The last thing he remembered was the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, and blinding pain. Then…nothing.
Now, he found himself flat on his back, the rough earth digging into him. His eyes snapped open, and instead of sterile hospital ceilings or flashing ambulance lights, he was met with a blood-red sunset painting the sky in violent hues.
"What the–" His voice died in his throat as an ear-splitting clash of steel ripped through the air.
He bolted upright, his head spinning. He wasn't in a hospital; he was on a battlefield. Bodies littered the ground. Men, their faces contorted in the agony of death, lay scattered like broken dolls. The acrid tang of sweat and blood filled the air.
A knight, his shining armor dulled with grime, charged towards him. He recoiled, instinctively throwing his hands up – but the sword missed him. It sliced through a figure he hadn't seen – a soldier with wild eyes lunging directly at him, spear in hand.
The knight grunted. "Watch yourself, milord!"
Before him could process the words, shouts erupted from his left. His stomach clenched as he saw a woman at the head of a surging force, her long blonde hair like a battle banner streaming behind her. Even from this distance, she radiated an aura of deadly power.
"Kyra!" spat another voice beside him. This time, he recognized the face from the fleeting glimpses of his fading memories. Torin, he realized, Rane's right-hand man.
His confusion melted into icy dread. Rane. These were Rane's memories, resurfacing in fractured shards. He was Rane, a lord in some twisted fantasy world, embroiled in a vicious war with his own wife.
"She's broken through," Torin was muttering, despair lacing his voice. "Rane, we have to– Rane?"
He blinked, the realization hitting him like a battering ram. It wasn't just memories. He was inhabiting Rane's body…living his life. Had his soul somehow swapped places with the dying lord?
"Rane, snap out of it!" Torin shook him roughly. "Give the orders! Retreat to the keep? Re-engage?"
His mind spun. Retreat? Orders? He was a software engineer, not a battlefield commander! His heart jackhammered as Kyra's forces closed in. He couldn't think, couldn't rationalize the whirlwind of knowledge and memory crashing through him.
Rane's muscle memory took over. "Retreat!" The word tore from his lips, tinged with panic rather than the steely resolve it should have held. "Fall back to the keep!"
The knights surrounding him looked first startled, then relieved. They surged back in a ragged line, him scrambling in their midst. As they ran, his mind began to clear, bits and pieces of Rane's life slotting into place with terrifying clarity. He was no longer just a regular guy.
He was a lord of this realm. He knew these men, their families, their hopes, and their fears. Rane's skill with a sword, his proficiency with mana, his strategic instincts – they were seeping into him like a strange, involuntary infusion.
A spear whistled past his ear, narrowly missing him. He stumbled, and Torin hauled him upright. "Keep up, milord, or those bastards will have your head!"
Head. Rane's head, on his shoulders. It was a surreal nightmare.
They reached the relative safety of the keep gates, the towering walls looming protectively up ahead. He collapsed inside, gasping for breath.
As he staggered up the keep's winding stone stairs, the gravity of his situation crashed down on him. This was his life now, this war, this wife who seemed to loathe him, these men placing their desperate faith in him. It would have been laughable if the stakes hadn't been so dire.
"Torin," he managed, once his breath had somewhat returned. "Tell me everything."
He would have to play this part, at least until he figured out what the hell had happened, or if there was a way to undo it.
As Torin began to detail the grim state of the war, his mind raced. Reincarnation? Soul-swapping? It was Re: kind of stuff. He loved Kyra? He was Rane? What happened?
"I don't want to fight somebody I love"
Was all he thought, but something, something pulled him out.
Forcibly.