The first sound he heard was the creaking of wood and the distant clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. The air was heavy with coal smoke, horse dung, and something fishy—like a marketplace gone sour. His head spun.
Where am I?
He forced his eyes open. The ceiling above him was not the smooth plaster of his apartment in London, nor the white panels of his university dorm. It was wooden, rough, uneven, beams blackened with age. He blinked again, pushing himself upright from a straw mattress.
The room was small, little more than a cot, a crude desk, and a basin of water. A draft seeped through cracks in the shuttered window. His heart pounded in confusion.
"This… this isn't real." He muttered, rubbing his face.
But the texture was real—the scratch of stubble against his palm, the itch of rough linen on his skin. His clothes were wrong too: a coarse woolen shirt, loose breeches, and a waistcoat that smelled faintly of mildew. Not his jeans, not his blazer.
Before he could rise fully, a voice hummed into existence. Clear, mechanical, impossible.
[System Activated]
Host: 24 years, modern era.
Current time: Year 1736, London, Great Britain.
Directive: Build your empire. Survive until 2025. All wealth and holdings across history shall be restored to your real body.
The words burned in his mind, each one distinct yet impossible to pin down. He staggered back onto the bed.
"No… no, this can't…"
[Bloodline Rule Engaged]
You are alone. Your father is dead. You will sire one heir only. That heir is you. Upon death, you will awaken as your son, retaining memory and empire. Failure to produce an heir = termination.
He froze. His throat went dry.
"One… one heir? Always me? Then… I can't die, unless—"
[Mission One: Secure your first property within one year.]
Reward: Establish foothold. Ledger Activation.
The voice faded. Silence returned, save for the muffled bustle of streets beyond the shutter.
His breath came uneven. He was not in his flat in London, not even in 2025 anymore. This was… the past. London, 1736. He knew the year from the voice, but more than that—from history.
The year George II sat on the throne. The year Britain was stretching its hands over the Atlantic and India. The year trade, colonies, and land ownership meant everything.
And he was here. Alone.
He stood, legs trembling, and crossed to the window. With a grunt, he shoved open the warped shutter.
The world exploded before him.
Narrow cobbled streets teemed with life. Carriages rattled past, their iron wheels biting stone. Men in frock coats and powdered wigs strode with canes. Women in layered skirts clutched baskets of bread. Barefoot children darted between them, chasing dogs or shouting for pennies. Hawkers called their wares—fish, bread, coal. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and the Thames, rank with sewage.
And towering above it all, rising like a spine through the city, were masts of ships down by the docks. Tall ships, their sails furled, their hulls swollen with goods from distant lands. He could almost taste it: tobacco, rum, cotton, sugar.
His chest tightened. It's real. It's all real.
He pulled back, heart hammering. If this is real, then… then I have a chance. A system. An empire to build.
The First Step
Hours later, he found himself walking the streets. His purse, if it could be called that, contained only a few shillings—barely enough for bread and a pint of ale. He needed more.
The system had been clear: property within one year. In this age, property meant land, houses, taverns, or warehouses. All required capital.
He clenched his fists. Think. What do I know?
From his modern education, he remembered the movements of history. London in the 18th century was the heart of trade, finance, and empire. Merchants ruled as much as kings. The East India Company was already rising in power. Colonies across America were swelling with settlers.
Real estate and trade—that was the path. But to start, he needed coin.
He wandered the docks, where sailors shouted and barrels rolled. Ships from the Caribbean unloaded molasses and rum. From America came timber and tobacco. From India, spices. Goods changed hands quickly—merchants, dock workers, smugglers.
"Fine molasses! From Barbados!" one man cried, waving a jug.
"Virginia tobacco! Best leaf you'll ever smoke!" shouted another.
He paused, watching the frantic exchange. He could see it instantly: profit. He knew, in a way these men didn't, what goods would rise in value, what land would one day be priceless. He knew New York, now still a colonial town, would grow into the beating heart of the modern world. He knew industrialization was coming.
All he lacked was capital.
"Oi! Watch where ye standin', lad!"
A barrel nearly clipped his shoulder. A burly dockworker sneered at him, lifting another crate. He muttered an apology and stepped aside.
A sharp voice caught his ear.
"You look lost, sir. And not of this parish."
He turned. A man stood there, lean and shrewd, in a merchant's coat, wig powdered but askew. His eyes were calculating.
"I—" he began.
"New to London, eh? No family, no business? I can tell." The merchant smirked. "Well, fortune smiles. I'm Mr. Blackwood, trader in sundries. If you've a mind to make coin, I've work that suits."
The protagonist's instincts screamed caution. But he needed opportunity.
"What kind of work?"
"Simple. Help me mind a cargo. A few nights, honest labor. You'll earn coin enough for bread—and maybe more."
Blackwood's eyes gleamed, not entirely honest. But a start was a start.
The Bloodline Rule Revealed
That night, back in his rented room, he lit a tallow candle and stared at the cracked ceiling. His mind churned with the system's decree.
One heir. Always one. Himself.
If he lived recklessly and died young, the line ended. If he played it carefully, his next life would continue the empire. That meant long-term planning, not just quick coin. He needed land, trade, allies.
His modern knowledge was his weapon. He knew where wars would break out. He knew which colonies would thrive. He knew which inventions were coming—steam engines, spinning jennies, railroads. He knew that Manhattan land, worthless now, would one day be more precious than gold.
A thrill shot through him.
This is my chance. Not just to live history—but to own it.
He sat upright, grabbed the crude notebook on the desk, and began scribbling:
Short-term: Earn coin. Secure first property.
Mid-term: Invest in trade routes, colonial goods.
Long-term: Acquire land in America and Britain. Prepare for industrial growth.
As the candle guttered, he whispered to himself:
"This is no longer just survival. This is the birth of a dynasty."
And deep within, the system's voice stirred once more:
[Empire Mission Begun]
Acquire your first property within one year. Ledger will unlock upon success.
He blew out the candle. In the darkness, he smiled grimly.
Tomorrow, he would begin.
The docks, the merchants, the land—they would all be his.
For the first time in his life, he felt not fear, but destiny.