone else's story.
Just… me.
"Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not in the way we expected."
I lost everything once—my life, my past, my identity.
And yet, here I am. Alive again.
Living quietly enough to begin asking the right questions.
I never expected to live again.
But now that I am…
Maybe it's time to stop wondering why, and start asking what now?