The spring rain descended gently upon the Rimmel estate.
The hour was late, and a soft breeze danced with the light rain, weaving a melody of serenity and mystery.
Darkness cloaked the lower side of the city, where hundreds of tiny lights shimmered like a luminous orchestra.
These scattered lights sparkled from towering buildings, their glow modest yet undeniable, numbering in the hundreds though not the thousands.
The Rimmel family's main estate stood atop the solitary mountain—a peak not soaring to the heavens but rising just high enough to crown the land with a touch of human grandeur.
On a lofty balcony overlooking the city, a figure stood in silence. Not merely a man, but a wandering spirit lost in the labyrinth of existence, his expression a blend of solitude and contemplation.
The moment lingered. The man was absorbed in his thoughts, his gaze fixed upon the falling raindrops. His mind drifted to distant realms until a voice pulled him back to the present.
"Master Syron, everyone has gathered and awaits your presence," a guard announced, standing two meters behind him with a respectful bow.
"I will come shortly. You may leave," Syron replied, his focus unwavering from the scene before him, a view he might never behold again.
"As you command." The guard withdrew obediently.
"Another week has passed," the man murmured to himself, closing his eyes. His words carried the weight of days spent in a world both strange and familiar—a place where he began anew in an unfamiliar body. It was as if he had stepped into the pages of a fantastical tale.
When Jackson first regained consciousness in his new vessel, a tidal wave of confusion and silent awe washed over him. It was as though his former life had been stripped away by unseen hands and replaced with a painted world born of an author's imagination.
Gone were the skyscrapers and bustling streets of his old reality, replaced by a realm dripping with ancient power—its stone walls thick and imposing, its air tinged with the scent of iron and the echoes of distant battles.
This new world spoke in a language of strife, carried in the clash of swords and the subdued cries of weary soldiers, as if the land itself sang of war.
Jackson stood frozen, feeling the weight of his new existence seep into his soul. His was a borrowed body, burdened with memories that were not his, yet they flowed into his mind like rivers carving paths through untamed earth.
He was now Syron Rimmel, patriarch of one of the most storied families in the southern territories—a lineage steeped in both glory and curse.
Fifteen years ago, the winds of fate had torn through Syron's life, dismantling his family and leaving him to face the merciless world alone.
Syron's persona was a stark contrast to Jackson's own, who had once possessed everything only to lose it all.
Pain coursed through his borrowed form—a silent reminder of its unfamiliar limits. His head throbbed with the echoes of battles fought and lost, while his joints protested his presence, as if rejecting the soul now inhabiting them.
This physical torment, more than a mere test of endurance, seemed a symbolic trial of his passage into this cursed existence.
The body he now inhabited bore a history he could not claim, a legacy etched into its very essence. And yet, Jackson found himself enmeshed in a grander scheme—one where rival families played a dangerous dance of power and ambition, their alliances and betrayals weaving a deadly tapestry.
From the high balcony, Jackson surveyed the city sprawled beneath the moonlight—a sea of stone and shadow stretching endlessly.
He wondered if this was his chance to rewrite the fate that had eluded him in his former life or if he was doomed to remain a prisoner of two clashing realities, torn like prey between ravenous wolves.
With a final exhale, he turned his back on the deceptively tranquil city, striding toward the grand hall where whispers of politics and serpentine tongues awaited him.
In that moment, Jackson was no longer just a man reborn; he was a fragment of a greater story.
What did he desire?
What did he seek?
What fate would he seize?
Jackson had no idea where to go. He was lost, as if every path he might take would lead to a dead end.
Descending the spiraling stone staircase with heavy steps, the echoes of his boots resonated faintly against the cold ground, like distant breaths fading into the vastness of the ancient castle. The night cloaked the place in mystery, while the flickering light of decayed candles cast wavering shadows, dancing like the ghosts of a forgotten past.
Jackson ran his fingers over the rough walls, tracing a history carved in stone—untold stories and tragedies buried beneath the ashes of time. The oil paintings of kings and warriors stared down at him with cold, unyielding eyes, brimming with pride and cruelty, as though they were the keepers of an inheritance he had been thrust into without choice.
For two weeks, Jackson had been in this world. Most of his time was spent reading books, adjusting to his new body, and forging fragile connections with the people around him. Despite holding a high position, he cared little for it compared to the body's previous owner.
The Remil family had adhered to a rigid schedule of meetings since its inception. Weekly gatherings of managers assessed the family's internal affairs, while a grand assembly held monthly, attended by all senior leaders, reviewed major events.
Jackson continued walking until he reached another colossal door.
Two guards stood before it, their faces obscured, clad in gray armor that reflected the icy sterility of the surroundings. They were motionless, as if they were part of the scenery itself. With stern eyes, they exchanged a brief glance before addressing Jackson in unison:
"The elder and Supreme Commander of the Army, Cyron Remil, enters now."
The guards pushed the doors open slowly, their voices resonating as the heavy slabs revealed the grand hall beyond.
The chamber resembled an immense cavern, shrouded in darkness save for faint glimmers of firelight that barely illuminated the space. At the far end of the hall, an enormous throne loomed—crafted from a metal unknown, exuding an aura of power.
Seated upon it was a man with commanding features. Though the dim lighting obscured him, the weight of his presence was unmistakable. His piercing gaze fixed on Cyron from across the vast chamber, as if he already knew every secret the man carried before he could utter a word.
