The grandfather clock in the main hall chimed midnight, its deep bronze notes echoing through the empty corridors like a funeral dirge. I sat hunched over my desk, a single candle casting dancing shadows across the parchment spread before me. The flame guttered in the draft from my window, threatening to plunge me into darkness, but I kept working.
Focus. Every line matters. Every measurement could mean the difference between success and disaster. One wrong calculation and you'll be joining the original Kaelen in oblivion.
My hand moved across the paper with methodical strokes, sketching the layout of the Leone estate's old wing. The original Kaelen's memories were a corrupted hard drive. He'd avoided the abandoned section like a bad debt, leaving me with nothing but fragmented files: a servant's complaint about dust, a half-glimpsed, shadowed doorway. Sifting through them felt like trying to reconstruct a blueprint from deleted data—each fragment a ghostly image, flickering and unreliable.
The archive wing formed an L-shape extending from the main house, connected by a single corridor that branched off near the servants' quarters. Three floors, though the upper two were reportedly unstable, with sagging beams and floorboards that groaned under the slightest weight. The ground floor housed what remained of the family's historical documents, sealed away behind heavy oak doors that hadn't been opened in years. Decades of neglect had transformed what was once a proud repository of Leone knowledge into little more than an elaborate tomb for forgotten words.
I paused, rubbing my temples. The candlelight made my eyes water, but I couldn't risk using the room's magical illumination. Light spells left traces that skilled mages could detect, lingering auras that practically screamed "suspicious activity," and the last thing I needed was Father or Lucius asking awkward questions about my late-night activities. Lucius especially would love nothing more than to catch me doing something worthy of punishment.
Think like an engineer, not a fantasy protagonist. What are the variables? What can go wrong? Because in this world, Murphy's Law isn't just a saying—it's practically written into the System's code.
Guards. The archive wing had minimal security—who would want to steal dusty genealogies and property deeds?—but Father wasn't careless. There would be at least one patrol, probably rotating shifts to prevent boredom-induced negligence. I needed to know their schedule, their route, their habits. Did they carry lanterns? How thoroughly did they check the shadows? Did they actually inspect rooms or merely glance inside? Every detail mattered when your survival depended on remaining unseen.
I set down my charcoal and leaned back in my chair, the wooden frame creaking in protest. My neck cracked as I rolled it, tension releasing in tiny pops. Tomorrow, I would start gathering intelligence, playing the role of pathetic Kaelen while my eyes and ears collected every scrap of useful information. But tonight belonged to planning, to mapping out contingencies within contingencies.
===
"Young Master, you look pale. Are you feeling unwell?"
Mira's voice carried genuine concern as she set the breakfast tray on my bedside table. The aroma of fresh bread and herbal tea wafted through the air, making my stomach growl despite my act. I'd deliberately messed my hair and pinched my cheeks to achieve the proper sickly pallor, even biting my lips to drain some color from them, but her worried expression suggested my performance was more convincing than I'd intended.
"My stomach," I mumbled, pressing a hand to my abdomen and curling slightly inward. "Something from dinner, perhaps. I feel... queasy. Like there's a storm brewing inside me." I added a slight tremor to my voice for good measure.
Sorry, Mira. You're too kind to deserve this deception, but I need a legitimate reason to avoid my family today. In another life, I might have felt guilty manipulating someone who actually treats me decently.
She frowned, her forehead creasing with worry as she pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. Her touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who spent her days scrubbing floors and hauling water, calloused yet tender. "No fever, but you do look peaked. Those circles under your eyes—have you not been sleeping well? Shall I inform Lord Aldric that you won't be joining the family for meals today?"
"Please. I think I just need rest." I let my eyelids droop, the picture of exhaustion and discomfort. "Father needn't be troubled with my... weakness." The last word came out bitter, exactly as the real Kaelen might have said it.
"I'll bring you some ginger tea later. It helps settle the stomach." She adjusted my blankets with motherly efficiency. "Try to get some sleep, Young Master."
After she left, I waited a full hour before slipping out of bed, counting the minutes by the distant chimes of the grandfather clock. The corridors were busiest during the morning meal, when servants rushed between the kitchen and dining hall like ants along invisible trails. Perfect cover for a supposedly ill young master to wander the halls in search of fresh air, another pathetic noble too weak to stomach his breakfast.
The servants' quarters occupied the ground floor's eastern wing, a maze of narrow corridors and cramped rooms that housed the estate's small army of maids, cooks, and groundskeepers. I moved through them like a ghost, keeping to the shadows and listening. The air here was different—warmer, filled with the mingled scents of soap, sweat, and humanity rather than the sterile perfection of the family areas.
"...third time this month Jenkins has been late for his shift," a gruff voice complained from behind a partially open door, the words carrying the weight of long-suffered irritation. "Man thinks just because he's been here twenty years he can show up whenever he pleases. As if the rest of us don't have schedules to keep."
I pressed myself against the wall, the rough stone cool against my palm as I strained to hear more, controlling my breathing to remain silent.
"Guard duty in the old wing isn't exactly demanding," another voice replied, younger and more diplomatic, with the cautious tone of someone trying to placate without appearing disloyal. "Nothing ever happens there. Half the time I think they could skip the patrols entirely and nobody would notice. Just dusty books and creaky floors."
"Don't let Captain Morse hear you say that. He's already suspicious about the gap in coverage during the midnight change. Says it's a security risk, though what he thinks might happen in that forgotten corner of the estate, I couldn't tell you."
Gap in coverage. Now we're getting somewhere. The plot convenience gods have smiled upon me for once.
"How long is the gap?" the younger voice asked, echoing my own thoughts with perfect timing.
"Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if Jenkins is particularly slow getting dressed. More if he stops for a nip from that flask he thinks nobody knows about. Morse wants to stagger the shifts, but Father's too cheap to pay for overlapping hours. Says it's a waste of gold for an empty wing."
I eased away from the door before they could notice my presence, sliding my feet carefully to avoid any telltale creaks in the floorboards. Fifteen minutes. Not a large window, but large enough for someone who knew exactly where he was going and what he was looking for. For a protagonist in a fantasy novel, it would be an absurdly convenient coincidence. For me, it was simply information to exploit.
The rest of the morning yielded additional useful information, gathered in snippets of overheard conversations and careful observation. The archive wing's main entrance was locked with both mechanical and magical wards—Father wasn't taking any chances with the family's historical documents, whatever secrets they might contain. But there was a service entrance near the kitchen courtyard, used decades ago when the wing was still inhabited. The magical ward on that door had failed years ago, and nobody had bothered to renew it—a forgotten gap in the estate's defenses.
Because who would want to break into a crumbling archive full of moldy books? Only a desperate transmigrator trying to rewrite his death scene.