A healer rushed into Cain's room to check on him but found nothing unusual. "The young master should rest for now," he advised before turning to leave.
"I'll be leaving for now. If anything happens, just call me," he added, exiting the room.
Herin, the maid, gave a small bow. "Thank you," she whispered.
Cain remained frozen, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't believe it—the young man staring back at him, with a slim build, silky brown hair, and whiskey-colored eyes, was now him. This wasn't the face he remembered from his youth. It was completely different.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The only way to make sense of this was to gather information—and the only person he could turn to was Herin.
Cain fixed his gaze on her. She shifted under his stare, her body trembling slightly, though he didn't let it distract him.
"Who am I?" he asked.
As expected, Herin froze, her eyes wide.
"S-Sorry?" she stammered, clearly unsure she had heard him right.
Cain's tone sharpened. "I asked—who am I?"
Herin stiffened. A troubling thought crossed her mind—perhaps the young master was pretending to have lost his memory to avoid responsibility for some grave mistake. From what she knew, he had always been ruthless; this could easily be one of his tricks.
Still, she chose to play along, fearing the consequences if her answer failed to satisfy him.
"You are Kalin Veyrath, the third son of Viscount Cyrion Veyrath," she said carefully.
The moment the words left her lips, a torrent of memories crashed into Cain's mind—faces, voices, places, and emotions that weren't his own, yet felt unbearably familiar. The flood hit so violently that a sharp, piercing headache exploded behind his eyes. He staggered, clutching his temples as if the memories were physically tearing through him.
His body shook as fragments of this new past collided with the man he thought he had been. Who was he, really? And why did these memories feel like they belonged to him?
"Are you all right, Young Master Kalin?" Herin's voice cut through the storm. Calm, steady, but threaded with worry.
Cain tried to respond, but his lips barely moved. He struggled to piece together the shards of identity that had just been thrust upon him.
Kalin Veyrath.
He was the third son of Viscount Cyrion Veyrath, one of the strongest swordsmen in the land. His mother, Ysera Valtress, was Cyrion's third wife.
Even as a child, Kalin showed remarkable talent and a gentle kindness that drew attention from everyone around him. But all expectations vanished the day Ysera died. He was only seven, and her death left a wound that would forever shape his heart and outlook on life.
What would you do if the person you cherished most suddenly vanished from your life?
It was unbearable. Few could recover from such a loss, and most were swallowed by the abyss of despair.
Kalin grew up surrounded by sorrow and pain. In his mind, if the world was to understand the weight he carried, it had to feel that pain as well. So, he learned how to inflict it. He learned how to abuse, how to hurt. The screams, the desperate pleas for mercy—those moments were the only times he felt some measure of satisfaction. Only then did he allow himself to smile.
Yet the reason Kalin woke with his forehead wrapped in bandages was far more shameful. It was the result of his attempt to force himself on Isabella Montclair.
With her striking beauty, Isabella was impossible to ignore. She was the kind of woman many admired and desired—a woman whose presence drew longing looks wherever she went.
Isabella Montclair was Kalin's fiancée, the product of an arrangement between Cyrion Veyrath and Alexander Montclair to unite their families through marriage. But Isabella had never accepted the engagement. She believed marriage should come from love, not obligation.
Beyond that, she knew all too well the cruel, unstable streak in Kalin. She could not, and would not, spend her life bound to a man like him.
And yet, she had come to the Veyrath mansion to see him.
Inside the room, Kalin's broad smile reflected his certainty that Isabella had arrived to discuss their marriage. For a brief moment, hope swelled in his chest. But that hope shattered the instant Isabella spoke.
"I want to break our engagement."
The words hit Kalin like a physical blow. He froze, staring at her in disbelief. He had been infatuated with Isabella for years, dreaming of building a life and a family with her. He had pursued her relentlessly, willing to do whatever it took to win her heart.
And yet, no matter how much he tried, affection could not be forced.
The thought barely lingered before Kalin shook his head, rejecting it. To him, everything in this world could be claimed through force or persistence. Without a second thought, he made a grave mistake. He attempted to violate Isabella.
In his twisted reasoning, Kalin believed that if he made her carry his child, she would never be able to escape him.
"I should be the one to taste you first," he said as he lunged toward Isabella.
But not everything bent to Kalin's will.
Isabella had been trained since childhood. Compared to her, Kalin, who had never received any form of combat training, was utterly helpless. Overpowering him required little effort.
The beating left him barely conscious. Even opening his mouth became a struggle. His body was broken, his face swollen beyond recognition. Without the intervention of healers, he would have spent the rest of his life confined to a bed.
"Bastard..."
Cain muttered under his breath, shaking his head as the memories finished pouring into him. He could not comprehend how someone could live like that, how a person could sink so deeply into cruelty and depravity.
Yet it was not only the memories that unsettled him.
Cain knew exactly who Kalin Veyrath was.
In the novel he had once read, Kalin was nothing more than a minor character, someone with no real significance to the story. After his crimes were exposed, he was executed without mercy, beheaded by the main character himself.
Just imagining that scene was enough to make Cain's chest tighten.
I already died once. I cannot afford to die again.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
"Focus on the situation at hand. No unnecessary thoughts," he muttered.
Now that he had taken over Kalin's body, there was still a chance to change his fate. For the moment, he needed to tackle the most urgent problem. Cyrion would undoubtedly deliver severe punishment. Cain had been unconscious for seven days, and if he remembered the story correctly, Kalin had spent months confined after assaulting Isabella. He had lost every privilege.
Still, Cain believed the outcome could shift depending on how he dealt with his father.
Setting the punishment aside, he knew survival in this world demanded strength, influence, and connections—none of which he currently had. Starting over would be difficult after Kalin's mistakes, but there was no other choice. He had to move forward.
"You may leave now, Herin," Cain said politely.
Herin froze for a moment, then nodded. "As you wish, young master. If you need anything, please call for me." She left the room.
Cain walked to the window, feeling a gentle breeze brush against his skin as he surveyed the world outside. The streets, lined with carriages and cobblestones, looked like something straight out of a medieval story. It wasn't the novelty that struck him—it was the beauty.
It was good to live in a place like this.
He lingered, gazing out for several minutes. For the first time in a long while, a sense of calm settled over him. Yet even as he admired the scenery, a nagging thought crept in: this peace wouldn't last. Tragedy was waiting somewhere, and he knew it was only a matter of time.
"I need to grow stronger if I want to survive... and protect this place," he whispered to himself. He knew the world, its dangers, and its history—but he still felt uncertain where to begin.
Ding.
A sharp chime rang in his ears. A glowing notification appeared before him. He had triggered something.
[Welcome to the New World]