Eryndor opened his eyes to light that felt strange—warm, but sharper than anything he remembered on Earth. The faint scent of polished wood and leather filled the room. For a moment, he blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or still trapped somewhere between life and death.
He sat up slowly. The bed beneath him was wide and firm, covered with sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and cedar. Sunlight spilled through a tall window, catching on the gold embroidery of curtains that would have made his Earthly head spin with envy. Where am I…?
He moved his hands and froze. The fingers were long and graceful—too graceful. Not mine. The realization came fast: this body wasn't his. Every movement, every reflex reminded him of something familiar, yet foreign. The muscles had strength, but also refinement—like someone trained their whole life in proper posture and etiquette.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Master Eryndor… are you awake?" a young voice asked, tinged with hesitation.
Eryndor took a deep breath, instinctively centering himself. Martial arts had taught him control, even in moments of shock. "Yes," he said, his voice calm and steady, yet carrying authority. "Enter."
The door opened slowly. A boy, barely a few years younger than him, stepped in. He wore a plain servant's tunic, but his posture was perfect, as if he had been trained for years to serve with grace.
"You… you're awake," the boy stammered. "I thought… I thought you would sleep longer. Master… Father has requested your presence in the study."
"Father?" Eryndor muttered under his breath. Of course. The family I've entered—the Vaeliths—strong, noble, and completely ruthless behind closed doors. And the father… cold as stone, I remember reading about him in the family records.
The boy hesitated, glancing at him nervously. "Shall I help you dress?"
Eryndor shook his head. He rose with ease. The body moved like it had learned this motion a thousand times, every muscle and joint familiar with refinement and control. He dressed quickly, selecting garments that suited him perfectly: dark blue tailored tunic, leather boots polished to a mirror shine. Everything fit, almost as if the world itself had decided he belonged.
Stepping into the hall, Eryndor caught a glimpse of the massive portrait lining the walls: his "father," the patriarch of the Vaelith family, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating. One look and Eryndor understood everything—approval was earned, not given.
As he entered the study, his father did not rise. The man was a tower of presence, broad-shouldered, with eyes like shards of ice. "You've awakened," he said, his voice calm but heavy. "Good. We have much to discuss regarding the family matters."
Eryndor inclined his head slightly. So this is the world I've entered. The rules are different here, the stakes higher. And yet… I know one thing.
No one will ever see me weak.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Inside him, the discipline of years past—the martial arts, the breathing exercises, the quiet patience—coiled like a spring. He was ready.
And so, Eryndor Vaelith's journey began: in a world of magic, martial arts, and endless intrigue, where every smile could hide a dagger, every ally a potential threat, and every choice could tip the balance of power.
He would learn. He would fight. And he would rise—faster, smarter, and stronger than anyone expected.