Stormkeep, The Barony of Stormcrow, the Northern Kingdom.
Stormkeep sat on a rocky mountainside, surrounded by high stone walls to block icy winds and enemies. The barony was known for brutal winters and its fierce warriors, who protected trade routes across the frozen lands. The fortress itself had three main sections: the crowded outer markets, the middle district with barracks for soldiers, and the royal district at the center where nobles lived.
Around the central castle of the keep was the royal district—cleaner than the rest, with wide paths swept of snow. Guards in fur-lined cloaks stomped their boots to stay warm as they patrolled. Servants hurried past carrying firewood or baskets of food to warm stone houses with smoke curling from their chimneys.
But within this privileged district, there's a shack that stood as an ugly outlier.
Its roof was patched with moldy straw, with first crawling up cracked stones. It looked like it should've belonged to the slums.
A young man, inside the shack, shivered.
His eyes snapped open.
Where am I…?
He just freshly graduated from Blackridge SpecOps Academy with the highest honors. The academy had taught him how to endure Arctic survival drills, warfare simulations, and psychological conditioning.
Did I somehow get entangled with some mob gang from the north?
What happened to me?
He sat up and staggered toward a tarnished bronze mirror hanging askew from the wall.
The reflection staring back was a stranger's—
He has a gaunt face, all sharp angles and hollows with sunken eyes flitted away as if too timid to confront even themselves. His frame slouched even in stillness, shoulders curled inward as if apologizing for existing. Bruises shadowed his collarbone in violets.
This was the body of a soul that had never learned to stand straight.
Memories of the original host now surfaced in his brain.
His name was Eirik.
The third son of Cedric Stormcrow—the Baron of Stormkeep and Lord of House Stormcrow.
Except…
Eirik was a bastard.
To be more specific, Eirik was born to a barbaric woman that Lord Cedric Stormcrow took captive from the Northern Wastes.
His mother died in childbirth, and his father, Lord Cedric, wasn't the empathetic type. Cedric provided food, shelter, even education, yet when he found Eirik to be of a rather weak personality, Cedric stopped caring all that much about Eirik at all.
To say that he grew up in a hostile environment would be an understatement.
People called Eirik "half-blood" when feeling charitable, "mudborn" when not. He ate meals cold from the kitchens after nobel born children threw bread at his head. He slept in tower rooms where frost painted the mortar cracks each night. His sole companions were his half-siblings who'd sooner kick him down the stairs than speak with him.
People even gave him a nickname:
Eirik the Spineless.
"Young Master Eirik! You're awake!"
A servant girl in woolens stained with soot shoved open the wooden door, carrying a tray of bread and what looked like lumpy gruel.
Eirik stared.
More memories filled his mind.
The girl is Marta, his only servant girl.
He should feel a bit of warmth as she brought her food and greetings. Yet what he found was the feeling that the original host's body swelled up in his body towards Marta.
How strange…
It wasn't the feeling of superiority, or even the comfort a master has to his servant.
No… it was a mixture of distaste and bitterness, and…
Suspicion.
Marta dropped the tray onto a rickety table.
"Eat. Young Master." She turned to leave, then paused with a smirk on her face. "Oh, and Lord Garrick wants his dagger back."
Eirik's throat tightened.
Dagger?
Memory surfaced again: his brother Garrick cornering him in the armory, pressing a blade into his hands, then bellowing for guards.
"Thief! Bastard Filth!"
The beating had left him bedridden for three days. The fever followed.
The most disgusting fact is that they did not even bother to take the dagger away, but rather pushed it into his hands as the "evidence" that would be required for a later "trial of combat."
And that trial date—Eirik looked at Marta, who was pretending to care about his well being—seemed to be today.
Garrick Stormcrow.
The firstborn son, heir of Lord Cedric Stormcrow.
Yet despite the title, he's by all standards a good-for-nothing spoiled boy except for his penchant for drinking and sparring.
Garrick is perpetually outshone by Cedric's second son, Rurik, who's much superior both intellectually and physically. The existence of Rurik caused Garrick constant pent-up rage and humiliation that he had to swallow rather than release… until he had found one thing he could dominate:
Eirik.
The spineless bastard who never fights back.
