The wind shrieked, a feral thing clawing at Liam's clothes, tearing at his grip. Rain hammered down in sheets, cold and merciless, soaking through his fingers as he clung to the rope.
But the rope was dying.
He knew it.
Fibers snapped one by one, fraying under his weight.
Below, the cliff plunged into a black ocean. Waves hurled themselves against jagged rocks, rising and breaking in uneven bursts—like they were waiting. Waiting for him to fall.
"Help! Someone—anyone!"
His voice ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. The storm swallowed it whole.
No answer.
His hand slipped. Pebbles and dust broke loose from above, scattering into the abyss. His body jerked as he fought to hold on, muscles trembling, arms screaming.
Slowly, painfully, he forced himself to look up.
The castle loomed above. Or what remained of it.
Half its structure was gone, torn away. Walls jutted into empty air, cracked and broken.
And at the edge— A figure stood.
Tall.
A heavy coat draped over them, thick and layered, its edges stirring despite the violent wind. Feathers lined the shoulders. But it was the mask that froze Liam's breath.
Pale. Carved. Animal-like. Antlers branching upward like the remains of some long-dead creature. A deer, perhaps.
Two green lights glowed from within. Eyes. Watching him.
Liam's chest tightened.
"Please…" His voice broke. "I beg you—help me!"
Tears blurred his vision, but the figure did not move. Did not react. Did not step forward.
They simply stood there, looking down with a stillness that felt final.
His struggle meant nothing.
His arm shook violently. His grip failed.
For a brief moment, his body hung in the air—
Then his fingers slipped free.
The world dropped.
The storm vanished.
Sound vanished.
Everything vanished.
And in that empty, weightless second—
A voice spoke.
"Liam."
The wind did not carry it. It did not echo.
It simply existed.
"Liam."
He woke with a violent gasp.
Air tore into his lungs so sharply it hurt, his chest convulsing as though he had been dragged from drowning. His body jerked forward, hands clawing blindly until they found something solid beneath him.
A sofa. Soft, but firm enough to anchor him.
He coughed, forcing breath back into his lungs. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and clammy, as though the storm had followed him here.
For a moment, he did not move.
Then his eyes lifted—
And froze.
This was not his room.
The ceiling pressed low above him, wooden beams darkened with age. Wallpaper patterned with curling vines stretched across the walls, its colors muted by time. A faint scent of ink and lavender lingered in the air, clinging like memory.
The silence was wrong. Too heavy. Too complete.
Liam pushed himself upright, his head throbbing.
Where… am I?
The room revealed itself piece by piece. A tall window spilled sunlight across the floorboards. A wooden desk sat nearby, cluttered with loose papers and an open ink bottle, the quill stained black from overuse.
Against the far wall stood a bookshelf, its leather-bound volumes lined neatly, their spines gleaming faintly in the light. Beside it, a radio rested on a side table, its brass dials polished, silent for now. And near the corner, a phonograph stood proudly, its trumpet-shaped horn tilted upward, waiting for a record to spin.
Everything looked old. Not ruined. Not abandoned. Simply… old.
The sofa beneath him was rough against his skin, its fabric coarse but soft, the kind of upholstery that belonged to another age. Even the air felt different, thick with history.
"This isn't…" His voice faltered.
It sounded wrong. Different.
He looked down—
And stopped.
The clothes were not his. A white shirt. A dark vest layered neatly over it. The fabric was thick, tailored, deliberate. Not modern. Not even close.
"…What?"
Pain struck him without warning. A violent spike tore through his skull, forcing a strangled breath from his lips. He clutched the edge of the sofa, knuckles whitening as the agony surged. His eyes fell on a round glass bottle of water. He drank greedily, hoping to ease the torment.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished.
But it left something behind.
Fragments. Not memories. Not his.
Images flickered through his mind—faces, voices, shadows—gone before he could grasp them.
His breathing faltered.
"What… was that?"
No answer. Only silence.
Slowly, unsteadily, he rose to his feet. His gaze swept the room until it found it.
A mirror. Tall, narrow, mounted near the door.
Something in his chest tightened.
He moved toward it without thought. One step. Then another. And another.
Until he stood before it.
And stared.
His breath caught.
The reflection was not his.
The person staring back at him did not belong to him.
Different face. Blond hair, tousled yet deliberate, catching the light like strands of gold. Eyes—sharp, crystalline green, gleaming with a clarity that felt almost unnatural. The jawline was clean, the nose straight, the lips faintly curved as though the reflection carried a quiet confidence of its own.
Handsome. Too handsome.
Slowly, Liam raised his hand. His fingers trembled as they brushed against his cheek. The reflection mirrored him perfectly, every movement precise, every hesitation copied without flaw.
His breathing grew shallow.
"…No."
The word slipped out, quiet, distant, as though it didn't belong to him either.
"What… is this?"
He leaned closer, searching desperately for something familiar—anything that could anchor him. A scar, a wrinkle, a trace of his old self.
There was nothing.
"Who is this person…?" His voice cracked, half in disbelief, half in bitter humor. "And why does he look like he walked out of a painting? ....… he's better looking than I ever was."
The thought twisted in his chest, absurd and terrifying all at once.
Then, without warning, pain struck.
Lower this time.
His stomach.
He flinched, clutching at his shirt, pulling the fabric aside with sudden urgency.
The vest shifted. The shirt loosened.
And there it was.
A bandage wrapped tightly around his midsection, stained dark at the center.
