Boyd's head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto the figure standing just inside the doorway. His breath caught again, this time from the shock of recognition, but he forced himself to remain silent. The man was staring at him with wide, astonished eyes, the lines on his face deepening with each passing second. He looked older, much older than Boyd remembered, his once dark beard now threaded with gray, his face weathered, etched with the marks of time and hardship.
The man dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he lowered his head, as though in deep reverence or perhaps… grief?
"Young master…." he murmured, his voice rough but soft, like a whisper weighed down by a hundred unsaid words. His shoulders shook, and his head remained bowed as though unable to fully meet Boyd's gaze.
"We thought… you were lost to us forever."
Boyd's mind whirled. Young master? The words echoed in his thoughts, each syllable unwrapping layers of confusion and disbelief. He could hardly reconcile this humble, reverent figure with the memory he held—the memory of his father, a man who once loomed over him with a silent strength, who had always stood tall and unyielding, even in the face of the harshest trials. And yet, here he was, kneeling before him with an awe that made Boyd's heart constrict painfully in his chest.
"Father…" The word barely escaped his lips, more a breath than a sound, yet it was enough for the man to look up, eyes glistening with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
"It's a miracle." the man continued, his voice faltering but steadying itself as though holding onto the words for dear life.
"They—they said you had… passed. That fever—it… took you from us." He choked on the words, a hand rising to cover his mouth as he closed his eyes, perhaps bracing against the memory.
Boyd's confusion only deepened. He wanted to reach out, to reassure this man—his father—yet something held him back, the weight of disbelief keeping his arms frozen at his sides.
"What… what do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if fearing that any louder sound might shatter the fragile reality around him.
The man's eyes softened, and he reached out with a hand that trembled as he did.
"You… you truly don't remember, young master?" He cast a quick glance around, as if checking that they were indeed alone, before continuing in a lower, almost reverent tone. "You've been here… in this very room, for days now. They—they said you'd left us, that the fever… it had taken you." He let out a shaky breath.
"We grieved, we all grieved…"
Boyd's mind spun, a storm of questions and memories clashing within him. Why… young master? What had happened to him? Why did his father look at him like this—as though he were someone else entirely?
The man glanced at him again, his expression shifting to one of concern, perhaps even worry. He looked down at the fine robe Boyd wore, carefully tucking the loose ends as if adjusting some princely garment. Boyd followed his gaze, noticing the fine material of his clothing, the intricate stitching of the cuffs, the soft, silken fabric that clung to his frame. It was a far cry from anything he'd ever worn in his previous life.
The man bowed his head lower, as if awaiting some response, but Boyd could only stare back, dumbfounded. Then, in the midst of his swirling thoughts, a flicker of gold caught his eye. A familiar glow appeared, translucent yet vivid, hovering before his eyes, as though projected by some unseen force. The system interface—its golden text a sharp contrast against the warm light flooding the room from the wide windows.
Boyd's stomach twisted with a mix of curiosity and unease.
Before he could absorb any more of the implications, a soft, shuffling noise drew his attention back to the room. The old man's head remained bowed, his fingers gripping the edge of the robe he wore. The silence stretched, and just as Boyd opened his mouth to speak, another voice called out from somewhere beyond the doorway.
"Geralt!"
Boyd's father—Geralt, he mentally noted—straightened instantly, turning with a visible jolt of alarm in the direction of the voice. Boyd followed his gaze as a figure emerged from the shadowed hallway—a stout, broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard and hard eyes, dressed in practical work clothes smeared with hints of earth and sweat. His steps were brisk and impatient as he entered, only to stop dead in his tracks when his gaze fell upon Boyd.
The man's expression shifted, his rugged face twisting from irritation to open-mouthed astonishment. He blinked once, then again, his eyes widening as he took in the sight before him.
"Boyd?" he muttered, barely audible.
Instinctively, Boyd took a step back, uncertain. The man moved forward, but halted just short, his gaze fixed on Boyd as though struggling to believe what he was seeing. The old man—Geralt, Boyd's father—shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes… he's alive. Somehow, he… he's returned."
Boyd could see the glint of realization and recognition flickering in the man's eyes, almost as if seeing a ghost. He wanted to speak, to demand answers, but his words caught in his throat, drowned by the weight of the moment.
A third figure—a woman with soft, graying hair and kind, weary eyes—entered, her expression turning from confusion to astonished joy as she laid eyes on Boyd. She brought a hand to her mouth, her voice quivering.
The weight of the room felt almost oppressive as Boyd's gaze shifted back to the two figures standing before him, each dressed in fine but worn garments that carried the air of old wealth. The larger man, thickly bearded and visibly rugged, spoke with a wavering voice that echoed through the silence.
"It's a miracle." the man murmured, his voice laced with disbelief. His eyes moved over Boyd in stunned wonder.
"The doctor… he checked your pulse. He assured us there was none." He shook his head, almost as if the memory haunted him.
"Had we known you were still alive, we would never have… barged in so rudely. Please, forgive us."
