The storm was vicious. Wind tore at Liam, yanking at his clothes. Rain poured in heavy sheets, soaking his hands until the rope felt slick and treacherous. He clung to it anyway, knuckles white, knowing it was giving way.
The fibers strained, snapping slowly one after another, the rope unraveling beneath his grip.
Below, the cliff dropped into a churning black sea. Waves smashed against the spiky rocks, rising and breaking with a rhythm.
"Help!" His voice cracked, raw with panic, but the storm devoured the sound. No reply came. Only the roar of the ocean and the shriek of the wind.
His hand slipped, then caught the rope again. Pebbles and dust tumbled from above, vanishing into the dark below. The sudden pull shook his body, muscles trembling, arms burning as he held on.
Slowly, he forced himself to look up.
The castle rose above him—or what was left of it. Half the walls had collapsed, broken stone jutting into empty air.
At the edge stood a figure.
Tall. A heavy coat wrapped around them, its edges shifting in the wind. Feathers lined the shoulders. But the mask was what stopped Liam's breath.
It was pale, carved, and shaped like an animal's skull. Antlers stretched upward like the bones of a dead deer.
And behind it, two green lights glowed. Eyes. Watching him.
"Please…" His voice broke. "I beg you—help me!"
Tears clouded his vision, yet the figure above remained unmoved. No step forward, no gesture of mercy. Only silence. Only stillness.
His struggle meant nothing.
His arm shook violently, his grip weakening. For a fleeting instant he hung suspended—then his fingers slipped.
The world dropped away.
The storm was gone. The sound was gone. Everything was gone.
In that hollow, weightless moment, a voice came.
"Liam."
"Liam."
He woke with a violent gasp.
Air tore into his lungs, sharp enough to hurt. His chest convulsed as if he had been dragged from drowning. His body lurched forward, hands clawing at the empty space until they struck something solid.
A couch. Rough fabric beneath his fingers, firm enough to hold him.
He clung to it, coughing hard, forcing breath back into his chest. Sweat clung cold to his skin, clammy, as though the storm itself had followed him here.
For a moment he stayed still.
Then his eyes lifted— And froze.
This was not his school.
The ceiling pressed low, beams darkened with age. Wallpaper curled with vine patterns along the walls. Ink and lavender lingered faintly in the air.
Liam pushed himself upright, head pounding.
Where… am I?
The room unfolded piece by piece. Sunlight spilled through a tall window, cutting across the floorboards. A desk sat nearby, cluttered with papers and an open ink bottle, the quill stained black.
A bookshelf lined the far wall, leather spines gleaming faintly in the light. Beside it, a radio rested on a side table, brass dials polished but silent. In the corner, a phonograph stood with its trumpet-shaped horn tilted upward, waiting.
Everything looked old.
The sofa beneath him scratched against his skin, its coarse fabric worn but soft, the kind of upholstery from another age. Even the air felt different.
"This isn't the school…" His voice faltered. He glanced down—and froze again.
His clothes were not his. A white shirt. A dark patterned vest, thick and tailored.
"What…" he whispered, fingers brushing the fabric.
Pain struck without warning. A violent spike ripped through his skull, forcing a strangled breath from his lips. He gripped the couch edge, knuckles white, as the agony surged.
"Water…" he muttered. "I need water."
His eyes locked on a round glass bottle on the table. He staggered forward, pulled the cork free, and drank deep, desperate for relief.
And then—just as suddenly the pain came—the pain was gone.
But behind it all, something remained.
Fragments. Memories that were not his.
Quick flashes—faces, voices, shadows—gone before he could reach them. His breathing faltered, chest tight.
"What… what is happening to me?" His words came out hoarse, trembling.
He rose unsteadily, each step dragging him forward until his eyes caught on a tall, narrow mirror fixed near the door.
He moved toward it without thought. One step. Then another. The floor groaned beneath him, the air heavy with ink and lavender.
He stopped before the mirror.
And froze.
His breath hitched.
This reflection was wrong.
The face staring back was not his.
Liam had brown hair and blue eyes; this figure was different, probably better. Blond hair shimmered in the light, strands catching like gold. Eyes gleamed sharp and crystalline green. A jawline cut clean, with soft fair skin and lips faintly curved.
"This… this isn't me," he whispered, voice breaking against the silence.
The figure in the glass was striking—too striking. Handsome in a way that felt unreal, almost sculpted.
Liam lifted his hand, fingers trembling as they brushed against his cheek. The mirror copied him perfectly—every gesture, every twitch. He waved; it waved. He touched his hair; the reflection did the same.
His breath grew shallow.
"…No." The word slipped out, faint, as if it didn't belong to him, "What is this?"
He leaned closer, searching for something familiar—anything. A scar. A wrinkle. A trace of the boy he was hoping he was dreaming from shock.
There was nothing.
"Who is this person?" His voice cracked, disbelief tangled with bitter humor. He let out a shaky laugh. "Why does he look like he stepped out of a painting? He's… better looking than I ever was."
The pain hit without warning.
Lower this time—his stomach.
Liam doubled over, clutching at his shirt. He tore the fabric aside in a rush, vest shifting, buttons straining under his grip.
And then he saw it.
A bandage wrapped tight around his midsection, the center soaked dark.
His breath faltered. His eyes widened.
A wound.
Deep.
A stab wound.
"…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.