Fire.
Blazing fire.
Flames consumed everything in sight.
Figures darted madly amidst the inferno, helplessly struggling, their anguished screams and wails piercing the air.
In the end, everything was reduced to ashes.
---
With a sharp intake of breath, Karl sat up abruptly on his bed. His breathing was labored, his forehead drenched in sweat, and his eyes carried a lingering fear.
The scene from a few days ago resurfaced vividly in his dreams once again.
Taking a moment to calm himself, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. Amidst the soft rustling of fabric, he changed into a formal suit and stood before the dressing mirror.
His slightly wavy black hair hung loosely to his shoulders, and his brown eyes bore traces of the confusion that comes from waking. The left side of his face, severely scarred by burns, marred his otherwise striking features, rendering his appearance difficult to look at directly.
Today was a significant day, one that warranted donning his best.
The finely tailored long coat, reminiscent of ancient Western suits, combined the smoothness of silk with the texture of leather, accentuating his sturdy physique beneath.
Karl Bergman—born in the Swick region of the Kingdom of Gondor, currently residing in the southern district of Signo City as a district inspector.
His grandfather had followed Marquis Lawrence in numerous campaigns, earning a baronetcy through his valor, a title passed down to Karl's father.
A massive fire a few days ago had claimed his father's life, leaving Karl with injuries and psychological trauma.
And then...
His soul was replaced by that of a traveler from another world.
Yes, the current Karl was a transmigrator, simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar with this world and with "himself."
"It's over," he murmured. "It's already over."
Speaking softly to the mirror, Karl steadied himself, moved to the door, and opened it to step out of his bedroom.
---
### The Living Room
The decor reflected a worn, classic European medieval style.
An intricately carved cabinet stood against the left wall, its bronze drawer handles mirroring the style of the door handle, as if crafted by the same manufacturer.
Wooden flooring, solid furniture, an extinguished kerosene lamp, and the mingling scents of vanilla and lemon filled the room.
In one corner, stacks of linen fabric served as a temporary storage for flour and black bread.
---
"Good morning, Baron Karl."
A teenage girl emerged from the kitchen, carrying slices of bread and milk, her face radiating a cheerful smile as she curtsied lightly.
"You're awake. Please enjoy your breakfast."
She was a girl of about sixteen, her skin smooth as milk and her voice crisp and pleasant.
However, her words were clearly inappropriate.
"Jenny!"
The stern voice of Mrs. Mary, the landlady, rang out behind her, laden with anger.
"Don't joke about such things."
"Yes, ma'am." Jenny quickly corrected herself.
"Karl, my apologies," she said, her expression sobering.
"It's fine," Karl replied, shaking his head.
"You go ahead and eat. I'm heading to the church."
Though the baronial title was his by right, he had yet to complete the formalities to inherit it.
To inherit the title meant acknowledging his father's death—a reality that was far from celebratory.
---
### The Church
"Three pence," the coachman stated.
Karl handed over the coins.
"Please, take a seat, sir."
Sitting in the carriage, Karl's thoughts began to wander.
Three pence was enough to buy a decent meal for a commoner, and the church wasn't far. It seemed coach driving was a profitable occupation.
Instinctively, his gaze shifted, first to the coachman and then to the horse pulling the carriage.
The horse was a small, docile breed known as a "Duma," prized for its steady gait and favored by noblewomen.
Naturally, such a horse came with a high price.
Adding in the well-crafted carriage, being a coachman seemed less appealing when factoring in the initial investment.
'Well,' Karl mused, 'soon I'll be a baron. My income as a district inspector isn't small either, so there's no need to pinch pennies like I did in my past life.'
'Even without land, a baronial title alone ensures a respectable life.'
'It's just a pity this world lacks the conveniences of modern society or even the faintest signs of technological development. It feels more like medieval Europe.'
'On the other hand, the church's authority is far more entrenched here—even the inheritance of noble titles requires their approval. Ignorance... or perhaps not.'
Recalling vivid memories of peculiar occurrences, Karl shook his head slightly. This world was far from simple.
---
The carriage stopped at a respectful distance from the church, a gesture of reverence toward the god of dawn.
The church grounds were expansive and solemn, with devout followers praying in the open square.
The towering spire was adorned with an emblem of wheat, symbolizing one of the god's domains—**prosperity**.
"Blessings of the Dawnlord…"
Karl bowed slightly as he passed others, entering the side door that led to Father Vic's office.
---
"Father," he said, stepping forward respectfully.
"I've come to finalize the baronial inheritance procedures."
"Are you Karl Bergman?"
"Yes, I am."
Father Vic had sharp features and a solemn demeanor. His black clerical robes added an air of authority.
Staring at Karl, the priest spoke slowly.
"Your father died resisting the Fire Thieves and protecting civilians. He embodied the noble virtues of courage and justice."
"Yes," Karl replied in a low voice, bowing his head.
"I am proud of him."
"However," Father Vic continued, his tone changing, "after deliberation among the priests, it has been decided that his title cannot be inherited."
What?
"Why?" Karl exclaimed in surprise, quickly regaining his composure.
"I mean no disrespect, Father, but my father's bravery earned the lord's commendation."
"Noble spirit requires more than courage and justice; it demands piety," the priest declared.
"Unfortunately, we did not witness such piety in your father."
"No!" Karl protested firmly.
"My father prayed before every meal, abstained from meat and wine around holy days. His devotion was beyond question!"
Even if it wasn't, Karl had to say so. The baronial title was crucial—without it, he would be no more than a commoner.
As a commoner, even his position as district inspector would be precarious.
Life as a commoner in this era, slightly above that of serfs, was harsh—a thought that sent a chill through Karl's heart.
"Father, could there be some misunderstanding?"
"Misunderstanding? None."
Father Vic shook his head solemnly.
"Karl, do you know what month this is?"
"Nine—" Karl paused before correcting himself.
"The Month of Prosperity."
"Indeed." Father Vic sighed.
"In the Month of Prosperity, even the city's serfs bring black bread as offerings. Your father lived in Signo for years but never contributed anything."
Karl opened his mouth but hesitated.
Though his father hadn't given offerings, they had always paid the tithe in full. However, he doubted such reasoning would sway Father Vic.
Noticing the priest's exquisite, expensive bracelet, Karl lowered his gaze and fell silent.