A wound.
Not shallow.
A stab wound.
His breath faltered, eyes widening as the realization sank in.
"…What the hell happened to me?"
Liam stared at it, his thoughts struggling to keep up.
"…I wasn't stabbed," he thought.
But this body was.
Whoever this person had been—
They had nearly died. Or they did, I mean, he does possess the body now..
Liam's breath hitched.
For a second, he just stared at the bandage, his mind refusing to move forward.
Panic crept in fast, sharp, suffocating.
"I wasn't stabbed… I wasn't—"
His thoughts tripped over each other.
How did this happen?
Who is this?
Whose body is this?
"This doesn't make sense…"
He pushed himself back a step, shaking his head as if that alone could reset everything.
"No… no, something's wrong, I was just—"
He stopped.
The words caught in his throat.
Something felt off.
Not just him.
The room.
Slowly, his eyes noticed.
He hadn't really looked at it before—not properly at least. Everything had blurred together in the shock, the confusion, the pain.
But now…
Now he saw it. Staring at the room, he finally took it in.
This was an office of some sort.
His eyes shifted to the chair.
Leather. High-backed. Still
The shelves pressed in from every side, lined with books and small ornaments.
A lamp with a floating star inside glowed softly nearby, its light spilling across the rug beneath it—faded red and blue patterns worn thin by years of use. The glow was gentle, almost dreamlike, yet it only deepened the strangeness of the room.
Liam drew in a slow, careful breath. The pieces were beginning to align: the style of the room, the clothes on his body, the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
"It can't be possible…" His fingers curled slightly at his sides. "This isn't real. It can't be. I died… but I'm alive now?"
He touched his face again, pressing against the cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw, tugging lightly at the blond strands of hair. Flesh. Bone. Hair. All solid. All real.
His breathing steadied, though unease lingered. He forced himself to take in the details—the desk cluttered with ink and paper, the Victorian décor, the phonograph waiting silently in the corner, the radio with its brass dials gleaming faintly.
"Reincarnation?" he muttered under his breath, the word tasting absurd. "No… no, that doesn't fit." His brow furrowed, voice dropping lower, almost as if arguing with himself. "Whoever this person was… I seem to have his memories. That's not reincarnation. That seems more like … transmigration."
The thought was bizarre, almost laughable, yet the reality pressed down on him with suffocating weight.
He glanced back at the mirror, at the stranger's face that was now his own. Blond hair, crystalline green eyes, features too sharp, too refined. Handsome in a way that felt unfair.
Liam's lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. "Great. Not only am I in someone else's body, but he's better looking than I ever was. Figures."
The humor was thin, fragile, but it kept the panic at bay.
Still, the silence of the room seemed to lean closer, listening.
Liam smirked, muttering to himself, finding some humor in this. "Maybe this is like those romance novels my sister used to read. Hope so, I was already single then, can't be single now."
" My Teen Romance System, I summon thee."
Awkward silence filled the room.
He sighed loudly, What the hell was I expecting...
Liam calmed himself. Since this was transmigration, he guessed those flashes must have been memories of the original, so all he needed to do was access them somehow. He sat down on the floor, crossed his legs, and synchronised with the calm, allowing memories to flow.
His name was Xavier Xylaris, of the Forty-Third Branch of House Xylaris.
***
House Xylaris is one of the ruling powers of the Northern Continent.
It controlled ten cities in its Kingdom and maintained absolute authority over its territories. The family was divided into one main lineage and forty-six branch families, all of noble standing but subordinate to the main central bloodline.
Despite their influence, House Xylaris was widely feared.
They were known for their detachment from ordinary society, treating common citizens as lesser beings. Their authority was absolute, and even their presence in public required strict protocol. Entire districts would be cleared in advance, and failure to comply often resulted in public execution.
To maintain control and security, the main family and branch families resided within one of its cities, known as Saint Aurora.
This city functioned as both a stronghold and a symbol of separation, inaccessible to ordinary citizens and governed entirely under Xylarian rule.
However, Xavier's family, the forty-third branch family, broke from this structure.
At some point in their history, they declared independence from Saint Aurora and relocated to one of the sixteen cities, establishing their own seat of governance. Over time, the 43rd branch became known for a different style of rule.
Unlike the rest of House Xylaris, they were described as orderly, fair, and unexpectedly humane. Their governance emphasized stability, hospitality, and protection of civilians, earning them growing recognition across the Northern Continent.
This divergence did not go unnoticed. As their influence increased, speculation arose that internal tensions had formed within House Xylaris. Some believed their rising reputation directly challenged the authority of the main lineage.
became a source of resentment within the family. Hence, a pending attack was near. And they were right.
The entire branch was eradicated in a coordinated assassination carried out by an unidentified individual wearing a deer skull mask. The 43rd branch was officially declared dead across all major nations of the Northern Continent.
But in truth, Xavier survived.
He and his family's butler were found adrift at sea in a severely weakened state before being recovered by a passing vessel. Upon regaining consciousness, Xavier encountered Leah Montefalco, captain of the Montefalco Pirates.
Leah took him in.
Under her protection, He lived peacefully, hidden from the world that believed him dead. During this period, he was raised under her care, forming a mother-son bond.
The temporary peace ended years later.
The same masked figure responsible for the annihilation of the 43rd branch eventually located him once again. In the ensuing encounter, Leah Montefalco was killed, marking a second irreversible collapse in Xavier's life.