In a dimly lit warehouse that could generously be described as "organized chaos," Zane was in his element. His trusty office chair squeaked as he rolled back and forth between two cluttered desks, the floor beneath littered with screws, bolts, and unidentifiable bits of metal that posed a serious tetanus risk.

If you didn't watch your step, the warehouse would watch it for you—painfully.

"Great! The program's all good!" Zane muttered, punching a key triumphantly. His safety goggles were slightly askew on his face, the elastic band hanging on for dear life. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered ominously, as though even they doubted his genius.

On one desk sat his pride and joy: VISTA, the Virtual Interface for Systematic Technical Artifice, a virtual simulator that was one part brilliant invention and two parts stubborn code duct-taped together by caffeine and blind optimism. On the other, dominating the room with a terrifying presence, was The Machine.

The Infinite Energy Generator wasn't just any machine. No, this was going to be Zane's magnum opus. The concept was simple in theory—harness the energy potential of quantum resonance harmonics. By creating a stable oscillation between micro-dimensional energy fields, it could theoretically generate infinite power by continuously pulling energy from overlapping quantum states.

Simple, right?

Of course, "simple" didn't account for the tangled mess of wires, sparking coils, and the faintly unsettling hum that came from the machine even when it wasn't turned on.

"Who's the failed inventor now?" Zane muttered under his breath, shooting a glance at a newspaper clipping pinned to the corkboard above him. The headline screamed:

"LOCAL SO-CALLED INVENTOR BLOWS UP YET ANOTHER WAREHOUSE TRYING TO CREATE HOVER SHOES??'"

The subheading read: Neighbors report suspicious humming noises and describe the inventor as 'probably cursed.'

"Not cursed, you hacks!" Zane grumbled, adjusting his goggles. He shot the clipping a mock salute before sliding back to his computer, narrowly missing a pile of discarded blueprints and what might have been a very disgruntled-looking rat.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, tweaking VISTA's simulation one last time. The virtual screen glowed in front of him, lines of data reflecting in his goggles.

"Okay, let's run the numbers again," he said, tapping his foot nervously. A chime sounded, and VISTA's synthesized voice responded:

"Simulation complete. Success rate: 0.03%."

Zane leaned back and crossed his arms. "Pfft. Close enough. Edison didn't need more than a spark, and neither do I."

Sliding back to the generator, he threw a dramatically unnecessary lever on the side. The machine whirred to life, panels lighting up in hues of blue and green. Energy crackled along the wires, filling the room with an electric hum that made the hairs on Zane's arms stand on end.

He reached for his trusty clipboard, a relic of his more "professional" days, and began muttering again. "When this thing works, they'll be begging me for forgiveness. Awards. Statues. Maybe even a theme park. 'Zane's Marvels'!" He paused, squinting at the glowing core of the machine. "Eh, might need a catchier name."

The hum grew louder. The lights flickered faster. Smoke began curling from a suspiciously overworked coil on the side. Zane ignored it, grabbing a pair of welding gloves and adjusting his goggles for the big moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to no one, arms outstretched, "this is the future!"

And then, it happened.

The generator let out a sound that could only be described as a dying robot's scream. Sparks flew like confetti, the panels turned a very non-reassuring shade of red, and the core pulsed ominously.

"Oh, that's not good," Zane muttered, backing up slowly.

A second later, the machine erupted in a glorious explosion, sending Zane flying across the warehouse. He landed unceremoniously in a pile of scrap metal, the remains of the generator now smoldering where his desk used to be.

As the smoke cleared, VISTA's voice chimed in again:

"Simulation updated. Success rate: 0.02%."

Zane groaned, pulling his goggles up to his forehead. "Well... at least it's consistent."

And thus, the greatest failure of Zane Ravencroft's career was also his final masterpiece—or so he thought.

✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧

"Master?"

