"I'm dying…"
"No, wait. I already died."
"I remember the truck, the impact, and the absolute darkness that followed."
"So… why can I still think? Am I on my way to the other side?
Huh? What is that light? And why the hell does my chest hurt?
Slowly I feel my senses come back and I begin to open my eyes… No, I try to open them — that's a better word. My eyelids feel like lead; no matter how hard I try I can't open them.
Gradually I become more aware of my surroundings. I'm lying on a pleasant bed, the sheets… they feel nice, soft, expensive — actually quite nice. The air smells closed in. Of old wood and dampness.
But more importantly, this damn pain in my chest doesn't stop. It feels like something is trying to tear my chest open to get out.
Little by little, as I moaned, I felt myself losing consciousness again.
.
.
.
.
Finally, after who knows how long, I came back to my senses. This time I managed to open my eyes to check where I was.
The first thing I saw was a high ceiling, decorative moldings that were probably once gilded, now dull and cracked.
A crystal chandelier hangs above me, so covered in dust it only gives off a faint glow.
I turn my head to look at the rest of the room — a movement that, for some reason, I found terribly painful.
The rest of the room is surprisingly simple. In the corner stood an old but elegant desk next to a window, from which heavy, slightly worn curtains hung, revealing small holes through which thin rays of light lit the tiny specks of dust floating in the air.
Taking my eyes off the window, I reflected on my current situation.
Where am I? If I'm alive, shouldn't I be in a hospital?
Did someone save me and put me in an old house?
As I thought about my location, a sudden, sharp headache hit.
"Ouch!"
It felt like the truck had finished its job, hitting my brain again. As I groaned from the sudden headache, memories started to come.
No — they slammed into my head like waves.
Water, smiles, parents, PAIN, an old butler.
Pain, a lot of pain, bitter medicine, bed.
Doctors shaking their heads "…We're sorry, Lord Lysander…"
"Lysander?"
Another memory. A mirror, a boy reflected in it, totally pale and gaunt.
His black hair stuck to his forehead from sweat. Thirteen years old. Death.
The boy's name is…
"…Caelan Lysander."
I say it out loud, my voice hoarse, young. Extremely young.
Oh shit.
I reincarnated.
Lysander.
Caelan Lysander.
Why does that name sound so familiar?
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the terrible headache pounding me. I force my brain to process the newly acquired memories.
And then comprehension hits me.
"Chronicles of the Roseheart."
A popular otome game I played casually years ago.
It was the typical romance-fantasy game and, of course, its main plot takes place at an academy.
The heroine wins over her four capturable characters while making sure to save the world.
You know, the usual.
And Lysander.
Caelan Lysander…
"Oh, shit."
Caelan Lysander, heir of a fallen family of mages.
He only appears briefly in the first chapter. At his funeral.
Yes, his funeral.
Caelan Lysander, a simple and irrelevant NPC whose only function in the story is to die so the heroine and the crown prince can meet at his funeral.
An NPC destined to push the plot forward.
No, no, no.
What kind of luck is this — not only did I reincarnate into an otome game,
I reincarnated as a guy who dies at the beginning of the story.
Okay, calm down, breathe, think.
What do we have so far?
According to Caelan's memories: I'm the heir of the Lysander family, a magical family currently fallen, formerly renowned for their absolute control over water magic.
Parents dead five years ago in a war with another kingdom, territory and assets gradually taken by other nobles.
Sick for as long as I can remember.
According to the doctors I would live two more years, three if I was lucky.
That was a year ago.
"Great, only a year left to die."
Alright.
What do I have going for me? How can I avoid that?
I have memories of my previous life, I played the game. I know what will happen, I know where the treasures are.
Drawbacks? A dying body, no money, no power.
I sigh and try to sit up.
Bad idea.
The pain explodes in my chest as if ten trucks continuously crash into it.
I fall back onto the bed and mentally add another disadvantage.
A completely useless body.
The door opens.
I didn't hear a knock.
A man enters. He's old, maybe seventy.
He wears an elegant, perfectly pressed butler uniform.
But if you look closely, you can see the small patches on it.
Straight back, measured steps, he holds a tray firmly with what looks like medicine.
But his eyes…
Tired, infinitely tired.
They are the eyes of someone who has lost everything.
A person already at the edge.
He sees me.
His tray almost falls as a flicker of surprise and joy shows in his eyes.
"Young master."
His voice breaks as he crosses the room with a speed someone his age shouldn't have.
Setting the tray aside, he kneels beside the bed.