Flanking the throne were men and women draped in luxurious robes and ornate cloaks, their attire a testament to their elevated status within the family. They whispered among themselves in hushed tones, but the moment Jackson entered, silence fell. Every pair of eyes now focused on the newcomer.
"This is worse than I thought," Jackson mused to himself. The heavy atmosphere, the scrutinizing stares—it was as if a stray wolf had wandered into the lion's den.
Since achieving his current status, Cyron had gradually withdrawn from the family's affairs, passing responsibilities onto others with feeble excuses. He had even stopped attending meetings altogether. It had been eight months since he last appeared at one. Were it not for his position as one of the family's three knights, he would have faced punishment long ago.
"We have waited long enough," the man on the throne declared, his voice deep and resonant, breaking the silence like a thunderclap. "There is much to discuss."
In that moment, Jackson felt the weight of destiny upon him. This was his first true confrontation in this world—a moment where everything could begin or end.
The hall fell silent for a moment after Sayron gave a slight nod to everyone. All eyes were focused on the massive throne at the end of the room. The throne was made of dark wood, adorned with golden edges, and clearly displayed the family crest, a symbol of authority and respect.
From the throne, Mirajen Rimel appeared, a man with stern features and a calm gaze, his face marked by strength and experience. He wore loose black clothing that reflected light in every direction, giving him an imposing presence. Mirajen stood for a moment before taking long strides toward Jackson, his eyes fixed on him.
Mirajen spoke in a deep, serious voice: "Sayron Rimel, son of the Rimel family... Everyone here has gathered for a purpose, but before we prepare for the future, we must confront our past."
'This look, I know it.' Jackson stood firm, but an internal tension began to rise. He had decided to bury those old memories deep inside, but this man's gaze, his speech, the disappointment on his face—everything reminded him of his father.
'Am I afraid?' Jackson was momentarily shocked by the thought.
Mirajen continued, his voice carrying a deep, almost reluctant resonance, as if each word bore the weight of history: "Before I became the head of this family, I was your father's deputy. And although he was not a knight, he was strong, not only in physical strength but in spirit, in his decisions. He could have become a knight if he wanted, it was in his blood. But he chose a different path, a path that impressed me... But fate had other plans. And here I am today, the head of this family and an invincible knight. Yet, for the past fifteen years, I have found no man more deserving of respect than your father."
Mirajen closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke again, his voice tinged with suppressed anger. "Yet, he had something in him that reflected a weakness. A weakness that will never be forgiven."
He paused, studying Sayron's reaction. His eyes were filled with repressed rage as he continued, "But while you were just a little boy, your father was carrying a responsibility far greater than he could bear. He tried to teach me something, but the truth is, he wasn't strong enough to teach me anything of value. You don't know this, Sayron, but I have often wondered: Are you really his son? Do you deserve to be his heir?"
The words hit Sayron like lashes, but he remained calm, though his inner turmoil grew. His heart pounded, and his mind screamed words he couldn't speak. He knew this harsh attack on his past and his father was just another step for Mirajen to assert his power, but he couldn't stay silent.
Sayron replied, controlling his tone, though a trace of tension lingered in his voice: "You know nothing about my father. How dare you speak of a man I lived under his shadow, the man who taught me how to be strong in situations where others would flee? Perhaps you couldn't understand him, but I was his pupil, and that is what makes me understand true strength—not in control, but in facing what we cannot change. Strength in endurance, Lord Mirajen."
Mirajen laughed, a harsh laugh that echoed through the room like a sudden storm. He stepped closer, each step bringing him nearer to Sayron like a thunderstrike to his heart. "Endurance?" he said, raising his eyebrows, his eyes burning with repressed anger. "Endurance? Is that all you've learned? I don't know what kind of strength this boy is talking about, thinking that endurance is the only solution. Do you know what endurance teaches? It teaches failure—failure to understand true responsibility, failure to accept the truth that you can't escape your past."
The family leaders began to shrink back, trying to remain out of the growing tension. None of them were prepared to intervene in this heated confrontation, which was escalating with every word exchanged. They all knew this moment was a test of strength and authority, a battle for dominance over the perceptions of power and leadership.
One of the leaders whispered to another, "We can't intervene. This is a battle we can't win." Those words weighed heavily on each of their hearts. No one dared to offer an opinion. They all knew that any intervention could tear apart the relationship between Sayron and Mirajen once and for all.
Mirajen's gaze grew sharper now, his eyes glowing with focused fury. "You're repeating the same lies your father said. Strength is not just in endurance, nor in facing oneself. Strength is the ability to control everything, to control every decision, every move. Leadership is about valuing responsibility, making difficult decisions, even if the cost is sacrificing everything."
Sayron paused for a moment, then said, showing composure laced with pain: "But true strength is not in controlling everything. Strength lies in the ability to face your weakness, in the ability to accept what you can't change. I learned that when I lost my mother at the age of five. That's when I realized that nothing can always be under our control. That was the real lesson, and you can't take that from me."
The room fell silent for a moment, all eyes on them. Sayron's words lingered in the air. It was clear that this wasn't just a struggle for leadership; it was a clash of two opposing leaders.
Mirajen took a deep breath and spoke: "Then what about the part you mentioned regarding your absence for seven months?"