Darkness had weight.
It pressed against Michael's chest, heavy and suffocating, as if the world itself wanted to keep him asleep.
Voices reached him first—muffled, strained whispers, the faint clink of armor.
"…still no response…"
"…a year already…"
"…the youngest lord…"
Michael's fingers twitched.
The voices froze.
His lungs dragged in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His eyes snapped open.
Stone. Black, cold, etched with faded runes that whispered of ancient wars. Pain followed him instantly—not sharp, not fresh, but deep, old, woven into bone and muscle.
He tried to move. Failed. Thick bandages wrapped his limbs. His chest rose with effort.
Memories slammed into him.
Steel and blood.
A sky torn by foreign creatures.
A wall of enemies that did not bleed like men.
Lightning tearing through the battlefield—not his.
And then… darkness.
"Michael…"
A voice, familiar and trembling.
He turned. A man stood at the edge of the bed, tall, shoulders heavy with unseen burdens. Hair streaked with gray, eyes sharp even in worry. His hand rested on a sword that pulsed faint lightning, reacting to the master's heartbeat.
His father. William X, the Mighty Dragon of the Human Continent, feared across Drazyria and revered for his magical sword mastery.
"You're awake," his father said hoarsely.
Michael searched his face. Pride. Exhaustion. Guilt.
"I'm… alive," Michael rasped.
"You shouldn't be," the man said quietly. "By all logic… you shouldn't."
Michael remembered why.
He had no magic.
No blessing.
No element.
While his brothers wielded flame, wind, and steel; his sisters bent arrows and spears infused with elemental power; while the knights shattered enemies with enchanted strikes—Michael had charged forward with nothing but raw strength.
And he had paid for it.
"You were unconscious for a year," his father said. "Your heart stopped twice. Healers said… your soul was unstable."
Michael understood. Another soul had entered during his unconsciousness. From Earth. A deal made, a seal set, and now a second life flowed inside him.
"How is the land?" he asked.
Silence.
"The territory… barely stands," his father replied. "Fields are dead. Water is poisoned. Ninety percent of our knights… gone."
Michael felt no shock. Only cold focus.
"And the Empire?"
No answer
"They abandoned us," he said himself. "They left us to die."
A pause. His father's hand clenched.
"Some nobles, and… the Emperor," he admitted quietly. "They ensured reinforcements never came. Letters to the elves, dwarves, and beastkin… intercepted."
Michael's lips pressed together.
Good. Betrayal simplifies things.
The system stirred in the back of his mind. A pulse, soft and certain. He could feel it even in his weakened state:
[System Initializing…]
[User confirmed: Michael Williams]
[World Anchor: Drazyria]
[User Status: Alive — Dual Soul Active]
[Elite Unit Gift Available]
Hidden beneath the ruined lands of the Williams Family, men stirred—soldiers, engineers, specialists, each imbued with 21st-century knowledge, each 100% loyal to Michael.
[Elite Unit: 1,500 Soldiers — Status: READY]
[Suit: Active — Armaments Deployed]
[Weapons: Fully Stocked]
Michael's gaze hardened.
"Father," he said, voice steady, "how much land did we lose to the invaders?"
His father's jaw tightened. "Why ask now?"
Michael met his eyes, calm and certain.
"Because I'm taking it back."
The words hung in the air. Outside, the wind howled across poisoned fields. Deep underground, unseen by family or foe, an army waited.
And the dragon… had begun to rise.