"You're awake, thank God you're awake."
"How do you feel, young master? Do you have pain? Does it hurt to breathe? I'll call a doctor—"
"Alfred," I interrupt.
My voice came out full of emotion, full of affection. I guess Caelan's memories affect me more than I thought.
This man took care of him since he was eight.
When his parents died and the noble vultures began to carry everything away.
Alfred stayed.
While most of the servants and the so-called friends of the family drifted away one by one.
Alfred stayed.
When the doctors completely gave up on Caelan, Alfred persisted.
I suppose the emotion isn't only from Caelan's memories; I can recognize and respect the kind of person Alfred is.
Loyal, an absolutely loyal man.
Something rare in any world.
"I'm fine," I lie. "…I'm just tired."
"You've been unconscious for three days, young master."
Three days, I guess that explains the hoarse voice.
"And how are you doing, Alfred? Have you managed to sleep?"
Alfred blinks as if he thinks the question is strange.
"I… have been monitoring your condition, sir."
"I suppose that's a no," I sigh. "You must rest, Alfred, you can't neglect your body."
For the first time something resembling relief appears in his eyes. I suppose it's the first time someone has cared about him in a long while.
"Tell me, Alfred, be honest with me. How much time do I have left?"
He freezes.
"Young master…"
"Alfred," I interrupt.
He sighs, suddenly seeming to age noticeably.
"The doctor who examined you while you were unconscious says you have four months left, six months if you're lucky."
Great.
Now I have even less time.
"And the territory?"
"Young master, you should rest—"
"The territory, Alfred."
Another sigh.
"Only thirty percent remains under the control of Lysander, the rest was… acquired through unpaid loans."
"Loans kindly provided by our 'Benefactors' while I was agonizing."
Alfred remained silent; there was nothing to refute.
"Baron Terrence controls forty percent," Alfred says carefully, "and the remaining thirty percent is with Countess Fontaine."
"And they're waiting for me to die to take what's left."
Alfred remained silent.
There was no need to say anything.
I remained quiet for a moment before saying, "How much money do we have left, Alfred?"
"Enough to maintain the mansion for the next six months… Eight if—"
"We won't fire anyone, Alfred," I interrupted.
"But my lord, if we cut back—"
"Enough, Alfred, it's only five people, five people who decided to stay despite everything. We won't abandon them. Understood?"
Alfred's eyes shone for a moment before he bowed his head and replied.
"As you command, young master."
After speaking a little more, Alfred left the room to prepare more medicine.
I was alone again.
Sighing, I focused on my current situation.
Four months to live, six if I'm lucky.
Enough money to live six months.
An apparently incurable disease.
Couldn't I just stay still and try to enjoy the time I have left?
I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, that's not going to happen."
Letting go of unnecessary thoughts, I focused on the major advantage I have over the original Caelan.
Knowledge.
This body suffers from a rare case of underdevelopment of the mana network, causing the body's mana to be unable to flow normally, producing mana poisoning in the body.
Normally, in the rare cases this happens, the body's deterioration is a slow, gradual process. But for better or worse, this body has an abnormally large mana core which, together with the underdeveloped mana network, generates an even more atypical case of particularly severe mana poisoning.
Normally this would be a certain death for anyone.
Fortunately, I'm not anyone. I have knowledge of the game and — "coincidentally" — in this territory there is an item that would be perfect for my case.
The Adaptation Core.
A legendary item capable of bringing the physical body to a state of complete wholeness, thereby unlocking the maximum potential within the human body.
Of course, this also applies to the mana network.
If this world is completely faithful to the original game, if that item really exists in this world then…
I look at my pale, weak, trembling hands.
At least I already have a path to follow.
I will not die quietly on this bed.
I look again at the ceiling of the room.
Gilded moldings, once symbols of nobility and status.
Now only dusty, cracked decorations.
I reincarnated into a fantasy world.
I should be excited — magic, epic adventures, a second chance.
But reality is cruel.
I reincarnated as a sick, weak child.
Heir to a fallen house.
Surrounded by nobles waiting for my death, like vultures to carrion.
But I also have something.
Knowledge, absurdly loyal men, and the determination of a man who has died once.
And who doesn't plan to die again.
I am not a hero.
I don't seek justice or a dramatic revenge.
I only seek to survive and make sure the people who have always been by my side live the best life possible.
And if to do that I must reclaim what they stole from me,
rebuild what they once destroyed,
and crush anyone who stands in my way…
Then that is exactly what I will do.