The world returns not as a gentle awakening, but as a sharp, cold clarity. The roaring in your ears subsides, replaced by the hiss of melting ice and the stunned silence of a crowd. You stand in the center of a scorched and frozen dueling circle at the Ducal Academy of Bordeaux. Inside the confines of your shared skull, the original owner's soul thrashes against your will. Louie de Braisechant's voice is a thin, panicked shriek that only you can hear.
What is this?! I can't move! I can't—
Your own consciousness imposes itself, a chillingly calm monolith in the storm of his terror. The words you intend for him manifest in the shared space of your mind, cool and absolute.
"お前はもう死んでいる ; You are already dead"
You don't need to elaborate. The memory of the duel, his memory, is now yours to access. A clash of fire and ice. A desperate, sloppy defense against the precise, elegant techniques of a true scion.
"Duel with Josué Subercaseaux, struck in the throat with an unfortunate and deadly splinter of ice. In the moment you passed, I took control. Your soul, for whatever reason, did not depart."
Lies! This is my body! Get out! GET OUT!
He screams, his psychic voice cracking with futile rage. But externally, your body is still. You raise a hand and touch your neck. There is no wound. Not even a scratch. The sliver of ice that should have ended Louie's life was likely vaporized by the sheer heat of your soul's passage into this vessel.
Across the dueling circle, Josué Subercaseaux stands poised. He had already turned his back, the victor preparing to accept the crowd's adulation. Now, he faces you again, his handsome face a mask of disbelief and suspicion. The last of the steam dissipates, revealing the academy proctor frozen mid-stride, his hand raised to declare the match over.
The whispers of the student audience have died, replaced by a collective, bated breath. Josué's posture shifts from relaxed triumph to a wary combat stance. Frost begins to coalesce around his outstretched hand. His cold blue eyes lock onto yours.
"The duel is concluded, Braisechant. Yield, or I will be forced to put you down for good."
While the academy grounds remain locked in a tense tableau, the true battle rages within the confines of your mind. You project your thoughts towards the panicked soul of Louie de Braisechant, a surgeon's scalpel of cold logic against his raw, emotional wounds.
"If you don't believe me, try to cast a fireball. Or a flame wall. Or anything. Your connection to mana has been severed."
A surge of defiant energy flares from the captive soul. You feel him strain, reaching for the familiar pathways of power he has trained his entire life to command. He claws at the aetheric gates of his own body, only to find them sealed shut, guarded by an unbreakable, alien will—yours. The connection isn't just blocked; it feels... excised. Gone. His psychic roar of fury falters, replaced by a choked gasp of horror.
"It's... gone. My fire... What did you do to me?!"
You offer a final, dispassionate promise, the words echoing in the silence of his despair.
"Cooperate, and I will reforge a body for you when I have the chance."
This entire exchange takes less than a second of real time. Your attention snaps back to the physical world. Josué Subercaseaux has not moved, but the aura of cold around him intensifies. The air crackles, and a thin, razor-sharp layer of frost spreads from his boots, creeping across the dueling circle towards you. He mistakes your silence for defiance.
"I will not ask again, Braisechant,"
he says, his voice losing its last shred of patience.
"Concede."
The academy proctor, a Bronze-tier instructor, finally seems to shake off his stupor. He takes a hesitant step forward, his hand still raised, ready to intervene before a non-sanctioned killing blow is struck on academy grounds. The crowd leans in, a silent wave of anticipation. Your logic is absolute. The duel is over; continuing it serves no purpose.
You open your mouth to speak the only sensible word. But as you do, a tidal wave of anguish from the soul trapped within crashes against the shores of your control. Louie's despair, his utter humiliation at being so thoroughly defeated and then possessed, is too powerful to be contained. It overflows. Hot, silent tears begin to stream down your cheeks, a physical betrayal of your own cold composure.
Your expression remains neutral, almost bored, but the tears carve paths through the grime on your face. The contrast is deeply unsettling to all who watch.
"I yield"
The voice is Louie's, but the tone is flat, devoid of the emotion wracking his body. It's a simple declaration of fact. The frost creeping across the ground instantly halts, then recedes. Josué Subercaseaux stares, his brow furrowed in confusion before his expression warps into a sneer of utter contempt. To him, this isn't a paradox; it's the ultimate admission of weakness. A broken boy, weeping as he surrenders.
"Pathetic"
He spits, turning his back on you for the final time and striding from the circle, his victory soured by the bizarre display. The proctor lets out a relieved breath and raises his voice to be heard by the stunned crowd.
"The duel is concluded! The victor is Josué of House Subercaseaux!"
The announcement breaks the spell. The hushed whispers of the students erupt into scattered, mocking laughter and derisive jeers.
"Look at him, the weeping baron!"
One voice calls out.
"He's crying!"
Another shouts, followed by a chorus of scornful chuckles.
You stand alone in the center of the dueling circle. The proctor is walking away. The laughing crowd of your peers surrounds you. The physical sting of defeat is nothing compared to the weight of their collective scorn. The internal chaos of Louie's soul quiets to a stunned whimper as your thought cuts through his despair. His psychic screaming ceases, replaced by a hollow echo. You project the words into that silence, a vow spoken in the stillness of a desecrated tomb.
"I will help you regain your honor. I promise"
For the first time since your arrival, the boy-ghost is silent. The promise hangs in the void between you—an oath made by a thief to the one he has robbed. Externally, the tears continue their silent, treacherous path down your face, a stark contradiction to your rigid posture and impassive expression. This bizarre sight only fuels the crowd's derision.
"Braisechant the Broken!"
A student from a rival house shouts, his voice carrying across the grounds.
"Did his dishonored daddy teach him to cry like that?"
Another sneers, followed by a fresh wave of laughter. The insults are unoriginal, the barbs of children, but their collective weight is a physical force. You are an island in a sea of pointing fingers and cruel smiles. The heat of their collective gaze is more intense than any pyromancy you have yet felt in this body. The proctor has vanished back into the faculty building, leaving you to the mercy of your peers. You stand alone at the epicenter of their contempt, the silent tears your only response so far. Their eyes are on you, waiting for you to fully break or to flee in shame.
You ignore them. Their taunts are the buzzing of insects, meaningless noise on the periphery of your mission. With the tears still tracing their silent, maddening path down your face, you turn your back on them. You do not run. You do not slouch. You walk. Your stride is steady, measured, unhurried. Each footfall is a declaration. The scattered laughter begins to falter as you move, replaced by confused whispers. They expected a retreat, a shameful flight. Instead, they witness a procession. You part the sea of jeering faces not by pushing, but simply by advancing, your sheer presence forcing them to give way. The weeping man walking with the conviction of an executioner is a sight so contradictory, so unnerving, that their mockery dies in their throats.
As you clear the crowd and the academy's grand stone archways come into view, you turn your focus inward, speaking to the fractured soul within. The words are not a comfort, but a statement of purpose.
"I am here because you and I are related. I don't know how, but I have always seen snippets of your life from my dreams in my world."
Your pace does not falter as you continue down the manicured path, leaving the dueling grounds and its stunned audience behind.
"And I know of cataclysmic events that will happen if we do not change the future."
The presence of Louie de Braisechant in your mind is still, a pinprick of horrified silence in the wake of your revelation. He offers no resistance, no argument. He simply... listens. You are now walking through the main courtyard of the academy, past other students who stop and stare at the weeping, yet resolute, figure striding past them.