The sound of waves crashing against the shore was the first thing he heard.Cold water licked at his face, dragging him out of unconsciousness. His eyes opened slowly, heavy like stones, and the blinding sun above stabbed at them.
"…Where am I?"
His voice was hoarse, weak, as if it belonged to someone else. He coughed, spitting out salty seawater. His chest burned, and every muscle in his body screamed in pain.
The last thing he remembered was… a car? A bright light? A sudden impact on the highway back in 2025. He was American, twenty-three years old, just a normal guy. That should've been the end. So why was he still alive?
When he sat up, the world around him felt wrong. The sand beneath his hands was too fine, too untouched. The air was pure, carrying the smell of salt and forest. He blinked, forcing his eyes to adjust. The scene stretched out: a lonely beach, no buildings, no people, no modern world. Just nature.
Then he noticed his hands.
"These… aren't mine."
The skin was lighter, pale with just a faint bronze tint, like someone who had spent weeks under the sun. His fingers were longer, stronger. His body felt heavier, taller. When he struggled to his feet, he realized he was towering, easily over six feet—no, closer to one ninety centimeters. His chest was broad, his shoulders powerful. This wasn't his body.
He staggered to the water's edge and stared at the reflection trembling on the surface.
A strikingly handsome man looked back at him. Pale skin kissed faintly by sunlight. High cheekbones. Dark, wet hair falling around his face. His jawline was sharp, but instead of a full beard, there was only a faint, rough shadow—a light stubble from days without shaving. It gave him a rugged charm without hiding his features. His eyes were deep, carrying both strength and sorrow.
It was a face he had never seen before. A face far more attractive than his own.
"…Who the hell are you?"
The answer came as a whisper in his mind. A name. A memory not his own.
Escanor.
The name struck him like thunder. Fragments of another life bled into his brain—shouts in Spanish, the creak of a wooden ship, the sound of cannons, men laughing and praying together, then screaming as the storm tore everything apart.
His head throbbed, the memories flooding in until he fell to his knees, clutching his skull.
"A soldier… of Spain… sailing west…"
He could see it clearly. They had been on a voyage, long before Columbus, chasing rumors of a New World across the ocean. But the sea showed no mercy. The storm devoured the ship, splintered wood and broken bodies sinking into the dark. Escanor had been thrown into the raging waves, struggling, suffocating—then silence.
And now, he was here.
He forced himself to breathe slowly. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of the waves. He was alive. Alive in another man's body.
"Reincarnation… is that what this is?" he whispered. The thought sounded insane, but what else could explain it? He wasn't dreaming. The pain, the salt, the heat of the sun—everything was real.
He glanced around the beach. Pieces of the ship lay scattered across the sand: broken planks, torn sails, a sword rusted with saltwater. And bodies. Dozens of them, lifeless, sprawled in the sand or floating in the shallow tide. His stomach churned at the sight.
"They're all… dead…"
The crew. The soldiers. His comrades—Escanor's comrades. Every single one of them had perished in the storm. He was the only one breathing. The only survivor.
For a long moment, silence pressed down on him, broken only by the cries of distant gulls. A strange loneliness wrapped around his heart.
Why him?
Why Escanor's body?
Why now?
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stand tall. The sea had taken everything from him, but it had also given him another chance.
Step by step, he walked among the wreckage, searching for anything useful. A half-broken satchel. A dagger, still sharp enough to cut. Some wet, ruined food. Not much, but enough to start.
As he moved, the memories continued to merge with his own. Spanish words flowed into his thoughts, natural on his tongue. He remembered Escanor's childhood, his training with the sword, his loyalty to Spain, and the dream of glory in the New World. The more he remembered, the less foreign the body felt.
Finally, when he picked up a piece of parchment half-buried in the sand, the truth hit him.
It was a logbook. The ink was ruined by water, but the date at the top was still clear.
Year 1392.
His breath caught.
"That's… more than a hundred years before Columbus…"
He froze, staring at the number again and again, as if hoping it would change. But it didn't. The year was real. The memories of Escanor were real.
And so was he.
He wasn't in 2025 anymore. He wasn't even in the modern world. He was standing on a beach, alone, in a century that history had forgotten.
"…Escanor," he whispered, tasting the name like it belonged to him now. "If this is my life… then I'll live it."
The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the sand. He tightened his grip on the dagger, staring at the endless forest beyond the beach. Somewhere in that wilderness lay his future.
And so began his journey.