Darkness had never felt so heavy.
It wasn't the kind of darkness that came from closing one's eyes — this one pressed. It lingered in his chest, weighted his lungs, filled the silence with a dull hum like the inside of an unfinished tunnel.
Kang Dojin tried to breathe, but his body felt as if someone had swapped it with wet sand. The simple act of inhaling scraped against something raw.
Then came the sound.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Rain?
He frowned. He remembered rain. Seoul had been drenched that night — streets glowing with the orange haze of traffic lights reflecting off wet asphalt. He had walked home, exhausted but oddly proud, the design for the dam's new drainage system tucked under his arm.
And then—
A horn.
White light.
A moment of disbelief.
The memory cut off there.
When awareness returned, so did pain. A dull, rhythmic throb crawled from the back of his skull to his temples, pulsing in protest every time he tried to think.
He groaned softly. His voice came out too clear, too smooth. It startled him enough to open his eyes.
The ceiling above him wasn't gray and cracked like the one in his apartment. It was… ornate. A painted fresco sprawled across curved stone, depicting angels and swords and overly muscular men wrestling clouds. A chandelier dangled precariously from the center, each crystal shimmering like trapped sunlight.
Dojin blinked. Once. Twice.
He turned his head, and the world swayed slightly. Curtains of red velvet draped across enormous windows. Gold embroidery. An arched door. Polished floors that looked like they'd cost more than his yearly salary.
And beneath him — the bed. Too soft, too wide. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter, something old.
He pushed himself upright, hands sinking into the absurdly fluffy mattress. His own movement startled him again — the skin on his arms was pale, the wrists slender. His hands lacked the faint calluses that came from years of drafting, carrying survey equipment, and assembling field models.
These weren't his hands.
He stared at them for a long, slow moment. Then, because there was nothing else to do, he whispered the only logical reaction:
"What the hell…"
His voice didn't sound like his either. It was deeper, steadier — cultured in a way that screamed private education and unreasonable privilege.
Dojin scanned the room again. Every inch of it screamed wealth. But the more he looked, the more it bothered him.
The pillars had decorative cracks filled with gold lacquer. The chandelier's chain was slightly uneven. One of the windows was misaligned by half a degree — enough that the sunlight bled through the curtains at a strange angle.
Whoever built this place didn't understand symmetry.
And that was when it truly sank in: this wasn't his home. This wasn't Korea.
He swallowed hard and stumbled toward a mirror leaning against the far wall. His bare feet sank into a rug so thick it felt alive.
The mirror reflected a man — young, impossibly handsome, with tousled golden hair and green eyes so sharp they bordered on unsettling. His face looked carved from arrogance itself: noble, flawless, and infuriatingly symmetrical.
"No…" Dojin muttered. "No, no, no. This can't be real."
But the reflection mimicked his every twitch. Every shallow breath.
It was real.
He pressed a palm against the mirror's surface, feeling his own heartbeat accelerate. Somewhere in the depths of his memory, that face sparked recognition — not from real life, but from the digital pages of a web novel he'd binge-read weeks ago.
The Chronicles of Asterion.
Count Leonhardt von Asterion — the disgraceful young lord who squandered his family fortune on imported wines and ridiculous architectural projects.
Projects that collapsed.
He remembered the infamous line from chapter seven: "And thus, the western terrace fell, crushing three servants and Leonhardt's dignity in equal measure."
It had been funny at the time.
It wasn't funny now.
"You have got to be kidding me."
He rubbed at his temple, the absurdity of it all settling in. He — Kang Dojin, a thirty-two-year-old civil engineer who had spent his life trying to convince clients not to cut corners — had reincarnated as the man who embodied cutting corners.
If this was some divine joke, it was executed with cruel precision.
The door creaked open.
"Y-young master Leonhardt?" a voice stammered from the threshold.
Dojin turned sharply. A young maid stood there, no older than twenty. Her uniform was clean but faded, her apron slightly frayed at the hem. Her expression shifted from fear to relief the moment their eyes met.
"Oh, praise the saints," she breathed. "You're awake! We feared you might not recover."
"Recover?" he echoed.
She hesitated, clutching the tray in her hands. "You… don't remember? Last night, during the Duke's banquet, you drank an entire bottle of Seraphine wine and attempted to recite a love poem to Lady Maribel's cat."
Dojin stared blankly. "Her… cat."
"Yes, my lord."
"Of course." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why wouldn't I serenade a cat."
The maid flushed, torn between amusement and terror. "Shall I fetch the physician?"
"No. Just… water." He paused, then added, "And paper. Ink, too, if you can find it."
"Paper, my lord?"
"I need to write some things down."
She hesitated but nodded, retreating with a quick bow. The door shut softly behind her, leaving silence once again.
Dojin collapsed back onto the bed, staring at the fresco above.
So. He was trapped in the body of Leonhardt von Asterion.
A minor noble. A walking financial disaster.
And unless the plot had changed, he had roughly six months before the family estate would literally crumble.
Six months before bankruptcy.
Seven before rebellion.
Eight before execution.
Wonderful.
He exhaled through his nose, the rhythm of an engineer's thought process kicking in despite everything. When faced with chaos, you build order. When surrounded by collapse, you reinforce.
First step: assess the situation.
