A faint warmth pressed against Orien's skin. His breath came shallow at first, uneven, before settling into a rhythm that felt strangely not his own. A sharp herbal fragrance lingered in the air—unfamiliar, yet heavy with life. His eyelids fluttered as if weighed down by years of exhaustion.
At first, only silence greeted him. Then came the sound of hushed voices, blurred and distant, as though wrapped in water. Slowly, the stillness broke. The world sharpened.
He opened his eyes. Above him stretched a ceiling veined with faint green light, pulsing like roots under stone. The glow painted soft patterns across the walls, alive and strange, nothing like the sterile white ceilings of Earth. For a moment, Orien forgot to breathe.
Where… am I?
The air was thick with the smell of dried herbs and resin. Shadows moved beyond his blurred vision until a face leaned into view—a young woman. Her long black hair fell in a braid streaked with threads of violet, and on her fore head glimmered a sigil etched in silver, alive with a quiet glow. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she whispered words in a tongue Orien had never heard before.
It was melodic and ancient, rolling like thunder softened by rain. Though the language was foreign, the weight of it reached him: relief, devotion, and fear.
His lips parted. His voice was hoarse.
"Did… I survive? Am I… still alive?"
The girl's hands trembled as she pressed them over his own. She bowed her head, shoulders shaking. "Young master…" she whispered again, her words cracking with emotion.
The title struck him like a stone. Young master?
Before he could gather himself, footsteps thudded against the stone floor. A figure entered—a towering man with broad shoulders. His gaze held both strength and warmth, and when his calloused hand reached Orien's forehead, a gentle green glow spread through his skin. The warmth sank deep, knitting pain he hadn't noticed until it was gone.
Energy pulsed through him—steady, grounding, alive. It carried the weight of soil and the patience of roots. This… isn't Earth's warmth.
"Rest," the man said, his voice heavy with command yet softened by care.
Behind him, two other figures appeared—young men, similar in build, their eyes sharp yet worried. They hovered by the doorway, silent, watching.
But Orien's mind was no longer on them. A pressure swelled behind his eyes, sudden and relentless. His body stiffened as visions clawed at the edge of his awareness. Memories that weren't his own surged forward: names he did not know, places that felt like half-forgotten dreams.
No… this isn't mine… these aren't my memories…
Pain lanced through his skull. His heart hammered. The girl's voice broke through the haze, her words a desperate anchor he couldn't hold onto.
And then darkness swept him under.
While Orien slept, every fragment of foreign memory branded itself into his consciousness and soul, as if he had lived it firsthand.
The images were not his own—they belonged to someone else. Someone unfamiliar, yet strangely intimate. In these memories, the person was called Kaelvir. Every scene felt both familiar and alien, as if he had been there and yet remained a stranger.
Living through the memories stretched time beyond reason… days, years, decades.
When his eyes finally opened, he saw the familiar ceiling of the room—but it felt different. The sense of familiarity stemmed not from his own life, but from the alien memories now etched in his mind.
Sitting up, he felt an almost ancestral belonging to this place. Without hesitation, he stood and approached the mirror beside the mini study.
He froze.
The stranger staring back was someone he knew well… from his memory-dreams.
It was Kaelvir.
Orien studied the reflection closely, tilting his head, moving his hands. The truth struck him: he was in someone else's body.
"So… am I really in this body?" he muttered. "What happened to my own? Did I really die?"
Kaelvir's body stood with quiet poise, belying his age. His skin glowed with warm, earthen brown; his golden eyes were bright yet unyielding, radiating a will that refused to bend.
He wore a sleeveless green robe edged with white patterns. Sharp features—nose, chin, and lips—anchored a masculine face, framed by braids adorned with subtle white cowries. Broad shoulders and a lean, muscular build conveyed strength balanced with agility. Even in stillness, an energy lingered, as if those golden eyes could pierce the night itself.
Orien muttered under his breath, "What a handsome guy…"
The door opened.
She appeared again. Petite, dressed in a neat purple maid outfit, her wheat-toned skin glowing softly. Her midnight-black hair was braided into twin buns, with faint purple glimmers in the strands. Expressive brown eyes, long brows, and dusk-pink lips completed her gentle oval face. She moved with fluid grace, equally at home in quiet gardens or bustling streets.
Seeing him awake, she ran toward him. "Young Master Kaelvir! You're finally awake! I thought you'd be out much longer!"
Her warm hand rested on his forehead. Orien, flustered by her touch and beauty, nearly pulled away but stopped.
"Fay?" he asked.
"Yes, Young Master," she said, her eyes full of care. "What can I get you?"
"…A cup of water," he replied, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears.
"Ah! What a fool I am," Fay exclaimed. "You've been in a coma for days without proper food or drink." She hurried off.
Orien's mind whirled. After the accident, he had died and now inhabited someone else's body, memories, and home. If this wasn't transmigration, what was?
Pacing before the mirror, anxiety flickered. "This is like one of those WebNovels I used to read… What do I do now?"
Then clarity struck. I have the memories of this body's former owner. I just need to pretend I'm him… for now.
Sorting through Kaelvir's memories, he realized the world was vast and mysterious.
It was called Soneth—boundless and unknown, home to humans, elves, dark elves, beastfolk, winged races, orcs, gnomes, dwarves, and others he had never heard of.
Here, strength ruled above all. Every being was born with two ghostly entities—light and dark—known as Solun and Nytra, or the Seedbound in common speech.
These entities were not sentient at birth but grew alongside their host. Without them, cultivation was impossible. Those born with only one are called-Anomalies-because they could not withstand opposing energies, making cultivation forever impossible.
Kaelvir was an Anomaly.
Born with only Solun, he was destined to remain mortal. Yet he was the third son of Zar Veydrak, patriarch of the Veydrak Clan.
When Kaelvir failed his Awakening Ceremony at fourteen, his dreams shattered. The clan, valuing strength above all, scorned him. Only his father, siblings, and Fay treated him the same—but Kaelvir carried the weight of shame alone.
Still, he refused to surrender. Year after year, he trained his body and attempted the ceremony… only to fail.
Whispers haunted the halls:
"Is he stupid? Doesn't he know he can't awaken without a full Seedbound?"
"I can't believe the patriarch fathered someone like him."
A darker rumor reached his ears: he was not Zar's real son. Supposedly, Zar had returned from an adventure with Kaelvir as an infant, and the patriarch's wife had never left the clan grounds.
When Kaelvir confronted Zar, the patriarch's reply was firm:
"You are my son. My blood flows in you. If you cannot believe that, then you do not deserve to be my son."
Soon after, gossiping servants were exiled and punished.
Now, standing before the mirror in a body that wasn't his own, Orien bore the weight of Kaelvir's life. And he understood, deep down, that the jokes, sarcasm, or bravado Kaelvir sometimes displayed masked a core of fear and insecurity—a truth Orien would have to respect and manage if he hoped to survive in this body.
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Author's note: revised edition with no plot change for more clarity. 5&6 merged to be chapter 4