The moment my eyes fell upon the woman standing before me, an inexplicable heaviness stirred within my chest—like a sorrow I had never fully known but had carried across lifetimes. It was as though the soul of Victor Stuart—this body's rightful owner—and the remnants of the man I had once been in a different world had finally intertwined, braided into a single, undeniable existence.
She was holding a tray of food, her hands trembling, her entire frame rigid as if turned to stone. Yet her eyes betrayed her: those soft brown orbs brimmed with tears that spilled freely down her cheeks. They quivered, glistened, and fell—each one striking me like a blade.
For reasons I could not name, her sorrow felt heavier than my own.
"Y–Young master… is this… a dream?" Her voice wavered, fragile as glass.
Her name surfaced in my mind as if carved there by memory itself. Iris.
Iris, who had cared for me all this time, who had kept me alive when the world surely expected me to fade. She stood there, trembling, unable to believe that the boy she had watched over for years had finally opened his eyes.
"This isn't a dream, Iris."
My lips curved into a smile—gentle, sincere, one she would recognize as the one I had always reserved for her. "Come here."
Though she was older than me in years, Iris had always been someone I regarded less as a sisterly figure and more as a little sister in spirit. She was fragile, endlessly loyal, and ever so precious.
--
Iris's heart struggled to believe her own eyes. Every day for ten long years, she had carried porridge to Victor's bedside, spooning it gently into his mouth, whispering prayers, clinging to the hope that her young master would awaken. She had begged heaven for this single miracle.
And now, heaven had answered.
She approached the bedside as if treading through a dream she dared not disturb. Carefully, she set the tray upon the table beside the bed. Her tears, no longer held back, streamed down in torrents, and in the next breath, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around Victor as though he might vanish if she let go.
"Young master… please… don't ever leave me again. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. I'll stay by your side forever—forever!"
Her voice cracked, full of anguish and devotion.
--
"My foolish little Iris," I whispered, my throat tightening with an emotion I rarely allowed myself to feel. "This isn't a dream. I'm here. I'm truly here… so don't cry."
In my previous life, no one had ever wept for me. I had lived clawing for survival, hardened by betrayal and war, where the only tears shed were my enemies' blood. Yet here—here was someone who trembled and wept because my heart still beat.
It was… a rarity. A gift.
I reached up, brushing my fingers against her tear-streaked face, trying to wipe away the rivers of sorrow that would not stop. But the more I wiped, the more they flowed, as though her heart were pouring out through her eyes.
"Don't leave me, young master," she sobbed, her voice hoarse, broken. "Don't forget my name." Her forehead pressed to my chest, soaking my shirt with her grief.
"I won't forget. I won't leave you, Iris," I murmured, holding her trembling frame. Her sobs softened, slowed, and at last, I realized she had drifted to sleep in my arms, exhausted by years of longing and this sudden, overwhelming relief.
I looked down at her peaceful face, and for the first time in a decade, I allowed myself to breathe.
"This is real. I am truly Victor Stuart."
The name felt heavy on my tongue, but I accepted it nonetheless.
--
The memories of Victor Stuart—buried deep within the recesses of this body—stirred awake, offering fragments of knowledge. This was the Southern Continent, a land ruled by the imperial House of Tudor. The current emperor: Richard Tudor, sovereign of an empire that had stood unshaken for a thousand years.
And Victor belonged to House Stuart, dukes of the realm—second only to the imperial bloodline in power and influence. Though the Stuarts had no desire to seize the throne, their strength was undeniable.
Yet what unsettled Victor most was not the empire's politics, but the Stuart legacy itself. They were swordsmen. A family that revered the blade above all else.
--
Of all the curses… swordsmen?
A bitter laugh scraped my throat.
In my past life, swordsmen had been my enemies. Arrogant, self-righteous warriors who spat on wizards, who believed steel was holier than spellcraft. I had dreamed of burning every last one of them. And now—of course—the gods had played their cruel joke, planting me in the very nest of blade-worshippers.
