He woke up, eyes snapping open to a ceiling so obnoxiously fancy it looked like it was designed specifically to give peasants inferiority complexes. Intricate patterns swirled across the surface like the ceiling was trying out for Best Overachiever in Interior Design, with a crystal chandelier dangling in the middle like the exclamation point on a very expensive sentence.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His face remained stoic, but his mind was already running laps. 'Okay, this isn't my ceiling. My ceiling was boring. Bland. Perfectly average. This? This is the ceiling equivalent of a show-off. Did I… somehow win the lottery and go on a shopping spree in my sleep? No? Cool. So, what the heck is going on?'

Then the memories hit. Headlights. A truck. Gravity deciding to betray him. The brief but vivid sensation of flying. Oh, and the sudden reminder that asphalt was not a soft landing pad.

Right. 'Truck-kun. I've seen the memes. I know how this goes. I'm dead. Squashed. Flattened. Absolutely pulverized.' His lips twitched into the faintest frown. 'And yet here I am. In this ridiculously bougie room. Which means... isekai? Oh no. I didn't even get to finish binge-watching that show!'

Sitting up, he rubbed his temples, trying to process. The room was absurdly luxurious, the kind of place that practically screamed, "Look how much money I have!" The bed beneath him was so soft it felt like it was plotting to swallow him whole. The sheets? Silky enough to make him feel like a walking grease stain just for touching them.

But the pièce de résistance? The glowing roses on the bedside table. Their petals shimmered with an unnatural red-and-blue hue, like someone had decided regular flowers just weren't extra enough. He leaned over, poking one with all the caution of a man who had learned to be skeptical of weird things in fantasy stories.

'…Yup. Magic flowers. Totally normal.' He had all the energy of a man who had already resigned himself to the madness. 'Because what's a reincarnation into another world without a little magical décor?'

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he groaned softly as his feet sank into the fluffiest rug he had ever felt. 'What is this, a cloud disguised as a rug? Who even lives like this? Nobles? Gods? Some wizard with way too much time on their hands?'

Stretching like a cat after a long nap, he shuffled over to the window, each step dragging just enough to convey the exact level of effort he was willing to expend: minimal. Pulling the curtains aside, his breath hitched as he stared out at a scene straight out of a fantasy novel.

"…Okay," he muttered, squinting as if that would somehow make things make more sense. "So, I'm either dreaming, or I got hit so hard I got respawned into an RPG. Wonderful. Just wonderful."

He stepped back from the window, flopping onto the bed with a groan. His hands covered his face as his thoughts spiraled into chaos. 'Reborn into another world? Fine, sure, whatever. But where's my cheat power? Do I have one? Do I have to chant something? Am I the chosen one? Or just some random extra?'

A soft knock at the door snapped him out of his mental spiral. His head jerked toward the sound, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 'Great. Who's this? Can I not get five minutes to process my whole "dead but not dead thing?" before dealing with people?'

He stayed silent, hoping whoever it was would just go away. They didn't. The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside.

Her jet-black hair was tied neatly on her back, and her uniform was so spotless it looked like it had been ironed with a laser. She moved with a kind of elegance that practically screamed, "I am very good at my job."

"Young Master," she said, her tone polite and neutral. "It's time for breakfast."

He stared at her. 'Young Master? Me? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Did I get reincarnated into a noble family? That's way too much responsibility. I didn't sign up for this. I'm barely qualified to be an average human, let alone someone important!'

Instead of voicing any of those thoughts, he gave her a small, awkward nod and stood up. His movements were sluggish, like someone dragging themselves out of bed on a Monday morning. He shuffled toward the door without a word, his sleepwear rumpled and his expression blank.

'Well, this is my life now. Nobility, magic flowers, and fancy breakfasts. Guess I'll just wing it and hope for the best. What's the worst that could happen?'

He glanced down at himself. Sleepwear. Crumpled, unimpressive, and completely out of place in a mansion that looked like it charged rent for the air you breathed. 'Yeah, totally fitting for a "young master."'

Changing into something more appropriate sounded like an ordeal best saved for a less overwhelming day. Breakfast, however? That was a priority. Without a word, he shuffled toward the door, brushing past the maid, who didn't so much as flinch.