Boyd's father, Geralt, lowered his head even further, casting his eyes to the floor, his expression etched with both reverence and humility. He joined in the plea, his voice trembling,
"Yes, young master… forgive us."
The words left Boyd speechless, his mind scrambling to piece together the reality unfolding before him. He felt the weight of their apologies, yet he couldn't reconcile the image of his father—his father—lowered so humbly before him. What had changed?
After a silent, tense pause, he decided to speak, his voice calm but uncertain.
"It's… it's alright. Everyone makes mistakes." he managed, forcing the words past his confusion.
The broad-shouldered man raised his head slowly, his eyes filled with a kind of desperate gratitude. "Thank the gods." he whispered, his voice shaking with relief.
"You have a kind heart, just like your father." He hesitated, then continued.
"Your father—" He froze, cutting himself off abruptly, his gaze flickering to Geralt with an unreadable expression.
"Your father… of course, he must be told at once that his son has returned."
With a sudden, commanding gesture, he turned to a young woman standing by the door, a servant who looked equally overwhelmed by Boyd's presence.
"Go. Fetch his Sir Jonas! Tell him his son is… alive." he instructed.
The woman turned on her heel and practically fled from the room, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hall as Boyd stood there, rooted in place by the enormity of what was happening. He could feel Geralt's presence beside him, yet the familiarity felt… wrong, distant, like he was seeing everything through a fogged glass.
Father… how could he not be my father?
Forcing himself to remain calm, Boyd's gaze drifted inward. A thought struck him: the system. It had shown him information before, fragments of text floating in his mind. If it could reveal anything, it might give him answers now.
His eyes shifted around the room, noticing that no one else seemed to react to the faint golden glow he was sure must be visible. His heart raced as he confirmed his suspicion: They couldn't see it.
Steeling himself, he walked forward, placing a hand lightly on the broad-shouldered man's arm.
"Would you… mind giving me a moment? I would like some time with Fa-... Geralt."
The man nodded immediately, bowing respectfully.
"Of course, young master." He retreated toward the door, casting one last glance at Boyd with a reverence that bordered on awe, before he exited.
Boyd let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and turned to Geralt, who remained kneeling, head lowered, awaiting whatever might come next. Boyd's eyes lingered on his father's familiar features, struggling to reconcile the memories with the man he saw before him.
If this man… isn't my father, then…
Swallowing hard, Boyd took a step back, steadying himself, and summoned the system with a thought. His vision flickered as golden text shimmered into existence before him, and he focused his gaze on a familiar tab.
Player Info:
The details appeared, neatly aligned, and he read through them, his heart pounding with each line.
Player Alias: Boyd
Player Former Name (Before Reincarnation): Andrew Longsman
Details: First and only son to Jonas Longsman and the late Annie Longsman. Expected to inherit his father's farm, located within the northern territories of the Isendale settlement within the kingdom of Veridia.
Each word sank into him, heavy with implication. This wasn't just a misunderstanding or a dream. This body wasn't his, and the life he had known was no longer his own. He was… Andrew, a farmer's son with a destiny entirely different from anything he had envisioned for himself.
And then he read the final line:
Fate: Died in bed from a plague.
The words lingered in his mind, stark and brutal. This really isn't my body. A shiver ran through him. How… how am I alive?
Just then, his thoughts were shattered by a voice calling out from the hallway.
The sound of hurried footsteps grew louder, and a new figure entered the room—a man, rough and disheveled, yet with an aura of quiet strength that was impossible to ignore.
The man was tall, with long, golden hair that flowed over his shoulders in tangled waves, streaked with the gray of time and hardship. A thick, unkempt beard framed his face, and dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. His clothes were fine, though worn, with hints of embroidery that had faded over time. In his right hand, he clutched a tarnished silver cup, the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the air around him.
The man's eyes landed on Boyd, and in an instant, they softened, disbelief and desperate hope flooding his face. His fingers trembled, and the cup fell to the floor with a dull clang, rolling off into a shadowed corner as he took a halting step forward.
"My son… my son…" His voice was hoarse, roughened by emotion. He moved closer, his hand stretching forward as though afraid to touch him, as if he were a fragile apparition that might vanish at any moment. His fingers brushed Boyd's cheek, tentative and searching.
The man's face crumpled, and tears welled in his eyes as he choked back a sob. "I… I thought I had lost you." He pulled Boyd into a fierce embrace, his arms strong but shaking as he held on as if his life depended on it.
Boyd stiffened, uncertain, but the overwhelming wave of sorrow and joy that poured from the man washed over him, compelling him to respond. Slowly, he raised his arms, wrapping them around the man, feeling the warmth of his father—or this father—and the steady, familiar beat of his heart.
From the corner of his eye, Boyd noticed figures gathering in the doorway, servants and housemaids peeking in, their expressions filled with awe and joy as they looked upon the scene. He tightened his arms around the man, not wanting to betray his confusion in front of them. But even as he embraced this new reality, a knot of unease twisted in his chest.
Over the man's shoulder, Boyd's gaze found Geralt, still kneeling, his head bowed, silent and reverent.
And in that moment, he could only think one thing:
What in the absolute hell was going on?