Boyd's breath caught in his throat, a sharp gasp tearing through his chest as his eyes snapped open. The moment felt foreign, as if everything around him had shifted into a dream. A burning sensation lingered at the back of his mind, an echo of fire that seemed to sear his thoughts. The fire… I remember the fire. The images flickered in his mind—blazing heat, thick smoke, and a searing agony—yet here he was, alive, in a place that felt completely alien. He froze, disoriented, as his heart began to pound in his chest. His fingers reached up instinctively, brushing against the fabric covering his face.
The cloth felt soft, too soft—far softer than any rag he'd worn before. Panic surged within him, and with an abrupt motion, he tossed it aside. The cloth fluttered to the floor as his hands moved urgently to check his body. His skin, his arms, his chest… He couldn't feel any broken bones, no sign of the injuries that should've remained from the fire. The muscles beneath his skin were smooth and firm, but there was nothing wrong with him. No pain.
He leaned forward, eyes wide with confusion.
"Where am I?"
His fingers moved over his forearms, his chest—checking, feeling. His body seemed impossibly whole, impossibly strong. He looked down at his hands. His fingers were long, but not like before—too long, too strong, like someone who had trained, someone who had power. This isn't my body.
He suddenly noticed the faint echo of golden hair shimmering in his peripheral vision, falling across his brow. The color was strange to him, and yet... familiar. What's happening to me?
The room around him was dimly lit by soft sunlight pouring through a large window. It was warm—too warm—considering the circumstances. A wooden table beside the bed held a small bowl of water, a cup, and a towel, all neatly arranged as if waiting for him. But none of this made sense. The soft, plush bed beneath him, the heavy, warm blankets, the fine wooden furniture—it was all far too luxurious for the life he remembered. His memories of his old home, of the poverty-stricken house he had once lived in, clashed violently with the reality of this place.
The walls were adorned with tapestries, their colors rich and vibrant, depicting landscapes and heraldic symbols Boyd didn't recognize. A hearth sat on the far side of the room, the fireplace long cold but still holding remnants of ash from a fire that had clearly once been large. A low bench was near the hearth, draped with a thick rug, and the floors beneath him were clean, gleaming wood.
Boyd tried to rise from the bed, but his legs buckled beneath him. The strength of his body had yet to fully take hold. As he stumbled forward, he knocked the cup of water from the table, sending it splashing across the floor. The sudden noise broke the eerie silence of the room. He cursed under his breath, trying to regain his balance as the water spilled everywhere, soaking into the wooden floorboards.
His hand flung to the table, trying to push himself up, but in doing so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water as it pooled across the floor. His heart skipped a beat.
"Who is that?"
There was a man in the reflection. The face staring back at him wasn't his—was it?—it was handsome, more handsome than he had ever been. A strong jaw, a straight nose, and blue eyes that seemed to glimmer with something he couldn't quite place. His Dark brunette hair fell in thick, shining waves, framing a face that seemed perfectly sculpted. He leaned closer, his breath shaky, wondering if this was some trick of the light, some odd reflection. But no—there was no mistake.
That was him, but not him. How can this be? His breath quickened, panic rising in his chest as he touched his own face, his jaw, his hair. This body—this was not his, but it felt so real, so powerful.
With a trembling hand, he ran his fingers over his chest. The muscles were well-defined, and as his eyes traveled down to his arms, he saw them—strong, broad shoulders, the veins stretching over his forearms. He stood taller, broader than before. This was not the frail, sickly boy who had died. This was something else—someone else entirely.
He looked around the room, dazed and confused, but as his eyes shifted, something caught his attention—a flicker of light in the air, golden and soft. A screen began to materialize before him, floating in mid-air.
"Player Name: B-O-Y-D"
The system displayed his name in soft golden letters. The next option appeared beneath it: Click OK to Continue.
Boyd stared at the screen, blinking as if he hadn't quite understood what he was seeing. What is this?
His fingers hovered over the glowing "OK" button. After a long moment, he finally reached out and clicked it.
The screen shifted, revealing several options:
Player Stats
System Info
Player Info
Boyd's mind reeled, trying to process the oddness of the situation. Player stats? System info? He clicked on "Player Stats," and another screen appeared, displaying numbers and bars that were foreign to him.
Strength: 27
Endurance: 16
Agility: 11
Stamina: 19
Magic: 15
The stats stared back at him, glowing blue and green. His fingers trembled as he traced the numbers. What do these mean?
His head spun as he looked back at the screen. He didn't understand—none of this made sense. Strength 72? What is that?
Confusion churned in his stomach, but he managed to click back, returning to the main menu. The screen flickered, offering two more choices:
System Info
Player Info
This time, he clicked on System Info. Another screen appeared, explaining the basics of this strange system.
"Complete daily tasks to gain experience points. Rewards will boost your stats. Failure to complete daily tasks will result in a reduction of HP, and consequently… death of the player."
Boyd froze for that brief moment.
"Death of the player?"
He recoiled, his mind struggling to comprehend the words.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a loud clatter interrupted his focus. Plates crashed to the floor, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. Boyd whipped around, heart racing. A figure stood in the doorway—his back slightly hunched with age, his clothes rich and finely tailored. A man with a thick, greying beard, dressed in elegant, dark-colored robes.
The man's gaze met Boyd's, and his mouth fell open in disbelief. He stood frozen for a moment, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, the man whispered, voice shaky.
"Boyd?"
Boyd's breath caught again as he stared at the older man. He knew that voice, knew those eyes, those features. But the man was far older now, his face weathered by time and experience.
The man took a cautious step forward, his face etched with confusion and something more—relief, perhaps, but Boyd couldn't be sure.
"Boyd? Is that really you?" The man's voice trembled, his hand still half-raised, as though reaching for something he had lost.
Boyd's chest tightened. He didn't know how to respond. This man—his father? It couldn't be. But it is, without a doubt, it was none other, than his father.