He was a game developer, working on the legendary Age of Empires franchise, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he tinkered with code, adjusting balance, and crafting detailed civilizations. He could feel the excitement and pressure of creating a game that millions would eventually play. The world of ancient empires and battles was his playground, a place where strategy and history intertwined. He remembered the satisfaction of seeing his work come to life on the screen—ancient warriors marching across a vast landscape, the rise and fall of civilizations unfolding under the players' control.
He had been young, driven, and immersed in the early days of video game development, eager to shape something that would leave a lasting mark on the gaming world. The memory was vivid—he could almost hear the click-clack of the keyboard, the distant conversations of his colleagues, and the constant drive to meet deadlines. It was a time of creativity and challenge, where every decision made would impact how players experienced the game.
Long hours, endless deadlines, and the constant pressure to perform had worn him down, his body a ticking time bomb he refused to acknowledge. Each morning, he woke up feeling heavier, more exhausted, but he shoved the fatigue aside, telling himself it was just another day to get through. His mind was foggy, his focus slipping, but he kept working, forcing himself to go faster, do more. The stress gnawed at him, gnawed at his health, but he ignored the warning signs—the headaches, the dizziness, the shortness of breath that came more frequently now.
He couldn't remember when he last ate a proper meal or took a moment to breathe. His diet consisted of coffee and whatever quick snack he could grab between meetings. He felt his body growing weaker, his muscles sore, his joints stiff, but the work kept piling up, the deadlines never slowing. And he kept going, pushing through the pain, telling himself he could rest later.
But his body couldn't keep up any longer. One day, as he sat at his desk, typing away with a growing sense of unease, it happened—his heart, already worn thin from months of stress and neglect, couldn't take it anymore.
He collapsed, the world around him spinning as his breath grew shallow and frantic. For a moment, it was as if everything stopped, the weight of exhaustion finally catching up with him. His body, fragile and broken, gave in, and just like that, the years of neglect—of sacrificing his well-being for work—had cost him everything.
A person near the shore slowly regains consciousness, his body heavy and stiff, the coldness of the water still lingering on his skin. His chest heaves with shallow, desperate breaths as his lungs burn from the lack of air. He coughs violently, spitting up water, his body trembling as it tries to process the sudden influx of oxygen. His surroundings are blurry, disorienting, as though the world itself is swimming in and out of focus. His mind is foggy, the memory of the drowning fading in and out like a nightmare, but a deep instinct for survival surges through him. He grips the ground, his hands numb and trembling, struggling to steady himself as he sits up, desperate to escape the grasp of the water that nearly claimed him.
"I can't believe I'm still here. My chest aches with each breath, but I'm alive. I remember the panic, the suffocating feeling as my eyes closed in, and the navel of Neptune pulling me under. It's all a blur now, just flashes of fear and darkness."
He walked slowly toward the water, his feet sinking into the damp sand with each step. The waves gently lapped at the shore, and the coolness of the ocean seemed like a welcome relief after the heat of the day. He crouched down, reaching for the water to clean the stubborn bits of sand stuck to his skin. But as his hand dipped below the surface, something caught his eye—a flicker in the water, an unexpected sight.
He froze.
Reflected back at him wasn't the face he knew. The reflection staring back from the clear water was a child, a young-looking face he doesn't recognized. His features were soft, charming —his eyes wide and innocent, sporting a slightly wavy jet-black hair. For a moment, he simply stared, blinking in disbelief, unsure if he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes, then looked again, but the child's face remained, staring back at him with the same confusion he felt inside.
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but everything feels off. His hands... they're small. Too small. He looked down and see a body that doesn't belong to him—short, slim, and unfamiliar. His chest tightened with panic as he tried to make sense of it. He pushes himself up, but his legs felt wobbly, like he never used them before. He tried to speak, but the voice that comes out is unrecognizable.
"This is wrong. This body—it's not mine. I feel my heart race. My mind is still me, still the man I was, but everything else is… different. I try to remember how I got here, but it's all a blur. How did I end up like this? How did I become a kid?"
He stands quietly, hands pressed to his temples, trying to steady the racing thoughts that threatened to spiral out of control. The more he tried to focus, the more the memories seemed to slip and merge, as if he were living in two lives at once.
He furrowed his brows as he searched his memories; it would appear that in his mind were two sets of memories. One was of the body in which he currently resided in whose identity was Jerome Bonaparte, brother of Napoleon Bonaparte, the future Emperor of France. He was eight years old this year.
Another memory started to surface—a memory of a time when he wasn't the person he was now, but rather someone else, Christoff Julienne McMillan an avid alternate history enthusiast and a programmer by profession who immersed in the world of video game development. He saw himself in a small, cluttered office, surrounded by monitors and whiteboards filled with sketches of ancient cities, intricate maps, and game mechanics. The hum of computers filled the air, the scent of coffee strong and comforting in the otherwise sterile space.
Yet, as the memory faded back into the confusion of mixed timelines, he found himself struggling to reconcile it with the person he was now, unsure of how this piece of his past fit with the life he was living.
As he walked his way to the villa of his new body's family, he saw the streets were narrow and winding, lined with stone buildings that looked centuries old, their facades worn by time. He could hear the faint sounds of distant conversations, but the language didn't make sense—it wasn't anything he'd heard before. The air felt warmer, tinged with the scent of the sea and the earth. He could see the ocean glistening in the distance, far beyond the craggy cliffs, a deep blue that stretched endlessly under the sun.
Everything felt different—almost dreamlike. The houses were built into the hills, stacked one on top of the other, with small balconies full of flowers. The cobblestone streets beneath his feet were uneven, making him stumble slightly as he tried to get his bearings. He turned in a slow circle, unsure of how he had ended up here, his heart racing as he realized this place was far from home. The signs, the language, the accents—it was all so strange. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be back in his small office desk, reading his favorite alternate history novel in webnovel, but now, somehow, he found himself in Corsica, an island he only knew from books and maps. The warmth of the Mediterranean sun on his skin only seemed to heighten his confusion. He felt lost—completely lost—in a place that was beautiful, but entirely foreign.