He sat upright again, this time slower. His eyes swept across the room, not as a bewildered victim, but as a professional.
The foundation creaked faintly underfoot — not immediately dangerous, but concerning. The window frames were made of untreated wood, already showing signs of moisture swelling. The chandelier's chain sagged at an uneven angle, which meant whoever installed it had failed to calculate proper load distribution.
Everywhere he looked, he saw negligence disguised as luxury.
"So this is where the estate's budget went," he murmured. "Aesthetic over stability."
It was both pathetic and fascinating.
Medieval architecture in this world was beautiful — all curves, arches, and detail — but from an engineering standpoint? A nightmare.
If he had his old tools, he could've done a structural survey in a day. But now… he was armed only with ink, paper, and common sense — which, judging by the state of this manor, was rarer than gold here.
The maid returned quietly, setting a silver tray by his bedside. A glass of water, a quill, a small bottle of ink, and parchment.
"Thank you," he said, his voice steadier now.
She blinked at the politeness, clearly not used to it. "You're… welcome, my lord."
When she left again, he dipped the quill into the ink and drew the first line across the paper.
It felt strange — primitive, messy — but it grounded him.
He began to write, the letters slanting awkwardly as his hand adapted to its new body.
PROJECT NAME: Survival Plan – Phase One
Client: Lord Leonhardt von Asterion (currently occupied by Kang Dojin)
Objective: Prevent total collapse of estate (literal and financial)
Timeframe: 180 days
Status: Catastrophic
He leaned back, tapping the quill against his lip. His handwriting looked elegant yet foreign.
Step 1: Understand the assets.
Step 2: Identify structural vulnerabilities.
Step 3: Convince idiots with titles to listen.
Step 4: Avoid execution.
Straightforward enough.
He poured himself a glass of water. The faint metallic taste told him the manor's plumbing — or lack thereof — relied on a gravity-fed system with exposed pipes. Inefficient. Risky. He made a note: introduce filtration using sand and gravel layers if possible.
Somewhere deep inside, the engineer in him stirred.
And with it came the first flicker of amusement.
"I'm trapped in a failing fantasy estate," he muttered. "But at least I've got job security."
An hour passed.
By the time the sunlight shifted across the room, he had mapped out a basic sketch of the manor's floor plan based on memory and observation. Uneven load paths, poor drainage near the western wall, and a suspicious bulge along the southern hallway — classic signs of subsidence.
He almost smiled.
This was what he did best: take broken systems and rebuild them.
And yet, a part of him still refused to believe this wasn't a dream.
He flexed his fingers, staring at the quill stains on his skin. Too vivid. Too tactile.
If this was a dream, it was one cruelly committed to realism.
The door opened again, breaking his thoughts. This time, a tall man entered — late forties, dressed in a black suit, his posture rigid with years of discipline. A butler, clearly.
"Young master," the man said, bowing slightly. "I am relieved to see you conscious. The physician was most concerned."
Dojin set down the quill and regarded him carefully. "Your name?"
"Gerald, my lord."
"Gerald," he repeated, nodding slowly. "Tell me, Gerald — what's the current state of the estate's finances?"
The butler blinked. That was not a question the young master usually asked. "P-pardon?"
"The finances. Debts. Income. Expenditures. Anything you can tell me."
Gerald hesitated, uncertain. "My lord, with respect, that may not be—"
"Gerald." Dojin's tone sharpened, calm but commanding. "I'm asking because I want to fix it."
The butler studied him, clearly unsettled by the sudden seriousness. Then, slowly, he nodded. "As you wish. But… it is not good news. The estate's coffers are nearly depleted. The vineyards underperform. The quarry ceased production last winter. The manor's maintenance has been deferred for… some time."
"How long is 'some time'?"
"Three years, my lord."
Dojin closed his eyes briefly. "Wonderful. Anything else collapsing?"
"The western retaining wall shows cracks," Gerald admitted quietly. "We've had minor landslides during the rains."
That confirmed it. The event that started the downfall in the novel was already underway.
"Then that's where we start," Dojin said.
"My lord?"
"We're going to fix the wall."
Gerald blinked. "With what funds?"
Dojin smiled faintly. "We'll find some. Or make some."
The butler hesitated. For years, the young master had been a source of humiliation — impulsive, lazy, extravagant. But the man standing before him now… had eyes that measured things. Eyes that calculated.
"Very well," Gerald said at last, bowing deeply. "I shall make the necessary arrangements."
When he left, the silence that followed felt different — not empty, but waiting.
Dojin looked down at his scattered notes, the ink drying unevenly.
He picked up the quill once more and added one final line beneath his plans:
"A stable foundation is the first law of survival."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added a smaller note beneath it:
"Step 0: Stop drinking."
As night fell, he stood by the window, watching the fading orange wash over the manor grounds. In the distance, he could see the cracked stone of the western wall — the same wall that would, if left alone, bring ruin to this house and everyone in it.
Not this time.
He might not understand why he was here, or how, but if fate had given him a world built on bad architecture, then he'd rebuild it — one beam, one wall, one plan at a time.
The wind shifted, rattling the glass panes ever so slightly.
He smiled faintly to himself. "First order of business," he murmured. "Reinforce that window frame before it kills me."