"Clara!"
Phillip lifted his upper body as he clawed away from a terrible nightmare. His heart was beating fast and his breathing was heavy. That accident was just a dream—
Wait.
His breath caught in his throat. The room around him wasn't his penthouse. There was no panoramic view of the city skyline, no glass walls, no familiar hum of air conditioning. Instead, heavy curtains framed tall windows, and golden sunlight filtered through ornate patterns embroidered into the fabric.
He blinked rapidly, his mind racing. The walls weren't painted modern white but decorated with intricate moldings and oil paintings. The furniture was carved wood, the kind of craftsmanship you'd only see in museums. A crystal chandelier hung above him, swaying slightly as if to mock his confusion.
Phillip pushed back the sheets. They weren't his Egyptian cotton linens but thick velvet blankets, embroidered with a crest he didn't recognize. The mattress itself felt firm, far firmer than the memory foam he was used to.
"What the hell…" he muttered under his breath.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately noticed his clothes—or rather, the lack of them. He wasn't wearing his tailored pajamas but a loose linen nightshirt. His bare feet touched cold stone instead of hardwood or carpet.
He walked over to the window and slid it to the side. What he saw was a vast expanse of gardens with gardeners trimming the plants.
"Where am I?"
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the mirror. He rushed toward it and froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.
He expected to see his own face—his well-groomed black hair, sharp jawline, the faint lines that came with being in his thirties. Instead, the man in the mirror was younger, barely in his twenties. His hair was darker, almost raven black, his eyes a piercing shade of violet that Phillip had never possessed. His skin was smoother, his frame leaner but tall, dressed in the loose nightshirt that hung slightly awkwardly on broad shoulders.
Phillip touched his cheek with trembling fingers. The reflection did the same.
"No… this isn't me…"
The stranger in the glass blinked at him with perfect synchronization.
For a moment, panic clawed at Phillip's chest. His mind scrambled for answers—hallucination? Trauma from the accident? Some coma-induced dream? But as the seconds stretched on, the clarity of it all pressed down on him. This was real. Too real.
Then, like a dam breaking, memories that weren't his own began to flood his head. Flashes of opulent halls, etiquette lessons, horseback riding, tutors droning about politics and diplomacy. A stern voice calling his name—Phillip Hershey. Third son of the Duke of Wellington.
He staggered back from the mirror, clutching his head as the duality of his lives collided. Phillip Harrington, Chief Technical Officer of Imperial Dynamics, and Phillip Wellington, a noble born into one of the most powerful families in the kingdom.
"No…" he whispered hoarsely. "This doesn't make sense."
But the memories refused to stop. He saw his supposed father, the Duke, a tall and imposing man with graying hair and piercing eyes. He saw his two elder brothers, one already preparing to inherit, the other serving as a decorated officer in the army. And himself, the third son… overlooked, with little responsibility, considered neither heir nor warrior.
Phillip steadied himself against the mirror, chest rising and falling heavily. He wasn't sure what this world was, but one thing became clear: he was no longer the CTO of Imperial Dynamics. He was Phillip Wellington now.
Still, he couldn't accept the fact that after the accident, he turned out like this. And…most importantly, where is Clara?
He doesn't know, but if he reincarnated in this world through the accident, possibly she's here also. But he doesn't know where to start looking, and she must be worried too from the circumstances they were in.
Now, where is he?
He scoured his new memories for information. According to him, he was in a country called the United Kingdom of Britannia. It's situated in the original place where the UK from his world is located. But something is different, particularly the year.
The imperial calendar was 1778 AD, March 18th.
Did he reincarnate in the past? No, that might not be the case. Looking at who is the Prime Minister of the UK, his name didn't match anyone from the real-world history Phillip knew.
In his old world, he could recall the pages of history books, the line of British prime ministers, the familiar names from the late eighteenth century. But here, the Prime Minister was a man named Lionel Ashbourne—someone Phillip had never heard of.
"This… isn't my past," Phillip muttered under his breath. "It's a different Earth entirely."
Then he looked around his room once again, if the year is 1778, what about the technology? Well, there were none. There's no electrical sockets, no appliances that's commonly found in bedrooms, and there's no HVAC systems as he saw a chimney at the far center of his room providing ambient heating.
"So, I was reincarnated in another body in a technological dark age," Phillip sighed. "Well, at least it's convenient that Phillip is also the name of this body. Speaking of which, what happened to the original body?"
Then just as he was about to contemplate it, he heard footsteps outside, coming towards here in this room. And there was a knock.
Phillip composed himself and straightened his body. He wondered who could be outside.
Moments later, a voice came.
"Lord Phillip, it's me Sebas. I came here upon the orders of His Grace, he requested your presence in his office."
It was a gruff old man's voice, and he remembered, it was the butler of the palace, Sebas.
Well since this is a formal summons, should he wear something appropriate?
"I will prepare myself," Phillip said, unsure if he was saying it right since the way Sebas spoke was too formal. "Give me ten minutes."