The soft voice echoed into Zane's ears like an annoying alarm that refused to snooze. He groaned internally, pulling the metaphorical pillow over his brain. Let me sleep already, and stop with the 'Master' nonsense. I'm not into that sort of play... okay, maybe a little, but context matters.

"Master?"

The voice persisted, more distinct now, cutting through the fog in his mind. It was feminine, concerned, and increasingly real.

"I'm innocent! Let me go!" Zane grumbled into the void, hoping the voice would get the hint.

"Master?"

His eyes snapped open, blinking against the sunlight filtering through a window that he didn't recognize. A girl stood before him—a drop-dead gorgeous girl, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders and striking blue eyes that looked suspiciously misty. Her maid outfit was pristine, the kind of old-world charm that screamed definitely not Amazon Basics.

Zane blinked again, his mouth suddenly dry. Did I die? he wondered. Is this heaven? Is heaven just some dom-sub roleplay fantasy? Because honestly... not bad.

Then the skepticism kicked in. Wait, I'm agnostic. Proof first, worship later.

Shaking his head free of the mental nonsense, Zane sat up, trying to appear suave despite the faint throbbing in his skull. He straightened his back, rubbed his temples, and flashed the girl his most devilishly charming smile.

"Who might you be, my beautiful lady?" he purred in the most seductive tone he could muster.

"Master??"

The girl's response was less than encouraging. She practically shrieked, her voice laced with panic, making Zane question not only his charm but the entire foundation of his flirting skills.

"Master, I'm Sylphie—your maid!" she said, her words punctuated by a hiccupping sob. "You fell down and hit your head trying to get an apple from the tree!"

Zane's brow furrowed. "I did?"

Sylphie nodded furiously, her hands clasped together in what looked like a prayer for his recovery.

"Nah," Zane said, shaking his head with the confidence of a man who regularly rewrote his own reality. "That couldn't be me. I've never really fallen for the whole 'nature' scheme. I just buy my apples online, like a proper man of the 21st century."

Sylphie stared at him, her concern morphing into confusion. "Master, the 21st century? What's that?"

Zane paused, his brain finally catching up with the absurdity of the situation. He glanced around the room—a rustic, old-school chamber straight out of a Renaissance Faire fever dream. No computers, no wires, and definitely no trace of his beloved VISTA.

Instead, there were stone walls, wooden beams, and a fireplace crackling gently in the corner. A suit of armor stood ominously near the door, and a vase of wildflowers rested on a table that looked like it had been hand-carved by someone with too much time and not enough precision.

"Okay," Zane muttered to himself. "So either I've gone full method in a historical LARPing session, or..."

His gaze fell on Sylphie, who was still fidgeting nervously. He took in her outfit again—the perfectly tied apron, the polished shoes, the look of genuine concern in her eyes.

"Or I've died and been reborn into some kind of fantasy fever dream," Zane concluded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then, smirking to himself, he added, "Which means I'm either the protagonist of a story, or this is karma coming back to bite me in the ass for all those warehouse explosions."

Sylphie tilted her head, her brow furrowed in a way that could only be described as adorably perplexed. "Master, are you sure you didn't hit your head harder than we thought?"

"Oh, I hit my head all right," Zane replied, waving off her concern. "But don't worry, Sylphie. I'm a man of science. I'll figure this out."

"Science?"

"Don't worry about it," he said, brushing off the question with a grin. "Just tell me this—where exactly am I, and how bad is it?"

✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧✧⁺⸜(●′▾‵●)⸝⁺✧

Zane leaned against the bedpost, the weight of his new reality crashing down on him like a ton of poorly managed budgets. After an interrogation session that could only be described as intensive, he had pieced together his situation.

He was fucked.

No, wait. Scratch that. He was royally fucked.

Actually, let's go one step further. He wasn't just royally fucked—he was empirically fucked, a term he felt suited the magnitude of his disaster.

Zane Ravencroft. That was the name he had landed in, the identity he now had to live with. The youngest son of the illustrious Ravencroft family, a household so renowned for their magical prowess that the name practically sparkled in golden letters in the annals of the kingdom's history. Unfortunately for Zane, he wasn't born with even a hint of magic.