"Damn it all," I muttered. "What did I do to earn such cosmic spite?"
But as I dug deeper into these inherited memories, I found a spark of hope: though House Stuart had long abandoned magic, the imperial House Tudor still embraced it. Which meant… nothing bound me to the blade. I could pursue wizardry if I willed it.
A grin tugged at my lips. Yes. I would master sorcery again, no matter the cost.
Still, the irony was laughable. My family's ancestors had once wielded dark magic, yet here I was—white-haired, golden-eyed, carrying the very traits usually reserved for light mages blessed by the heavens. No wonder the Stuarts had chosen the sword: their appearance clashed so violently with the darkness they once commanded.
"Ridiculous," I scoffed. "Truly ridiculous."
At least, I consoled myself, this world reeked less of those pompous swordsmen from Aurevan, the empire of my past life. Gods, how I loathed them.
My musings shattered when something thudded into existence at my side. I turned—and my breath caught.
A scroll.
The same scroll I had carried in my previous life. The one I had taken from that cursed dungeon near Aurevan's borders.
I remembered it vividly: how I had delved deep alone, hidden my magic from imperial eyes, slain the dungeon's final boss with nothing but swordplay—only to be rewarded with a single, enigmatic scroll. I had never unlocked its secrets. I had simply kept it tucked in my enchanted satchel.
And now… it was here, reborn with me.
I grasped it. The parchment flared with light, blinding and searing. Something shot into my eyes, pain ripping through me like a blade stabbing into my skull. I clenched my teeth, swallowing the scream, careful not to wake Iris who still slept against me.
The agony lasted only an instant, but when I staggered to the mirror, I nearly gasped aloud.
Staring back was a boy of fifteen, hair pale as moonlight, eyes molten gold—but now etched with a new pattern: petals of golden light blooming around my pupils, endlessly swirling.
Then the world shimmered.
A translucent blue screen appeared before me, lines of text unfurling like the hand of fate itself.
Status Window
Name: Victor Stuart
House: Stuart (Duke)
Age: 15
Strength Rank: E+
Vitality: 120 / 120
Mana: 260 / 260
Strength: 14
Agility: 18
Endurance: 13
Intelligence: 25
Unique Trait:Eyes of Dominion – Grants sight into mana, the power to discern lies, and the ability to erode an enemy's will.
Mastered Skills:
Sword Mastery (Lv.1)
Shadow Bind (Lv.1) – Conjure chains of shadow to bind foes.
Static Surge (Lv.1) – A close-range blast of lightning.
Inferno of the Abyss (Lv.1) – Summon violet-black flames that scorch both flesh and soul.
My breath hitched.
"The Eyes of Dominion… so that's what these are."
I tested the ability, focusing on the mirror. The golden petals flared, responding instantly without any chant or ritual. Power rippled in my veins.
And then my gaze fell on Inferno of the Abyss. My chest tightened. That was the very spell that had destroyed me in my past life—the cursed flame that had annihilated not only me, but an entire town.
Cautiously, I willed the smallest spark into existence. From my fingertip bloomed a flame no larger than a candle's wick. But it was black. Terrifyingly black, its glow not warm but hungry.
A thrill surged through me. Dangerous, yes. But invaluable.
Then a warning flared.
[Mana Low: 10/260]
"What? From just that?" I snarled.
Before I could dismiss it, the flame slipped from my finger and dropped to the floor.
The polished wood hissed and melted. A hole charred straight through.
For a moment, I only stared—then laughter bubbled up, sharp and wicked.
"Oh, yes… this will do nicely. Aurevan, one day I'll return. And when I do, I'll burn you all to ash."
Exhaustion crashed over me like a tide. My mana was gone, my body still frail from years of stillness. With effort, I returned to the bed. Iris stirred faintly but did not wake. I allowed myself a final smile, curling against the warmth of her small frame.
And then, at last, I surrendered to sleep.