The hallway stopped him dead in his tracks. It wasn't just big—it was ridiculous. The kind of space that made you wonder if the architect had a personal vendetta against modesty. The polished marble floors gleamed so brightly he could probably use them as a mirror if he cared enough. Intricately woven rugs ran down the center, their patterns so elaborate they looked like a tapestry someone had lost years of their life creating.

On the walls hung massive paintings, each one capturing the likeness of some overly dignified person with an equally ridiculous hairstyle. 'Great. Family portraits. Nothing screams "welcome to your new life" like staring contests with your dead ancestors.'

He glanced left. Then right. Then back at the maid, who had followed him out of the room with the kind of silent efficiency that made him uneasy. She tilted her head, clearly waiting for some kind of direction.

"Uh, so... umm..." He scratched the back of his neck, his vocabulary already giving up on him. 'How do I ask for directions without sounding like an idiot?'. "...Which way... place... with... food?"

The maid's eyebrow twitched—just slightly—but her expression remained neutral. Barely. 'Yikes, she thinks I'm an idiot. Probably not wrong.' She looked like she wanted to say something but settled for a small bow before turning on her heel.

He followed, hands shoved into the pockets of his sleepwear, his gaze darting around the absurdly lavish surroundings. Ornate vases perched precariously on pedestals, practically daring him to trip and knock one over. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting a warm glow that only emphasized the over-the-top luxury of the place.

'This is nuts. Fancy for the sake of fancy. Who even lives like this?'

The maid stopped in front of a pair of massive double doors, their surfaces carved with such intricate designs they might as well have been shouting, "I took decades to make!" She knocked once, the sound echoing down the hall, and then pushed the doors open with an elegance that made him feel even more out of place.

"Young Master," she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter.

He hesitated, then stepped inside—and immediately froze.

The dining room looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. A ridiculously long table stretched across the room, its pristine white tablecloth bordered with golden embroidery. Platters of food covered every inch of its surface: roasted meats, baskets of steaming bread, fruit that glistened unnaturally, and desserts that could probably double as art pieces.

'...What is this? Breakfast or a coronation feast? How do nobles even digest all this?'

The maid remained by the door, her head slightly bowed in deference. Ignoring the sheer absurdity of the spread for now, he shuffled toward the table, his eyes scanning the room. Seated along the table were people who oozed nobility. Their perfect postures, tailored outfits, and expertly indifferent expressions screamed "We are better than you."

Suppressing a sigh, he spotted an empty chair near a guy his age: sharp features, piercing black eyes, and a faintly annoyed aura. The man's gaze flicked over his sleepwear, and a sneer curled his lips.

"Good morning, Hector," he said, his tone as sharp as a dagger. "I see you've chosen to grace us with your presence in… that." He gestured vaguely. "One might think a son of a noble would know better."

Hector raised an eyebrow. 'Wow. Salty right out of the gate, huh? Bold strategy, Cotton.' Without a word, he plopped into the seat with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, casually pulling the chair closer to the table.

As he reached for a piece of bread, another voice chimed in.

"Hector, did you lose your memories when you fell down the stairs?"

He paused mid-reach, looking up at the source. Across the table sat a woman so stunningly beautiful it was almost unfair. Her flowing black hair, flawless complexion, and smug expression gave her the unmistakable air of someone who enjoyed being the smartest person in the room.

Her words slowly registered. He stared at her, stunned, as a single thought dominated his mind. 'Wait. THE stairs? The infamous, legendary stairs that have taken out talented swordsmen all over the world?' He couldn't help but glance down at his hands. Did this mean that he—this Hector guy—had talent in swordsmanship? Was this some kind of hint about his new body's abilities?

His brain short-circuited for a moment as he stared at her, trying to piece together what this body's past had been up to. The woman's smirk deepened as the chuckles around the table grew louder.

"What's the matter, Hector?" she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "Did the fall rattle your brains too much to remember basic etiquette?"

'Yup. Definitely my new family.'

He didn't rise to the bait, opting to focus on the plate a maid had just placed in front of him. He stabbed at a slice of bread with determination, slathering it in what looked like shimmering golden honey. 'If I'm going to endure this nonsense, I'm at least doing it on a full stomach.'

