Lyle Arkwright sipped tea like a man who had just accepted his fate with dignity.
It was still a little hot.
He burned the tip of his tongue. He didn't flinch — only narrowed his eyes at the teacup, as if it had committed treason.
He was seated in a massive library, sprawled out on a chair that looked like it had once belonged to a duke with back problems.
Books surrounded him on all sides — real, leather-bound, gold-rimmed books that probably cost more than a semester of college back on Earth.
The sun filtered through glass windows painted with swirls of blue and green, casting light across the deep red carpet and the rows of polished wood.
It had been a little over three hours since Lyle had been turned into human roadkill.
Now he was sipping luxury-grade tea, with a system in his head and cheekbones sharp enough to commit a felony.
Truly, the world worked in mysterious, slightly unhinged ways.
From what he'd gathered so far — and the tiny dropper of memories the system had allowed him to absorb — this was most definitely not Earth.
Not even a cheap cosplay of it.
The stars were different. The air was cleaner. And the economy ran on gold coins, reputation, and occasional swordplay.
His name was Lyle Arkwright. And honestly?
"Way cooler than Eugene Cliff," he muttered, sipping again. "Sorry, Mom."
Arkwright. It had a weight to it.
A name you could slap on a luxury wine label or a line of enchanted shaving razors.
And as it turned out, his new body came with that name for a reason.
He was the only son of Nathan Arkwright, a merchant so wealthy his name popped up in half the books Lyle had opened so far.
This guy wasn't your neighborhood shopkeeper selling apples and questionable sausages.
No, Nathan Arkwright owned shipping fleets, spice routes, and at least one building in every major city.
He was, to use technical financial terms, stupid rich.
And Lyle… was his firstborn son.
Only son, from the first wife — Marlene Arkwright, who had unfortunately passed away during childbirth.
The system had delivered that memory with the emotional punch of a cold email.
Nathan, the ever-efficient businessman, had moved on. Married another woman. Had more kids. Beautiful, smart, well-trained little future merchant tyrants.
They lived in the capital, where the real business happened.
Meanwhile, Lyle was stuck in this countryside estate with a few staff, a monthly allowance, and a reputation somewhere between "waste of space" and "spoiled noble fungus."
Lyle closed the book in front of him with a soft thud. It had been a journal, supposedly written by one of his tutors.
The entries became progressively more depressed the further he read.
"Young Master Lyle refused to study again today. He demanded someone peel grapes for him instead."
"I attempted to teach him economics. He threw the abacus out the window and declared math 'a tool of the poor.'"
"He insisted that taxes were a myth invented by peasants. I cried."
Yikes.
The more Lyle read, the more he realized just how thoroughly the previous "him" had burned every bridge in the estate.
The maids tolerated him, sure — but only because his father paid them extremely well. His father didn't bother to write, visit, or so much as acknowledge his existence outside the monthly gold stipend.
And noble girls who flirted with him only did so in hopes of marrying into wealth… not because of any personal charm.
Hell, even the dogs on the estate seemed to ignore him.
Lyle leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. "So I'm the son of Jeff Bezos, but also the rich-boy side character everyone laughs at in chapter five."
It could be worse. He could be dead. Wait — he was dead. Right.
He picked up another book, scanned the title, and tossed it back on the pile.
It was a guide to etiquette titled "How to Speak With Commoners Without Offending Them." Chapter one was literally "Step One: Don't."
With a long sigh, Lyle rang the bell sitting on a small stand by the door. A soft chime echoed through the room.
Less than ten seconds later, the door opened, and a maid entered.
This one was different from the judgmental one earlier.
She had big round glasses, slightly frazzled black hair tied into a low bun, and sleeves rolled up like she'd been scrubbing something moments ago. Her apron was dusted with flour.
Or maybe ancient book powder.
She curtsied swiftly and stepped in. "Did you call for tea, Young Master?"
"Yes," Lyle said smoothly, raising his teacup like royalty. "But I would never make a lady carry kettles alone."
She blinked. "...Are you feeling ill, Young Master?"
He sighed. "Why does everyone think I'm sick when I act decent?"
She didn't answer, merely walked over and poured the tea with practiced grace. Steam rose from the kettle as the room filled with the scent of citrus and rose petals.
It was the kind of tea that said 'you are important and wealthy, now drink leaves like a gentleman.'
As she poured, Lyle glanced at her name tag: "Anna."
"Anna," he said thoughtfully, taking the new cup. "Do you like working here?"
She paused.
That alone spoke volumes.
"It's… stable," she said finally. "High pay. Steady hours. Minimal risk of bandits if I don't leave the estate."
"That's a very economic answer."
"I'm a very economic person."
He chuckled. "Fair enough. Do you hate me?"
Anna didn't even blink. "No comment."
"Ouch."
She adjusted her glasses. "If I hated you, I wouldn't say it. If I liked you, you'd already know. So I will remain… professionally neutral."
"That's worse than a no."
She gave the faintest ghost of a smile. "Would you like me to bring anything else, Young Master?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "This is enough."
She bowed and left.
Lyle took another sip. It was still a bit hot then he took a hold of another book.
"Time to learn more about this world."