Standing on the towering roof, Chris had a bird's-eye view of the entire castle of Serris. Black banners snapped in the wind along the thick stone walls. Beyond the battlements stretched golden wheat fields, then forests, and finally the hazy silhouette of distant mountains.
Chris reached up and rubbed his forehead. A dull hangover throbbed behind his eyes, dizzy and sharp. How did I end up here? Where even is this?
A fractured memory flickered: polished leather shoes, stiff business trousers, the wind howling around a skyscraper rooftop.
That's right… I jumped… I jumped from the top floor of my company's building.
The pieces snapped together. In his memory, he was already dead. Yet here he stood—alive—on the roof of a medieval castle.
Only one name lingered clearly in his mind: Tangning.
Then, as if he had pried open Pandora's box, countless messages poured into his head. They collided, merged, and connected like glowing veins.
Forging methods, metallurgical techniques, industrial machinery, chemical processes—all the achievements of human civilization took root in his mind, sprouting into a golden tree.
He saw history laid bare before him: the experience, science, and discoveries of millennia converging into a vast and thriving tree of knowledge. Its golden veins held every detail of technology, from machines he had never seen to the chemistry he had studied for years. He could touch it all as easily as flipping through books in a library.
"Ah!" The flood of knowledge brought him to his knees. He clutched his head, writhing in pain.
Crack!
A window burst open behind him. A man in black armor leaned out, face pale.
"My lord! My lord, don't jump!" he shouted in horror, reaching toward him.
Chris turned instinctively. He saw the armored figure—then felt air beneath his feet. He tipped backward.
His hand shot out, grasping desperately, but caught only emptiness. As he fell, he wanted to scream at the terrified soldier above: "I wasn't trying to jump—!"
---
When Chris opened his eyes again, he was staring at a canopy of embroidered silk above a massive bed. He grimaced. The ornate Western décor felt overcomplicated, heavy, and impractical.
"Uh…" His dry lips cracked as he forced out a hoarse sound. Several anxious figures immediately rushed closer.
"My lord is awake!" the armored man cried, hurrying to the bedside. Two robed men followed him quickly.
Chris coughed, throat raw. "Where… am I?"
The man in armor glanced uncertainly at one of the robed men before answering: "My lord, you are in your chamber."
Despite his confusion, Chris stayed calm. He had read countless transmigration novels in his old life. He knew this wasn't a dream. This was real.
He had crossed into another world—and into the body of a nobleman. Judging by the surroundings, this was a medieval, European-like setting.
Fine, he thought. If I've come this far, I won't look back. I won't make the mistake of trying to die again. I've got a second chance, and I'll take it.
"Lord Chris," one of the robed men said anxiously, "no disaster is so great that you must choose death."
"Yes, my lord," the other added quickly. "Even though we now face a tax burden of one thousand gold coins a year, there will always be a solution."
Chris studied them carefully. The first was bald, with a thick beard, and the other had long, flowing hair but no beard.
He didn't know their names. Time to use the oldest trick of transmigrators—amnesia.
He put on his best pained expression. "I… I can't remember anything. My mind is blank."
The two retainers exchanged uneasy glances.
The armored man dropped to one knee, tears in his eyes. "My lord! I am Wagron, your most loyal general. You don't remember me?"
The long-haired man quickly followed. "I am Dines, your retainer, my lord."
The bald man bowed deeply. "And I am Strider, your retainer as well. Please, try to remember."
Chris shook his head firmly. "I… can't think of anything."
If he was going to play the part of the amnesiac lord, he would commit fully. He knew nothing of this world, and it was better his people assumed memory loss than notice his true identity.
Still, within his mind stood the towering golden tree of knowledge—his greatest weapon. With that, he was confident he could thrive in this new land.
Isn't this how transmigration novels always go? Guns against cavalry, artillery against castles, nations toppled one after another. A lord with knowledge of industry can change the world…
The thought brought a grin to his face.
"Well, General Wagron," he said at last, putting on a weary look, "I don't remember much… but I do know one thing—I'm hungry. Could you arrange some food for me?"
Wagron nodded, relief washing over his face, and quickly gave orders. Soon, servants laid out a meal: cubes of bread, mashed potatoes, and a slab of half-cooked beef. Sadly, there wasn't even a bottle of wine to go with it.
Chris poked at the meal with a knife and fork, suppressing a grimace. So this is what medieval nobles eat? Westerners can conquer half the world, but can't make food taste decent…
After forcing down some bread and potatoes, he set the utensils aside. "By the way, what was that about one thousand gold coins?"
Dines sighed heavily. "My lord, the Arante Empire has raised its annual tax. What was once three hundred gold coins has now increased to one thousand."
Strider frowned deeply. "This tax is nearly the entire yearly income of Serris City. If we pay, there will be nothing left to feed the soldiers."
Chris leaned back, frowning. So that's how it is. Unless we topple the power pressing down on us, we'll never rise.
But then another thought struck him.
Wait… Arante Empire? That name doesn't exist in any European history I know.
He searched the golden tree of knowledge in his mind, but found nothing. No such empire had ever existed on Earth.
A thrill ran through him. This isn't history. This is another world entirely.
His gaze drifted upward. The mural painted on the ceiling caught his eye. It showed a massive armored dragon breathing fire as soldiers fought beneath it.
"That's… a fine mural," Chris muttered.
"Yes, my lord," Wagron said with pride. "It depicts your grandfather, the great lord of Elanhill Tyrans, leading the army to slay a dragon. It was a glorious battle."
Chris forced a laugh. "A dragon-slayer, huh? My ancestor? That's a bit much, isn't it? Sounds more like a myth to glorify the family line."
He scoffed inwardly. A dragon, really? What next?
But then he noticed Wagron's face—completely serious.
Chris's smile froze. His eyes widened. "Wait. This world… it really has dragons?"
Wagron met his gaze without hesitation. "Of course, my lord. And there are many."