As he pushed himself upright, Gawain felt like he was awakening from a dream—yet one so strange and disorienting that reality felt even more surreal. He sat up in a daze, barely conscious of the action. A storm of unfamiliar sensations flooded him, leaving his mind spinning. His ears buzzed, his body tingled with intense but scattered sensations, and his vision split into overlapping images, some of them starkly black and white. Despite the chaos within him, his thoughts somehow held together.
He had to thank whoever had hit his hand with that brutal staff—it had jolted him back from the brink of being entirely consumed by disorientation.
But that hit had hurt. A lot.
Gradually, Gawain's thoughts pieced themselves back together, memories resurfacing: the abrupt loss of his viewpoint, the mysterious "escape program" activating, the endless sensation of falling… and now, the impossible reality before him: a body, a tangible, fully functional body.
*A body!*
After eons adrift in the void, merely a passive observer of an alien world, he finally had a body of his own. The dizziness, the flood of sensations—these were manageable if it meant feeling again, inhabiting a physical form that could experience hot, cold, pain, and touch.
Slowly, he felt himself adapt, his senses reeling in the scattered perceptions, as though he were acclimating to the dense sensations of the material world. As the vertigo began to recede, the disorienting mirage faded, and his vision finally settled into focus, bringing his surroundings into clarity.
The first thing he saw was a group of four heavily armed men standing in front of him. The leader, an older, grizzled knight with a scarred face, wore steel armor so thick it looked capable of stopping a siege weapon. His muscular frame made him an intimidating figure, holding a gleaming silver sword that looked ready to strike at any moment. The other three, clad in simpler armor, flanked him with weapons at the ready.
To their side, a small figure kneeled, restrained and guarded by the swords surrounding her. From beneath her hair, Gawain caught a glimpse of a pointed ear poking through—a half-elf.
Beyond them, a woman in a deep red gown stood elegantly, her eyes sharp and unwavering, yet betraying hints of unease. She held herself with the poised dignity of nobility, but her knuckles were white as she clutched a staff, ready to defend herself if needed. Gawain's gaze lingered a second too long on her striking figure, noting the beauty and maturity she carried. Even so, her tension was evident.
Before he could gather his bearings, a frantic movement beside him caught his attention. He turned to see a young girl, no older than sixteen, hastily leaping off the platform on which he had been lying. She held a metal staff, sturdy and capable of inflicting serious pain.
Connecting the dots, Gawain's expression shifted, a hint of irritation in his voice as he addressed her. "Was it you who just whacked me?"
He paused, startled by his own words. The language he had spoken was entirely unfamiliar, yet it felt natural, as though it had always been his own.
The girl's eyes widened, and her lip quivered as if on the verge of tears. "Ancestor… I… I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry…"
"Ancestor?" Gawain echoed, the word catching him off guard. He took in his surroundings, the ornate sarcophagus, the cold stone room that felt far too much like a tomb. An uncomfortable realization crept over him: this wasn't just any body he was inhabiting. It was a body belonging to an ancestor of the people in this room.
The elegant woman in red seemed to regain some composure. She stepped forward cautiously, a wary yet controlled expression on her face. "Do you… know who you are?"
The question gave Gawain pause. Reflexively, he nearly blurted his true name, but something stopped him. Looking around the ancient crypt, with the dust and stone pressing in on all sides, a coffin lid cast aside—it became painfully obvious that he was supposed to be *someone else*. If he identified himself incorrectly, he risked exposing his spirit as a foreign presence. And judging by the suspicious glances of those around him, he would be branded as an intruder at best, or worse, a dark spirit.
*Ancestor,* he recalled the girl saying. If that were the case, then he must be in the body of their revered forebear. Gathering his thoughts, he forced himself to maintain an air of authority.
"I am Gawain Cecil… founder of the Auns Kingdom," he said, managing to keep his voice steady. "Tell me, what era is this?"
The dignified woman's eyes widened at his answer, a glimmer of respect mixing with her caution. "You are indeed the founder… of our house, the legendary Gawain Cecil. We feared… we feared you might have returned as one of the undying. But if you are aware of your name… then this is no dark resurrection."
She lowered her head in reverence, her words almost a whisper. "Ancestor, I am Hetty Cecil, a descendant of your line. This is Rebecca Cecil, your youngest heir." She gestured to the young girl beside him, whose cheeks flushed with a mixture of awe and embarrassment.
The reality settled over Gawain, making him feel both relieved and overwhelmed. His current identity was truly that of the founder of this family, a noble lineage steeped in history. At least, he mused, his instinctive answer hadn't led to his immediate demise.
Still, fragments of memories—vivid yet foreign—flashed through his mind, filling in the blanks. The knowledge came to him like files being accessed, meticulously ordered yet dizzying in their detail. His new name, Gawain Cecil, held a weight far beyond his understanding.
"Seven hundred years… you've been at rest for seven hundred years, Ancestor," Rebecca added quietly, awe in her voice.
At her words, Hetty finally exhaled, her anxiety visibly easing. As a seasoned spellcaster, she knew that a revived undead would never remember their own name; even if they managed some semblance of intelligence, saying their original name aloud would cause their soul to burn in agonizing backlash. Yet this ancestor had spoken his name without hesitation.
Taking a cautious step forward, Hetty bowed low. "Ancestor of the Cecil family, I am Hetty Cecil, and beside me is Rebecca Cecil, another of your descendants. Please, forgive her for her youthful overzealousness. And… we beg forgiveness for disturbing your rest."
The knowledge settled within him as he looked upon his "descendants." These were his… distant great-grandchildren, several generations removed.
The rush of memories finally subsided, and Gawain steadied himself on the edge of the coffin, gathering his bearings. *I need to understand what's going on here.*
"I can hardly blame you," he muttered, trying to maintain an air of composure while processing the madness of his situation. "Now, would one of you kindly help me out of here?"
As he tried to lift himself, he realized he had overestimated his control over this new body. A slight miscalculation of force left him unsteadily teetering, his legs weak with disuse.
Seizing the opportunity, Rebecca dashed forward, practically bouncing as she offered him her arm. "Here, Ancestor! Let me help you out of the coffin!"
The words sounded strange, and Gawain couldn't help but suppress a chuckle at the absurdity. Yet he accepted her support, allowing her to assist him onto solid ground.
"Seven hundred years…" Gawain murmured to himself as he looked down, adjusting to the feel of his ancient, unfamiliar clothing. "What sort of material is this?"
"Uh… I think it's Moonshadow Silk, woven by the elves," Rebecca answered uncertainly, caught off guard by his question.
Gawain shook his head in wonder. "Advanced craftsmanship indeed."
"Eh?" Rebecca blinked, her expression blank with confusion.
*Ancestor speaks in riddles,* she thought, her face a mix of bewilderment and admiration.
Finally standing upright, Gawain took his first tentative step forward. He released Rebecca's arm and wobbled slightly but managed to keep his balance, a monumental feat after drifting bodiless for eons. The rush of accomplishment was almost overwhelming.
If he had a microphone in front of him, he mused, he might thank everyone he'd ever known in life, along with every broadcasting station he could think of. This first, shaky step was the culmination of his entire journey.
*So this is what it feels like to walk again,* he thought, a small, triumphant smile spreading across his face.
Only after savoring the moment did he recall something he had almost forgotten—a small figure crouched behind the knights, her pointed ears peeking out from her messy hair, staring at him with a mix of awe and terror.
*Ah,* he remembered with a glimmer of amusement, *the little half-elf girl surrounded by the knights. What's her story?*