Having familiarized himself with the relevant memories, Eirik glanced at the dagger sheathed on the wall—his "stolen" prize. The blade was cheap iron, a tool for gutting fish, not a battle knife that's actually worth anything.
Maybe it was chosen specifically to symbolize his current status.
Eirik sighed, his breath whitened into fog.
"Take the food away. I don't feel like eating right now."
For some reason, he did not want to trust this food that was being brought to him.
"But Lord Cedric insisted…"
"Now."
Marta shot him a rather surprised look, then took the tray from the table, and left without another word.
As Marta closed the door behind her, Eirik suddenly stood up.
This isn't a great start he'd hoped.
Eirik had no power, no network of influence;
Even his servants were doing shady things he could not yet figure out…
However…
if he had no one who cares about him at the court, then he must move elsewhere to start afresh!
No more being pushed around, beaten up and humiliated at others' whim. Even though Eirik is new to this world, he refuses to live as Eirik the Spineless.
He'd rather be a king among worms rather than a coward at a royal court!
Given his background training at Blackridge, perhaps being a king isn't too far-fetched for him to achieve in this world!
Yes, he WILL become a King, whatever it takes!
Squeak—
The door suddenly burst open again, interrupting his thoughts.
The draft wind hit Eirik's face before he saw the man.
Garrick Stormcrow.
"Look who's not dead! The bastard!"
Three guards flanked him. One snickered. The others stared at Eirik like he was dung on a boot.
Marta stood on their side, this time her attitude carried a sense of reverence that she never showed—even if just pretending it—toward Eirik.
Eirik's lungs seized.
The original host's body reflexes swelled up again—he remembered Garrick's knuckles against his jawbone, his ribs snapping like kindling, and the coppery taste of blood pooling beneath his tongue.
Fear.
So raw, so real, the sense of fear had his body trembling against his will.
Stop!
His body wouldn't listen to him as more memories showed up in his mind: Garrick's fist cracking his ribs last winter, and the time he'd made Eirik lick spilled wine off the floor.
Then he remembered the words from his past life, from a wise old man who loves to read him medieval stories:
"The only time a man can be brave is when he's afraid."
A quote that had helped him countless times during his training at the Blackridge SpecOps Academy.
Eirik locked his knees, pressing fingernails into palms until the pain drowned out the great fear he's currently experiencing.
Garrick stepped closer and pointed to the dagger hanging from the wall.
"You're still holding onto your 'spoils,' huh? Or are your pants too wet to return it to the armory?"
The guards chuckled. Even Marta couldn't hold back a smirk.
Garrick took the dagger from the wall, and turned to look at Eirik.
"Thief. What do you say in your defense? "
Erirk raised his head up.
He had never met his brother's eyes before—always staring at boots, at floor stains, at the middle distance where his inferiority would not stare back at him.
Yet, this time, his gaze pinned Garrick like an arrow through a hare.
"I didn't steal it."
The guards' snickers died mid-breath. Marta's smirk collapsed into uneasy silence. Even the draft seemed to pause.
They'd never expect Eirik the Spineless would say something like this.
He'd never ever resisted, after all.
"What did you just say to me?" Garrick's grin faltered.
"I. Didn't. Steal. It."
Garrick's face flashed a moment of uncontrollable rage, then morphed into a twisted smile.
He leaned in, a rotten breath hot on Eirik's face.
"Since when did our little worm grow a pair of balls?" He turned to his guards, showing his back to Eirik, the guards laughed in response. Garrick turned again to face Eirik, this time showing a much more ferocious expression.
"Do you know I'll KILL you for what you just—"
Eirik's knee slammed upward.
He's just not in the mood for Garrick to finish his theatrics.
YAAAAAAAAAAAGH—
A guttural, animal scream that claws up from Garrick's belly as he doubled over, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth.
This is a trick Eirik learned in the Blackridge SpecOps Academy from countless drills in riot control—a close-quarters strike designed to collapse an aggressor's diaphragm. The body he inhabited now was frail, but even a half-starved knee driven upward with precision could inflict tremendous pain.
Every face in the room turned white.
Marta's tray hit the floor with a clang, sending gruel splattering across the stones.
Blood… was that blood?
Eirik the Spineless drew blood on Garrick Stormcrow, was this a dream?