He wasn't a mage. He wasn't a knight. He wasn't even a vaguely useful side character in this world of mana and miracles. Nope. He was, at best, a background NPC—the type of guy who handed out quests like "Please slay five rats in my basement" and rewarded adventurers with three copper coins and a pity-filled nod.

To add insult to injury, he wasn't just an embarrassment to the Ravencroft name—he was the embarrassment. A legacy so tarnished that his father, the esteemed head of the family, had banished him. They hadn't even dressed it up nicely with words like "retreat" or "respite." No, it was a straight-up "Get out of my sight" banishment, complete with a one-way ticket to an insignificant village on the kingdom's outskirts.

"Master, are you feeling well?" Sylphie's concerned voice pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

"Feeling well?" Zane echoed, laughing dryly. "Sylphie, I've just discovered I'm the human equivalent of an unpaid intern in the hierarchy of life. Feeling well isn't on the menu."

Sylphie tilted her head, clearly confused. "...Would you like me to fetch something from the kitchen?"

"Unless you have a time machine hidden in the pantry, I don't think there's much you can fetch that'll help," Zane muttered.

Sylphie's expression softened, and Zane felt a pang of guilt. Not enough to stop him from sulking, of course, but still—a pang.

As Sylphie busied herself near the fireplace, Zane tried to piece together his next steps. According to her, this wasn't just a case of him replacing some spoiled brat in a fancy house. No, this village, small as it was, had been handed to him as part of some nepotistic favor. His family's connection with the local marquis had landed him the title of lord over a patch of dirt and desperation.

Unfortunately, Zane had discovered—far too late—that running even a small village required a basic understanding of... well, everything. Budgets, management, diplomacy. Skills he lacked entirely.

Apparently, the original Zane had made things worse by draining the already measly budget on clothes, food, and other "essentials." Essentials that included enough silk to clothe a royal parade and a daily feast schedule that would make kings blush.

"And then," Zane muttered bitterly, running a hand through his hair, "when the money ran out, he resorted to... eating tree bark."

Sylphie, now near the fireplace, glanced over. "Tree bark is surprisingly nutritious in certain—"

"Not helping, Sylphie," Zane snapped, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Things had gotten so bad that Zane—well, the old Zane—had seen an apple tree and gone full Tarzan, climbing it without so much as a thought for safety. The result? Gravity had done its job, and the spoiled brat had died in what could only be described as the least dignified way possible.

And now, this Zane had to deal with the aftermath. A broke, disgraced lordship. An angry village. And—oh, joy—a stomach that growled louder than his dwindling self-respect.

"Master?" Sylphie's voice pulled him from his spiraling misery again.

"What now?" Zane groaned, half-expecting more bad news.

"I just thought..." Sylphie trailed off, looking slightly sheepish. "You seemed cold."

With a gentle murmur, she extended her hand toward the fireplace. Zane squinted, watching as her lips moved in a quiet chant. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, without warning, the pile of wood burst into a steady, crackling flame.

Zane blinked. Then blinked again.

"Wait. Hold on. Stop everything," he said, pointing at the fire as though accusing it of tax fraud. "Did you just... magic that?"

Sylphie tilted her head. "Of course, Master. It's just a simple spell for lighting fires."

"Simple," Zane repeated flatly. He pointed at the flames again, then at Sylphie, then back at the flames. His brain, which had been busy cataloging every other disaster in his life, seemed to stall completely.

"Oh no," he muttered, sinking back against the bed. "Magic is real. It's actually real."

Sylphie looked at him in alarm. "Master? Are you feeling—"

"No, I'm not feeling okay!" Zane cut her off, staring blankly at the flickering fire. "Sylphie, I was already royally fucked, but now? Now I'm empirically fucked!"

Sylphie frowned. "I... don't understand."

"Trust me," Zane said, running a hand down his face. "Neither do I."