Just as he took a bite, a deliberate cough drew his attention. Reluctantly, he looked up to see an older man at the head of the table. Piercing eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and an aura of authority that practically screamed "I'm in charge."

"Hector," the man said, his voice smooth yet commanding, "how is your progress with the Authority of Sleep?"

'The what now?' His fork paused mid-air. 'Authority? Of Sleep? Is that a fancy way of saying I'm good at napping?.'

Hector cleared his throat, feeling every pair of eyes at the table boring into him. Awkward didn't even begin to cover it. "Uh… um… What… Authority?"

A ripple of disbelief passed through the group. The two women seated closest to the man raised their eyebrows in perfect synchronization, the kind of aristocratic disbelief that suggested they had practiced it in the mirror. One of them even stifled a laugh behind a delicate fan she raised from the table, her amusement poorly concealed.

Hector fought the urge to roll his eyes. 'Great. Awesome. Let's just hand them more ammunition for their "Hector is a clueless idiot" campaign.'

The old man's expression hardened, his sharp gaze zeroing in on him. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a tone that practically screamed "I can't believe I have to explain this."

"The Authority of Sleep," he said slowly, enunciating each word like he was addressing a particularly dense child. "The unique ability you awakened—allowing you to put people to sleep. Have you forgotten it already?"

Hector blinked, his brain grinding to a halt. 'Wait… what? Magical sleep powers? Like, a human lullaby?' The idea was absurd—and kind of cool—but he had zero recollection of ever having such an ability. His hesitation dragged on long enough to be noticeable.

Before he could muster a response, a voice cut through the tension.

"Dad, he's an idiot for using sleep on himself while walking down the stairs," said a younger girl, her delinquent energy practically radiating across the room. She grinned, clearly enjoying his humiliation.

"Honestly, I doubt he even knows what a status panel looks like," added the eldest brother, his stoic face betraying not an ounce of emotion as he watched Hector like a mildly disappointing science experiment.

That word—status panel—sent a jolt through Hector's brain. It rang oddly familiar, tugging at memories he didn't have but somehow understood. He straightened slightly, his mind racing. 'Status panel? Like in a game? Does that mean I've got some kind of menu or HUD?'

The old man let out a long, tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. His frustration was palpable, and it carried the weight of a parent forced to endure a child's third failed math test in a row. One of the women muttered something under her breath that definitely wasn't complimentary, judging by her tone.

"I like this Hector better than the old one," said a younger girl, her cheerful tone cutting through the awkwardness like sunshine after a storm. Her bright eyes sparkled with genuine happiness. "He used to yell and throw things all the time. Now he's, kinda funny."

"The priest did mention that he'd lose most of his memories as a side-effect of being forcefully awakened from his slumber," chimed in an older woman—their mother, Hector assumed—her tone laced with a mix of exasperation and resignation.

Hector's gaze swept over the table, taking in the group seated around him. 'Wait a second…' He did a quick mental count. 'Eight siblings. Seriously? Eight? Were you planning to start a soccer team, old man?'

Shaking his head slightly, he tried to refocus. 'Okay, stay cool. First things first—this "status panel." If it exists, I need to figure it out before someone drags me even further into Noble Awkwardness Theater.'

Closing his eyes, he concentrated. He imagined something like a glowing screen or floating menu appearing in his mind. It felt ridiculous, but—

Flicker.

A faint light appeared in his vision, followed by a translucent panel filled with text. His eyes snapped open, and he almost jumped out of his chair. 'Whoa. It's real. It's actually real!'

Before he could start reading, the old man cleared his throat again, the sound sharp and pointed. Clearly, he was still waiting for a response.

Hector froze, realizing he'd been staring off into space. The people around the table gave him long, unamused stares, their expressions ranging from mild annoyance to outright disdain.

"A Duke's son must uphold the family's reputation," the old man said, his voice dripping with authority. "Do not disgrace us any further." He punctuated the statement by picking up a bowl of soup, as if the matter was settled.

'Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad, Hector thought bitterly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible.'

'Note to self: step up your game—or at least figure out what this insane life is supposed to be about.'